No Such Thing as a Free Concert

Anyways, the Cold War Kids were playing in Prospect Park, for free, last Friday.

Of course I went! Goddamn you three, what do you take me for? Some kind of sucker? Well, turns out, I really was a sucker for thinking there was such a thing as a free concert. I should qualify: getting in was free, but you couldn't take any food or drink with you.

Yeah, that scam. $2 for soda, $3 for water, $6 for 12 oz's of Budweiser. Yeah, you read that right. They're trying to get paid, suckah! Naturally, my brother and I couldn't manage to swallow that. Of course, we did manage to choke down two Negro Modelo's that were left by a trash can (no, not in the fucker, but it wouldn't make a damn bit of difference if they were, we'd still take them and drink them) by some person who obviously treasured close seating more than their beer. I suppose I understand, in a weird sorta-love-music-more-than-beer way. Or something.

So my brother and I sat outside the fenced-in area, and watched all the cops that swarmed the place like flies on you-know-what. Not that it stopped anyone from drinking outside the fence, or smoking pot. Here's an interesting observation: in New York, middle-classed white people can do pretty much whatever the hell they want, and the cops ain't tripping. I mean, the trees were burning, and the smell was everywhere, and the cops were chillin' on the main drag through the park (nevermind why there is a main drag through a park, it's beyond me) like nothing was happening.

Despite being white, I don't feel quite that secure. Long prison terms do that to a person.

After the concert was mostly over, brother and I went for a ride, I had to go to Staten Island, he was going home to sleep. Of course, he's more native to NYC than myself, so I let him shout out the directions.

Side note: we were on bikes, of course. And my chupecabra, the rat bastard goat-suck that he is, hadn't ate that night. This is important to help understand the next part... the part where I got directed by my brother right into a flight of stairs.

Maybe ten of them... I couldn't see them because it was nighttime, until it was too late to brake for the edge. So instead I jumped, and landed awkwardly. Actually with enough awkwardness that Chupecabra decided he was being abused, and to bite back. Now my shin has about seven holes in it, but at the time I was too busy cursing out my brother to notice it...

...or the smaller flight of steps that I came crashing down upon. This time, however, it was only five steps, so I managed to hop them all... and landed with a small bit of surety (if not pride).. and zoomed off to Staten.

So what I'm saying is that I went to a free concert, and all I got was these lousy holes in my shin. Que sera, sera, right?

So I Went Back To Cali...

Lo and behold, the damn state was still there.

Can I talk about the Chipolte Burrito I had in NYC Today, without bringing up the Mission Burrito I had May 30th? I think not. There's something about a Mission Burrito, even though I was in reality at Pancho Villa Taqueria, which is on Valencia, but that's just the fucking details.

Where was I? Yeah, Chipolte. Edible. Not a Mission Burrito though. Gotta love interns, they always bring in new information, even though they reveal my relative ignorance of the world since I've been gone, and my continued ignorance of recent trends because TV isn't in my queue.

Speaking of interns, somehow we managed to hire a 13-year old one. She's actually 18, but damn if I didn't think she was 13, and asked a coworker, "what the fuck is this kid doing here?" I'm a little cruel like that, and obviously a poor judge of age, which is especially embarrassing because I have a little sister, so I should know better. Then again, my little sister is 20, and I still think she looks like she's 15, so I guess the math does work out.

And when it comes to the math, it doesn't make sense that I didn't break down ChupeCabra, load him into a box, and bring him with me to California. He made protest today, my second day back of riding, with three separate accidents. None of which resulted in injury, but I'll be damned if his hunger for side rear-view mirrors hasn't increased since I left.

So California. What is there to say, other than I ought to be there right now? So many people were chilled with, and for a moment, I almost felt like I wasn't a ghost in the minds of many, but an actual person, living, breathing, and doing the unmentionables in mixed company. Yeah, that's right - the three of you reading this are mixed. Get over it.

I also came across the great secret of why our roads are filled with idiot drivers: I got my license back by taking an 18 question exam, paying $28 to the DMV, and showing proof of my legal name change. I read the handbook on the way to the DMV (well, scanned it). I'm probably the worst driver you'll ever meet: I've got the reflexes necessary to be a race car driver, and the careless attitude of the fool that feels invincible. Except when driving in reverse, which makes me nervous. Nonetheless, the license is in the mail. Yes, I did get perfect on the exam, but let's be honest: that just means I can read. Not that I can drive. I used to get into a lot of accidents, though truth be told, only one involved going faster than 15 miles per hour (the rabbit I dodged on a wet road while driving a former friend's Prelude, the dodge leading to a crash into the shoulder ditch of the road).

My cousin had a great theory on this: go faster. That way, you never have to worry about what's behind you, cutting out 180 degrees of concerns. I don't just support this theory to justify my leadfoot, I think there's some real substance there. I don't think the pigs will agree though, since it's a game that only works for the person driving the fastest. I'm sure that's where the Germans came up with the autobahn concept though. Incidentally, talked to a German guy on a beach outside of Malibu, and the autobahn isn't quite the raceway it used to be: gas is too expensive. Funny that. Somehow, I don't think it would have mattered in terms of the rabbit, I was only going 60 mph on that one. When I think about how many rabbits I've ate since then, I wonder why I bothered to save one that was silly enough to wind up in the middle of a county road.

What does any of this have to do with going back to Cali? Damned if I know, but it was good to go home.