Sometimes plans go to shit

Black, it was.

The first band played the part. Decked out in corpse paint, sporting arm bands with nails hammered through them and accompanied by gothic bisexuals they were black. The sound guy couldn't figure out how to mix their set, but that (in some sense) added to their appeal. I have never heard a good black metal recording, why should they sound pristine live.

The second band played faster and came in at a dark shade of grey. I was the only person in the whole bar that enjoyed any of their stuff. I was shunned by a couple of Jarod's friends for liking them. This could spawn a whole other rant about how stupid metalheads are, but I need not get into it.

Closing the show was Licheon (or something like that). On any other night, these guys would step on stage and make you shit your pants. Aran would break into tears wondering how any collection of men could be so angry. On this night, considering those who came before them, they seemed pretty mainstream. I'm not sure if I liked them. The more I listen to this type of music the more I lust for something louder and crazier. It is a sick complex.

My Dad's Girlfriend's Sister has been married for 25 years

I arrived late, 9:45 pm, and the party was in full swing. There were people in the garage and a fire pit in the middle of the driveway. Some people were standing around joking and laughing while others sat on lawnchairs around the fire. My approach brought about twenty pairs of curious eyes. I recognized an old family friend and sat down to chat while the rest of the campfire looked me over and guessed at who I might be.

Then the drinking started. One funny thing about small towns is the focus on drinking. Everyone has a story that starts with "I bought a bottle" and puking or passing out is regarded as a minor setback on the road to more drinking. This was made clear when one of my dad's girlfriends brothers (follow that?) passed out in the middle of the driveway. Fortunatly I had my digital camera, so pictures are coming soon.

Things took a turn for the worse when I got caught up in a Baja Rosa party being run by Keith, a potato farmer turned natural gass pipeline engineer I've known my whole life. Budweiser flowed freely until the wee hours of the morning when a routine pee break turned sour and I threw up. It was time for bed anyway and puking helped to quell the room spinning. I stumbled downstairs and passed out on an air matress. Ahhhh Gladstone.

Sunday was a battle against hangover, but the pictures I had of Marv (some sort of oil worker from Alberta) passed out on the driveway kept the heat off my hijinx. It wouldn't be a trip to Gladstone without red meat. I turned down the bacon and coldcuts, but ate a massive steak while chatting with Jerry (farmer, businessman, bullshitter) about how he shoots ducks as they come off the game reserve by his house.

I actually had alot of fun, and now think that we should go camping in Gladstone, or some other small town.

A question of ethics. How pissed would you be?

It was odd.

So I did what I think anyone would do with such a message. I recorded it to my computer, cut it up and used it as the vocal track on an odd techno song. How pissed would you be about this? I plan on distributing the song freely on CD in a scheme that I will get into once I've hammered out the details. The messageboard is the best place to reply to this.


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