You might think to yourself, “I’ve already heard this one before.” You’re probably right.
There are multiple angles that accompany each course of action. There are differing opinions at play. There are six ways to Sunday. There are a handful of expressions that ultimately say the same thing. It’s called paraphrasing.
I could write about the same topic(s) that someone else already wrote about, but I’ll stray from that path. Instead, this piece will be in my own words.
Please be warned, this week’s episode is not really a story. It’s just a series of non sequiturs. In the end, this whole performance could be deemed unattractive to some audience members.
I hope my findings will be music to your ears. Also, I hope you can see that this chapter is not a sprint; it’s a marathon. Furthermore, I hope you can realize that this is not a life sentence; it’s a lifestyle.
I won’t embellish because there’s no point in doing so. I’ll be upfront, honest, and forthright.
The truth is, is that I have an ailment. I’m only happy from April through October. Let it be known, I’m not getting married anytime soon. Nope —my only cure— it’s known as baseball season.
We’re not quite there yet, but we’re making progress. We’ve got to get in shape first. So, are you ready for a workout?
This tale begins on a Wednesday night in mid-February. It was Singles Awareness Day. It was around this time when the weather took a turn for the worse. Northern California experienced a cold snap. It happened instantly.
It was a school night, but I didn’t have any homework. I rolled solo. I found a vacant stool at the local watering hole. I ate tacos con carnitas. Then, I was on my way. I ended the night with a live rendition of songs about girls, drinking, and utter hopelessness.
See, you have no idea what it’s like. It’s cold, and I’m alone.
“It’s still cold!” I exclaimed as I turned the corner at Lakeshore and E. 18th Street. It was nearly 1AM. Andy was on the other end of the cellular telephone. We had been playing phone tag all week.
“What kind of music is Jeff Rosenstock, anyhow?” Andy inquired.
“I don’t know. ‘Stoner rock?” I suggested.
The problem is, is that Millennials simply don’t call one another anymore; the call has to be scheduled. It has to be planned ahead of time, kind of like a cold-weather wardrobe.
Typically, I don’t plan for such an outfit. I just wear layers, when necessary. However, it wasn’t enough this week. I’m still shivering. Believe you me, it’s frigid out there.
So, I ate soup on Monday to stay warm. I had miso pork ramen, coupled with a generous helping of Japanese whiskey. Then, I made my way to The New Parish. I saw the American Dream on display. Rest assured, my friends, it is alive and well.
On Tuesday afternoon, I sought shelter at the cinema. I avoided the inclement weather for two hours and fifteen minutes. At the concession stand, I ordered a “Junior Popcorn” alongside a “Medium Coke.” I watched Black Panther. I liked the message it brought forth, but I’m not really a comic book guy. Oh well.
After the flick, I tried calling Andy. He didn’t answer. I walked to Luka’s. I got the salmon for dinner. After I finished eating, I just didn’t know if there were any other fish left in the sea.
Wednesday night it was Parquet Courts, which really is just a fancy way of saying “hardwood floors.” It’s like a basketball court, or perhaps the sticky surface at The Fillmore.
Wednesday morning was cold. Again. You already know this. Work was suffocating, to say the least. I wanted soup again. More ramen. I would go to Japantown later that evening (because I believe that I have a growing affinity for Japanese culture).
I couldn’t find what I was looking for, though; so, I went to Harry’s instead. They had Olympic figure skating on the tube. “What a bore,” I thought to myself. Then I forwarded some nonsensical observations to a handful of acquaintances on a dedicated, group text thread. “This isn’t very cutting-edge,” I said. “When do the Dubs play again?” Nobody answered (until the next day).
I thought I ordered a Cuban sandwich; turns out, I ordered a pulled pork panini. Oh well. It hit the spot. After all, I was dazed and quite famished. I blamed it on the weather.
I ate slowly because I am discovering that eating slowly is more satisfying. I find that the flavors really take shape over the course of a drawn-out meal.
After the concert let out, the crowd dispersed. We moved slowly down the dual staircase. Along the way, we were treated to red delicious apples. Upon exiting, we received a complimentary event poster.
On Thursday morning, I felt sick to my stomach. I didn’t feel like myself. Nevertheless, I mustered up the strength to go out again. After all, this whole thing is a grind. As a matter of fact, this whole thing is called Noise Pop. On Thursday night, Noise Pop resurfaced at Great American Music Hall. When all was said and done, it was apparent:
- (1) The Hotelier are reminiscent of Brand New, and
- (2) Jeff Rosenstock – well, he can really paint a picture.
But, Noise Pop is not really a music festival, per se. It’s just a weeklong series of heavily-sponsored, overpriced shows. Some of the artists are at the forefront of being considered “cool,” while others acts are more established.
Noise Pop is not South By Southwest, by any means. It’s just a primer. There’s no BBQ, either. It’s not (how) CMJ (used to be). They’re no pretentious, rooftop mixers. It doesn’t resemble The FEST whatsoever. At Noise Pop, attendees actually go to their technology jobs during the day. The amps are only plugged in when the sun sets.
By Friday, I was done (with Noise Pop). I opted for Dead To Me. They would play later that evening at Brick & Mortar Music Hall, which is really just a subpar venue in my humble opinion. Oh well.
This show was different. It was sponsored by Punks, Incorporated (i.e. the working class). Admission was 13 bones. Rolling Rocks (bundled with well whiskey shots) went for 10 buckaroos. Meanwhile, this was my fourth show in five nights. Some might call it plain irresponsible. I call it “Spring Training.”
On Sunday morning, I found myself outside in the cold. Again. I wrote this anecdote at my desk at my place of employment, with the intent of not using any direct quotes. Without a doubt, every action has been paraphrased. These words are my own. These (first-world) problems are my own, too.
Hey, what can I tell you? I like a good challenge every now and then.
As always, I like to end every narrative accordingly. This one is bound to have a Hollywood ending.