After my dreams are dreamed out
A word to the Nation: live out your dreams, baby. We're still looking for a bass player.
There's just as much danger in a football game
Yesterday me went to Panthers' football game with (three other dang bloggers!) James, Dutch and the world-famous Bookpimp. We watched the lowly Carolina Panthers pummel the shockingly even more lowly Cincinatti Bengals along with 20,000 other people with absolutely nothing to do on a cloudy and comfortably cool Sunday. Did I wear long underwear? Of course I did, you can never be too careful when you are sitting on a hard plastic seat outdoors during December. Even if it is the Carolinas it pays to be prepared. I was so prepared I took my jacket off until midway through the third quarter.
We got to see my favorite type of play twice: a punt returned for a touchdown. Since it was football (a sport that is actually better enjoyed via the tube) I found the punt returned for a touchdown to be anitclimatic. A nice long drive is better appreciated in person. A punt returned for a touchdown is premature ejaculation. It's so chaotic that you miss have of it. You see a guy catch a ball run into a crowd of 21 others and then emerge out the other side running like hell with one or two opponents diving after his heals.
We also witnessed a colossal hit. Now a nice hard hit where a player gets knocked out his shoes can be very much appreciated live. Nothing like it, especially when you can see it coming like this one. The Bengal quarterback, Kitna, threw a pass that left one of his receivers vulnerable and he just got flat laid out by one of our defensive backs. I swear I could hear from our seats in the second row of the second level. I believe it took place during the second minute of the second quarter around 2:22. People erupted with roars all around our section since it happaned right in front of us. It was such a blood thirsty cacophony that I started looking around for lions chasing Christians. Hoping for lions chasing Christians, praying to the Christian god for lions to be chasing Christians. No such luck, just over-sized men banging their skulls together on the football field. One of us summed up the hit best when he said "More of that, please."
The seats we had were fabulous. Close enough to see a good bit a of detail and just high to get a good overview of the action as it unfolded on the field. We were right at the 35 yard line and if play was taking place at the far end of the field it was hard to see much but with football that is just the way it goes, there is no way to see every angle with such a large field.
There was a fine specimen of modern American shallow feminimity on display at the game. She was a thin blonde lady with too much makeup, a lot of miles, collagen lips, freakishly disproportionate fake-ass boobies and toothpick like body with the ass of an anorexic. I couldn't keep my eyes off her. I tried not to stare but there was just so much wrong with her and she was hot. Everything bad about how we view women was her motif and I still wanted to bang her. I guess it works or I just find white trash sexy. I think James called her Mrs. Rock Hill.
She was workin' in a topless place and I stopped in for a beer
A friend of mine came over Saturday to play a little guitar with me and Wendell. This friend, we'll call him Satan's Little Helper, was able to convince me along with much badgering from Chris and Wendell to venture out to a titty bar. We went to the old standby, Leather and Lace on South Blvd. It's full of skinny redneck chicks so it's not so bad.
I hadn't been out to a topless joint for over a year and I couldn't believe how young all the girls were. It was the first time I felt like a dirty old man in one of those places. I've felt sleazy before but never old and sleazy. I didn't like it. I always wondered why there were always a bunch of old fat guys in those places. Now I know, young girls, half naked. Who can say no? I can next time. Sure, it was fun, Super Wendell was flying high and Satan's Little Helper spent the last hour nodding off in a chair but I will pass on the next offer of a trip to the titty bar. You might as well take all your money, pile it in the street and urinate on for all the good the spending you do in one of those places does you. Sure was fun though.
I couldn't help notice that they were playing a lot of contemporary bad music. That loud noisy shit that all sounds the same. What's it called, hardcore? Whatever it is, it is hardcore crap. I wasn't prepared for that. I didn't want contemporary hate. I wanted nostaligic hate. I wanted to hear classic titty bar fare like 'Wild Thing' by Tone Loc and 'Girls Girl Girls' by Motley Crue. Old school crap music not this dull-edged new stuff.