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***NOTE: This is a blog that I wrote on Myspace a long time ago. Like, months ago. The events are not recent, but they do make for an entertaining journal entry. That being said, enjoy!
I was online, buying tickets for Cruefest, see? So I texted my guy to ask if he wanted to go with me, so I would know whether to purchase one ticket or two. Thing is, he's out of town and without a phone, so he's been using a friends phone...Or his friends girlfriends phone, I don't know. Anyway, so I texted the number, asking if my boyfriend (we'll call him Ed) is free on Wednesday night. I get a reply saying, "Ed says it's over so please stop texting my man." Okay, ouch. He could at least have some balls and break up with me himself, in person no less. So I bought one (1) ticket, mourned my "loss", and called it a night.
The next day was the day of the concert, so I dressed the damn part. I wore a kickass 80's style gown with a purple corset and a sheer skirt, reminiscent of the attire donned by the bodacious babes in the "Looks That Kill" video. I then adorned myself with the proverbial "Red lips, fingertips" of "Girls, Girls, Girls" fame. I painted a pentacle on a strip of black fabric, tied it in my tangled headbanger hair, and thus I mimiced the attire of my idols from "Looks That Kill." Got me some Golden hoop earrings, black eyeshadow, running eyeliner and mascara, I was about good to go. Finally I slipped on some vintage lace gloves and 5 inch hooker hills in scarlet vynil, and I was out the door like a bat out of hell.
Upon arriving at the venue where the glorious concert was about to begin, I realized how hot the ******** desert is and how retarded one must be to be clad in such a manner as I was. Oops. Not only that, but the opening bands kinda sucked. I was pretty pissed, because I so desperately desired Savage Wisdom to be the opening, but instead it was some shitty a** posers that I had never even heard of. But then the rain came, and everything rocks when it's soaking wet, especially concerts. So I danced in the rain like the burnt out hippie I am, and then it was Godsmack's time to shine.
My vain attempts to bang my head were very pathetic, much to the amusement of the fans standing behind me. Apparently you can't thrust your body so wildly whilst on an inclined plane or slope, much less in 5 inch heels. So after getting my sorry a** dizzy as hell and nearly falling down a few times, I contented myself with grinding with the middle aged and very inebriated Native American lady standing near me. I don't think her husband was too happy about that... But what did he expect? This is ******** Cruefest. After a few songs had been completed and the audience was applauding and screaming and doing god knows what else, the lead singer announced: "This next song is dedicated to every a**-hole that every betrayed you and stabbed you in the back!" I felt a stinging pain in my heart, as I was immediately reminded of my (ex) boyfriend. But then I realized, hey, maybe it's a good riddance. So I went against my better judgement and banged my head to demonstrate my dislike for the entire male gender.
After a few more songs were played, and some kickass solos later, it was the moment we all were waiting for: Motley Crue! The first song was the classic "Dr. Feelgood", and there were many scantily clad voluptuous women strutting their hot asses on stage. Once more I was painfully reminded of my (ex) boyfriend, as I recalled that he had some sort of medical degree or some s**t. I then remembered half-jokingly telling him that I would buy him a naughty nurse outfit. Meh, what the hell. It would probably look better on me anyway.
Meanwhile, I hastily reapplied my make-up, and while preoccupied admiring my gorgeous reflection, some drunk ******** knocked me over. I pushed him down and then realized the enormity of my wrongdoing. Don't get me wrong, the b*****d deserved it, but when he fell down, he spilled the full cup of beer he was holding. I should have just taken the booze and ran, instead of resorting to bodily harm, but there was still a little left, and unfortunately he didn't let me take it. So I cut my losses and continued squealing like a little girl over the sexiness exuded by ancient washed up musicians that didn't even know I existed.
Little did I know at the time just how precious that infinitesimal amount of beer could be. Despite the overwhelming awesomeness of the concert, I was in great suffering. Jumping around, screaming ones head off, pumping ones fist and banging ones head is tantamount to a rigorous aerobic exercise. Take into account that I'm in the middle of the goddamn desert, and I was essentially dying of thirst. To my dismay, I discovered that the cheapest drink was 4 dollars, and not only that, but it was just plain water. Got that? Water. One atom of oxygen and two of hydrogen. That's all. It cost Four. Freaking. Dollars. Hell no! The only other beverage available to patrons under the age of 21 was Coca Cola. Not as good as a nice glass of Merlot or Cosmopolitan, but I could use a nice carbonated soft drink. However, I was broke as s**t and had to resort to desperate measures. I regret nothing, and it was a valuable life experience. Now I can honestly answer when someone asks me "Gee Cheryl, did you ever flirt with strangers who are probably old enough to retire and, in all likelihood, are addicted to methamphetamines, to pay for a soda that cost five bucks of your hard earned cash?" "Why, yes. Yes I have!" Say what you will, but it still makes for good conversation.
So after purchasing my delectable beverage, the price now far outweighing $5 as it also cost me my dignity, I returned to the lawn to witness the freaky spectacle happening onstage. A very large, hot pink brassiere had been unceremoniously chucked on the stage, retrieved by the band, and hung from the mic stand like a gawdy testament to the squalor and depravity I so dearly adore. On my ventures to find a superior view, many a daffy old creep asked me my name, number, and what I was doing after the show. I giggled coquettishly, gave them my alias, and exchanged adresses I'm pretty sure don't even exist. If anyone really lives on 666 Highway to Hell, 7th Circle, The Underworld, I sincerely apologize for the ***** I sent to your place.
So once my horrible incident of terror was over, I ran rampant throughout the land, acting a damn fool and high-fiving random people. I ran through that place just as fast as my hooker heels would carry me. I hugged a hot chick and her husband, even though they both loudly announced the fact that they're married several times. Hell, it's never stopped me before. She then told me that her brother and her friend were each, and I quote, "Datable". That's "Date" + "Able" for you illiterate types. I replied with an exasparated sigh, when she added "Or, there's my sister over there, if you swing that way." I laid my eyes on the hot mama indicated by the direction of her hand gesture, gave her another hug and now I have a new friend. <3 God I'm such a slut.
Thus my adventure ended; I could rave on and on but I think it's about time I shut up. I would love to go into details, such as the exact number of 50 year old crackwhores that recorded me on their phones, the subtle nuances of scent in the various puke puddles, or describing the touch and slightly stinging numb felt after each individual high five. I could, I should, but I won't. Now my tale is told. smile
 deadheadbanger · Thu Jan 07, 2010 @ 04:35am · 0 Comments |
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