So, my Kittie adventure I meant to tell you about…
Where to begin…. at the start, duh. So last thursday night I went to see Kittie in trenton. That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, the hopeless lap dog is chasing the box of cats again. (Really, though, I love this band in a non obsessive/ stalker-y way, they’re pretty fuckin epic. Also, I turn to mush whenever I see them up close.)
It all started around, oh lets say, last month when I left the show in Reading. I had been slowly rotting from the inside out due to overwhelming anticipation. Pile that on top of the fact that Morgan Lander signed my body at the Reading show, and I’m pretty much dead. However, unfortunately, not dead enough to make the headlines like so much other Zombie glory these days. The apocalypse is not coming. Put your pants back on.
So I carried on with my days, pretty much on point with that “DepressingTweet” (Alarm clock. Traffic. 8 hours of work. More traffic. Watch tv. Repeat until you die.), with a casual ukulele break here and there, until they came back.
Which brings us to the good part; The day of the show. I had this big plan to sleep right after work, then go out and party all night and ride the hangover until after work the next day. Failure #1: I go home, can’t sleep. Surprise, surfuckingprise. I, in turn, decided to mull about finishing my submissions for metal review in the false hope that any one of them might get published (side-fail). When I finally gave up on that it dawned on me…
….the show started at four….FUCK IM GOING TO MISS IT!!!!!!!!!!……
I then quickly hopped in my failmobile and booked it all the way across montgomery and bucks counties, making it there in an hour, at around 7pm. Impressive, huh? No. As soon as I got there I saw the setlist;Failure #2: Kittie wasn’t on until 10:30. wtf. So, to sum things up to this point, I am wandering about trenton with nothing to do and nobody to talk to. Where do we go now, where do we go? (sorry, GnR moment.) To the bar. Duh.
As time goes on, and I become more and more sloppy drunk, I get a little restless. Obviously, the solution is to twitter spam the fuck out of Kittie, because everyone knows thats how you make friends. You would think that this failing would set me straight, and put me back on my stool with my straw glued to my mouth, no? Nope. Get ready, this is where shit gets real.
THE ULTIMATE FAIL: THIRD TIMES A FUCKING CHARM.
Let me start by saying, this is not my first metal show. I know the ropes, for the most part, and there is essentially an unwritten rule about leaving the bus alone, as far as I know. Somewhere in between the whiskey and the bartender wiping her face off with a bar rag she just used (vom.), I decided to take my non-fuck-givingness to a whole new low. WHY DONT I GO NET DOOR, GRAB A BOTTLE OF WHISKEY, AND KNOCK ON THE BUS DOOR? WHATS THE WORST THAT HAPPENS? NO ANSWER, BUT I STILL HAVE WHISKEY? SOUNDS GOOD ENOUGH TO ME! I proceeded to chug the rest of my bar served whiskey, drowning out the little voice screaming “NO. NO. NO. KILL YOURSELF NOW. NO.” and further boosting my confidence.
The decision was simple enough, Wild Turkey 101, duh. Grab the bottle and go, the bus is right out front (literally, parked at the door) and you’ve got nothing to lose! Oh what a fool was I. KNOCK KNOCK. A man answers, not Kittie or any of it’s parts, and gives me the most disgusted and somewhat confused stare I have ever received. EVER. Morgan looks over the counter behind him, there it all goes, Im officially mush. “Oh hey, I just wanted to see what would happen if I knocked on the door. AHAHAHAHAHA!” Its back [NO, NO, NO, KILL YOURSELF, WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT, NO.]. The response came as a feigned politeness, but I will not share it because it just makes me sound like even more of an incompetent sloppy drunk. “Oh, OK! Here this is for you guys!” [YOU GAVE THEM THE WHISKEY, TOO? ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? IF I WERE ANYTHING MORE THAN A VERBAL MANIFESTATION OF YOUR COMMON SENSE, I WOULD BEAT THE FUCKING DOG SHIT OUT OF YOU!] Alone, rejected, and liquor-less, I tuck my tail and slump away.
Well, you did it now, they hate you. Go pretend to be all depressed and mopey so you have an excuse to keep spending your rent money on drinks until the show starts. Watch Show. Enjoy the fuck out of said show. Stand around after show in awkward drunken stupor and try not to let social anxiety eat you alive.
So, finally, I’m the last douchebag left floating around the clean up, and I work up the nerve to tell Tara McLeod ( who is one of my fucking guitar heroes) that she’s awesome, and I love her. She acknowledges and I vomit up some stupid drunken apology for knocking on the bus door, because really, you can’t hate someone who self identifies. She gives me an explanation any PR representative would cum over, and says thanks for the present. Im dead. Game over. The End.
Moral Of The Story; Kittie still fucking rules. Duh.
Sorry the ending sucked, I was rambling.
