Look, I'm not an elitist. Far from it, I'm from Las Cruces, New Mexico.
[Where as of late the FBI is in my hometown trying to solve the mystery of dual letters sent out to the mayor and to the Sun News newspaper editor demanding $25,000 or they're going to start shooting people at random around the city.]
And, I haven't been above hanging around a venue that shares a parking lot with convenience stores, a Sears, or a Chucky Cheese. But still, there's something disconcerting about the neon glow of the gargantuan mecca of a 99 cent store sign setting the ambience for the exterior of the unwittingly beloved Safari Sam's.
The place comes upon you sooner than you'd expect if you're coming up the streets from Echo Park. So last night served as maybe the third time I almost missed the turn (thank God for that daffy, that's right I used 'daffy', tiki sign with the place's name on it). Anyway, I guess I came pretty quickly through the drive entrance, hell maybe I wasn't even paying much attention, but before I knew it, I was in the process of running over a bald chick and a male dancer from West Side Story 2006 - The Film. Yeah, so I gave the obligatory nod, as they appropriated a sneer, and without missing a beat was off to try and squeeze my car into the euro size spaces they've got measured out there. I should note that I drive a Honda. I should fit just about everywhere. What a cruel joke to paint parking spaces in such an unpretentious manner!
Anyway, it's bright outside the doors, so waiting to get in sorta put me in a foul mood, and by the time it was announced that I wasn't on the list (by the way, how's it possible that I'm in between two groups of about 7 each, and I'm the only bastard the doorman points to and yells "Hey, 'Ratchet' this guy's not on the list, make sure and charge him". 'Whatever' I thought, 'just get me the hell in'…
But then without warning:
DAMNIT!!! THIS! This is what's going on in here?!?!
Okay, let me tell you about this band. No screw it. That would take to long. Let's just focus on the lead singer. First, I have to ask. What's the deal with those low V-neck t-shirts for guys that American Apparel came out with this summer?
[That's right, this review is going strait for the wardrobe critique. As for the music. Let's just say my ex-girlfriend had for years been trying to get me to buy some ear plugs. And to think, it only took this band 3 minutes to convince me. It was sorta the whole 'I'm losing my hearing for this?!?' kinda thing that won me over.]
Alright, back to the lead singer and his lame shirt. We'll, I guess I should mention the silver chains (dog tags included), and the stupid little black hat he couldn't decide whether to leave on or off (such a conundrum, should he go with off and have his hair fall all over his face, or should he have it on so he could brush back his bangs every minute or two?). Okay, well the show gets going, and the crowd that's there is the kind where you have to look around 'cause you don't believe it, where you gotta study their faces, gotta try and make out if they actually dig what they're listening to. Well, the pursed lips plastered on the faces of the girlies said it all. And as the lead singer got sweatier, my patience began to wane. Oh, he's taking off his black jacket. Oh, I see he's cut the sleeves off his low cut V-neck shirt. And, oh yes, he has a tattoo with text courtesy of the Far East that I pray means 'happiness', 'love', or 'knowledge', (cause that would just be so appropriate). Anyway, I guess it was when his V-neck slipped down over his shoulder and he left it there in some weird attempt at androgyny, that I had no choice but make my way to the nearest exit.
(sigh) Well, $15 and 35 minutes later I was back at my car, squeezing through the small crack in which I could get the driver's door opened. Sitting inside, I took a minute to decide whether I would head to Cinespace or back towards my regular dives in E.P. I finally decided on home, and not to a bar, to bed. I wasn't drunk, but I knew I had to sleep this night off.
I should tell you, that a bit of dew, or moisture, or fog, or whatever, had settled on my back window over this period. 'Okay', I thought, 'as carefully as possible, I'm gonna just inch my way out of this parking space'. And so it came, almost as if I'd expected it, a startled yell.
There, through my side door mirror, I watched as the bald girl (now with a Sparks in hand) kicked the back bumper of my car and yelled "Fucking Hipster!".