Rock Concert
Posted by Shawn Romance
I was in a bind, and there was no way out. My plans for the evening were shot when Sal Greenberg informed me that he did not have the money for an all night drinking binge. The situation turned sour when Seamus O’Brien told me that he was expected at a Whitman-Hanson selectmen’s meeting. “This is quite a quandary”, I thought to myself.
My roommates, Erin VonSmoke and Hillary Turpentine, were heading to a local drinking establishment to see their friends’ band play. Eureka! The night has only just begun. We hopped on the trolley at the bottom of the hill, and headed for Comm. Ave., much to my surprise we were right on time. Crazy hooligans were everywhere, pouring beers down their gullet as if it were nourishment. Only through the experts have we come to realize that alcohol is actually bad for you. I’m not lying either.
Well after I ponied up to the bar and ordered a beer from the barkeep, I was overwhelmed by this thunderous racket coming from the nether regions of this joint. “Hot Damn”, I thought. This could be good after all, but wait that was just an instrument check. After the band began to play I was nearly rocked to sleep through their teenage angst whining. Thankfully, this was not the main act. After an excruciating half hour of this madness, I was well on my way to Drunkville. The alcohol only made them sound more annoying, so I had to make an escape. I went to the bathroom, but the beer leaving my system was more emotional than an episode of MacGyver.
Another ten minutes passes and finally the torture has seized, I will negate the second band I saw that night to keep this short. (Your Welcome) The Ferns (Free CD please) began their set with a fury and were rocking and/or rolling for the full 45 minutes they played. Unfortunately, some uptight rapscallion decided to start screaming Moby Dick in the middle of their set (Me). All was okay, however, at least I think they forgave me. Upon departure from this speakeasy we decided to hail a buggy, and head home for the evening. Though slightly intoxicated (now entering Blackoutville) I was able to entertain the stage driver, and my companions with some witty banter. The driver was uneasy and sweating profusely. I assured the man I was not packing heat, and things got quiet. The urge to flea came suddenly (sorry HST, great line though). I headed for the door, and once inside opened another beer. Hillary Turpentine would have none of it however and dragged my ass to bed. This is where I awoke with a feeling of satisfaction, knowing that I cheated death once again.
(Names mentioned are fictional and are based on no human person) Sorry to all those who read this.
I was in a bind, and there was no way out. My plans for the evening were shot when Sal Greenberg informed me that he did not have the money for an all night drinking binge. The situation turned sour when Seamus O’Brien told me that he was expected at a Whitman-Hanson selectmen’s meeting. “This is quite a quandary”, I thought to myself.
My roommates, Erin VonSmoke and Hillary Turpentine, were heading to a local drinking establishment to see their friends’ band play. Eureka! The night has only just begun. We hopped on the trolley at the bottom of the hill, and headed for Comm. Ave., much to my surprise we were right on time. Crazy hooligans were everywhere, pouring beers down their gullet as if it were nourishment. Only through the experts have we come to realize that alcohol is actually bad for you. I’m not lying either.
Well after I ponied up to the bar and ordered a beer from the barkeep, I was overwhelmed by this thunderous racket coming from the nether regions of this joint. “Hot Damn”, I thought. This could be good after all, but wait that was just an instrument check. After the band began to play I was nearly rocked to sleep through their teenage angst whining. Thankfully, this was not the main act. After an excruciating half hour of this madness, I was well on my way to Drunkville. The alcohol only made them sound more annoying, so I had to make an escape. I went to the bathroom, but the beer leaving my system was more emotional than an episode of MacGyver.
Another ten minutes passes and finally the torture has seized, I will negate the second band I saw that night to keep this short. (Your Welcome) The Ferns (Free CD please) began their set with a fury and were rocking and/or rolling for the full 45 minutes they played. Unfortunately, some uptight rapscallion decided to start screaming Moby Dick in the middle of their set (Me). All was okay, however, at least I think they forgave me. Upon departure from this speakeasy we decided to hail a buggy, and head home for the evening. Though slightly intoxicated (now entering Blackoutville) I was able to entertain the stage driver, and my companions with some witty banter. The driver was uneasy and sweating profusely. I assured the man I was not packing heat, and things got quiet. The urge to flea came suddenly (sorry HST, great line though). I headed for the door, and once inside opened another beer. Hillary Turpentine would have none of it however and dragged my ass to bed. This is where I awoke with a feeling of satisfaction, knowing that I cheated death once again.
(Names mentioned are fictional and are based on no human person) Sorry to all those who read this.
This entry was posted by Ben Myers, on
Wednesday, April 12, 2006.
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