Wednesday, June 15, 2005

The Ashtray Says: I got my eat on

I walked into the concert venue and ordered a beer. A Bud Light. After I drank it in two swallows, I ordered another. I looked at my watch. Plenty of time, I thought, this is gonna be alright. Sasefina, Kades, Stizamp and Satisfied75 told me they would meet me later. Just a little time I had to kill, that's all.

So I went and killed some time. Treading through the liquid arena of sweatshirts and exclusive denim, I found myself back at the concession stand. If this show was going to rock, then damn it, I was going to rock with it. I double fisted myself and made my way to a seat. A sold out show never stopped me before from sitting in range of something that might be interesting.

The couple next to me were fat people. Nothing wrong with that, but it was the most distinguishing factor they had going. That and the fact that they were smoking a joint. It smelled rank and I considered finding another seat that wasn't mine. Then the band busted out a song that was semi-introspective. So I turned to the portly guy and told him I would trade him a beer for a few hits from his little splizz.

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To my surprise he handed me the joint, stood up and left, bringing his heifer with him. (By the way, I love you guys whoever the fuck you are.) I started hitting it, hotboxing it really, and found myself completely lost in the supermarket. The fruits infiltrating my vision were ripe and colorful, and all I could hear in my head was Dexy's Midnight Runner. As Wilco wailed away into the Hollywood night, I started seeing another side of things, and my hunger was born.

The hospitality room furnished meatballs and cheese, but they seemed like a stopgap to the desire deep in my loins, manifesting at the sight of these thrift store debutantes. I looked at 20-year-old jeans and wanted to surf through the space time continuum picking my teeth with the wiry flesh and bones of an exhibitionist whose taste in hipster gear diminished my own hidden lust for off-kilter surprise outfits.

Then I looked to my right. My fucking holy soul, this chick had an Air t-shirt on, and it was scrumptious looking. I wiped drool from my chin and listened as the beat rolled into something of a circus rock anthem, bleating like a drum circle hippie twisting an acclaimed noodle dance that no Native American could hope to emulate.

I slapped myself as hard as possible, considering the circumstances, and went for a walk around the open-aired venue, smelling nothing but the sweet fume of folkster, licking my lips to contain the ravenous yearning from my lower regions. Hearing a new song, both on stage and through the din of my imaginary mind-concert, I found another open seat. These people were not fat, nor were they smoking weed. But by god, were their shirts bought on Melrose? I would wager heavily on it. And once again, I was a Pavlovian dog.

I pulled the crusty remains of a roach from my new zip-up pullover with vintage fabric strands. I lit it and inhaled, tasting my own empty breath and weed. Because that taste angered me, I made a quick decision. I would have a bite to eat, and quench this stupid deficiency before it became entirely too dangerous.

Making a quick check for security guards, I pounced, dingo-like and starving. The first thing my teeth met was the jugular vein of a pretty little blue-clad girl. Her skin was salty and full of must, but fulfilling in a live show sort of way. I pulled out the better part of the young nymph's neck with my incisors, seeing the arterial spray sully my newly purchased get-up. Her boyfriend seemed envious and unhappy, so I took a full chunk out of his flailing fist, and boy did I enjoy chewing on his tender finger flesh. He tried, gingerly, to poke my eyes, but I caught the side of his cheek with an uprising chomp and swallowed the pitiful remains of his larynx. He dropped in a heap of style next to his half digested lifemate.

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By this point, a full 50 square feet of the Greek theatre was shellshocked and dispersing, but as fortune would have it, Jeff Tweedy broke into a psychotic rock interlude of "War on War" and people seemed to forget the carnage that was my satisfied nourishment. I spit out the stale remains of a triple-pierced ear and ran, as fast as my long intoxicated legs could carry me, humming Echo and the Bunnymen as I fled.

I found myself back in front of the hospitality area and promptly struck up a conversation with Jason Bateman. He thought it such a kick that I was covered in blood. Secretly, I wished I could eat him, too, but I knew that I had to work tomorrow and there was only so much I could get away with on a Tuesday. So I settled for a piece of Brie and a Dos Equis, smiling provocatively at a young girl who was a busty version of Helena Bonham Carter.

Needless to say, I was left helpless and alone, dripping gore and picking human debris from the gap between my 23rd and 24th molars. My human jukebox started up again, this time synchronizing Wilco's encore with the Rapture's House of Jealous Lovers, and I was reminded of the lonely sorcerer that I have become. I took a nap on a bench, was woken by Sasefina and made my way home to a warm, welcoming computer. This is where I stand.

Thankfully, my eye infection isn't contagious. Otherwise, the poor souls at the thrift store would be in grave danger.

By the way, a quick shout out to the IRS. Without you, I wouldn't have this glut for human meat and sinew...which tastes great with diet Pepsi, salted squash and New Order on the iPod. Bedtime for bonzo.

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