<begin trans>
hllo wrld. hw r u. i wnt to teh frnz show lst wk! it rckt. thts’ all 4 now.
<end trans>
That’s what it’s like listening to you people talk — I vicariously “hear” you as a pleasant, (but most definitely foreign), cyborg with little more than an elementary grasp of English.
It sucks. If you really were a robot, I’d point your plasma-rifle arm at your central nervous core and blow away all your lame, over-teched and under-human circuitry. Take a note from 2XL: no one likes a dumb robot.
Anyway, where was I? (“ne way, were wuz i?”) Yes, last week I went to the Franz Ferdinand show at our own Target Center here in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Would you like to hear the story kiddies? Grab your cookies and gather round Grandpa. No, I don’t want any of your gingerbread — I hate that shit.
The concert-going party was to consist of four persons: <name removed>, <name removed>, <name removed>, and myself. Well, <name>, (my best known friend of the four), had class and was going to miss the opening bands. <Name> decided she wasn’t going to go until <name> got off from class. Thus I find myself sitting alone with <name>’s other friend <name> an hour before the show in semi-awkward “second time we’ve met” conversation.
We decide to head into the city early and have a drink. Driving, parking, skyway-ing, and to the bar. I find that <name> is a pretty spunky girl, and can keep a conversation going, for which I am thankful.
Note: I am a noob-douche when it comes to ordering drinks. Truth be told, I know about 5 drinks in total, none of which I find particularly drinkable, and which I have in constant rotation when I go out so I don’t become the “guy who always orders a screwdriver.” On this occasion, “Eric’s Drink Spinner” was pointing to the cartoon of a steroid-ridden heifer caught in a blender, labeled “Vodka/Redbull”. This ‘beverage’ is an interesting combination of flowery textures with an oaky bouquet and an aftertaste slightly reminiscent of Polish Bull Urine.
This I drink, and none too slowly. <Name> has a Vodka/Tonic, whose clear biting taste I imagine as being distilled from the liquefied and boiled bodies of the Pure Norwegian Jellyfish, if ever such a creature existed. (I find that giving drinks mystical origins in my mind makes them a little more fun to choke down.)
Theorem: Two drinks will be consumed, if one drink was consumed and if and only if conversation is even mildly pleasant.
So it was. Two drinks were drunk in their time. Well, ok, I’ll be honest — the time for those drinks had perhaps not yet come, they were indeed prematurely drank (drunk?), and soon we were well on our way to Funkytown, <name> leading the way having missed her evening luncheon entirely.
Theorem: Three and four drinks will be consumed in one hour if and only if it seems like a good idea to do so at the time.
Well, you don’t even have to wonder why it did, but it did. It was then time to go to the show. Begin “should we go” conversation:
Eric: “What time is it?”
<Name>: “Uhh, heh… um. 8:20.”
Eric: “Well I think Franz goes on at 8:30. You ready?”
<Name>: “I want to bowl.”
Eric: “Yeah that does sound like fun, doesn’t it?”
<Name>: “Let’s do it. I can’t believe you made me drink Tequila, you bastard.”
<Name>’s playing the blame game now, and now we’re getting shoes, and now we’re making a joke about the cash register, and now I’m thinking that the guy probably thinks we’re drunk, and now I’m thinking “To hell with what you think, sir!”, and now we’re tying laces and now we’re tossing balls and now the balls are going all sideways and crossways, and now we’re rolling on 43s and laughing about it, and now we’re laughing more and walking to the show, and now we’re wondering where the hell Franz has gotten themselves to and where the hell we are and how the hell we get from point A to point Franz.
We walk into the smallish auditorium, (a side theater to the main Coliseum-esque Target Center), and into the even more smallish grouping of people around the stage. The lights dim for us as we enter.
“Jacqueline was seventeen, working on a desk...” This is it, the moment I’ve been waiting for. Soon Franz is rocking out, telling me that things are always better on holiday, and I agree. I show that I concur wholeheartedly by jumping up and down and pumping my fist in the air.
In retrospect I’m pretty sure I was the only one doing so.
After a few more songs, the crowd was getting into it. Franz was letting us have it — the guitars were thudding and twanging energetically, and I insisted we press and squeeze our way forward as best we could.
Quote: “As long as you aren’t gonna puke, it’s worth it.”
The rest is mostly a haze of jumping, screaming, dancing, and pushing our way up into the crowd. Finally, during a sexually-charged rendition of “Darts of Pleasure,” <name> and I were able to jam ourselves right up in front of the stage. Oh my god, you can see his sticky stubble.
Things in the pit began to reach a fever pitch. When Kapranos ad-libbed “I’m sexy, you’re all sexy” during “Michael” I thought an insane orgy of Roman proportions was immanent. At the apex, Alex broke a string and Bob threw his pick into the crowd, who all dived face first to get it. I was sure someone was going to get a pecker in the eye. However, like an eight year old with A.D.D., they gave up looking after three seconds, allowing me to bend over and scoop it from the cement — carefully avoiding any exposed knobs on the way down.
Thus, with my self-respect only slightly tarnished and still buzzed enough to crash a wedding, the lights went up and I left the pit. We met <name> and <name> on the way out, explained ourselves, and headed out back to meet the band. (I being still too sauced to drive of course.)
Bob and Paul came out some time later. Lacking my CD booklet, (which I idiotically left at home), I had them sign my entry bracelet. Paul was a little sauced himself, and signed my wrist instead.
Overall, I give the night four thumbs up. Wait — I mean two thumbs up, sorry. Anyone have some coffee?
Title: A Franz in need is a Franz indeed
Subtitle: Sweet-Mellow Drunks
This is the last of my Franz posts. I swear.
“You have mail on the counter” says Xine. I venture upstairs to receive it. There is a bill, a title, and … a letter?
Not just any sort of letter either. A hand-written letter. Such a thing is a momentous occasion in anybody’s life these days, what with the underground coup executed masterfully by the Emailiens in the early ’90s. No one trades these archaic bits of paper around anymore. So imagine my shock when I found myself holding such an object from one “Anna Vokkerenburg” from Shoreview (Name changed. Slightly.)
I was about to “tear ‘er open n’ get ‘er done” when I thought again: “Anna Vokkerenburg”? Who the hell was that?
I really couldn’t think who this could be. An old stalker whose hopes I had crushed long ago? A friend of an old stalker whose hopes I had crushed long ago? A dying child asking me to send her 1,000 paper cranes? A good old fashioned chain letter or pyramid scheme?
Eventually bemusement got the best of me. I let ‘er rip. And I read:
Well, Eric … uh, & friends:
“Sounds like a MySpacer.”
Here you are. Bet you thought we wouldn’t send them, didn’t you? Anyway, they took a long time coming out.
I realized what this was. At the Franz show, despite our ardent waiting, <name>, <name>, <name> and I had to leave before getting autographs from frontman Alex and guitarist Nick, as <name> and <name> had class in the morning. We passed off our autographed bits to a couple of sluttish younglings waiting next to us, gave them our address and asked them to mail us the completely signed bits of paper. And doing so with what we regarded as completely indefatigable College-age authority, we left the freshman to do our dirty work. (HAZED!)
Hence, this letter: (cont’d)
Anyway, they took a long time coming out. Nick came 1st & he was awfuly nice & signed everyone’s everything. he was quite talkative & people had actual conversations w/him…. yeah, pretty sweet… & then we had to wait for a REALLY LONG time till Alex came out. that semi-thing in there was already packed & leaving when he finally teetered out. he sort of apologized for coming out so late & kind of giggled @ everything else … right, both were drunk as hell, but it was cute almost, they’re sweet-mellow drunks. Right, anyway, hope you enjoy your, oh, BRACELET OF POWER & …. SHEET OF PAPER!!!
Right,
Anna
[the blonde girl w/ the hat]
[though I'm sure the other girls say hi]
Endearing, isn’t it?
And yes, in my state I did refer to it as the Bracelet of Power.
Because like we said: “Absolute power rocks… what is it class? Yes. Absolutely.“*
-E
*The writer acknowledges that in no way is aforeto mentioned bracelet in any way connected with the possession, gathering, or exercising of said power.
