October 2007

If you cannot tell already, music festivals are gonna be the death of me. There is nothing more I love than music, EXCEPT for consuming lots of alcohol while listening to music. I have a fear of large crowds, which is usually not assuaged unless I am absolutely shit-faced. This is why music festivals are endurance tests for me on the rare occasions when I do go to them. Or in this case, when they come right into my backyard- Lower East Side, NYC.

For five days every year, thousands of bands come down to the Lower East Side for an amazing event called the CMJ Music Marathon. For me this year though, the "marathon" involved (similar to Marathon Monday) had nothing to do with music. It's so hard for me to stand in a crowd and listen to loud music, loud applause, etc, without a drink in my hand. In this case, I just let my alcoholism run rampant, and drank each of the four nights I attended the festival. The first three nights, although full of good rock'n'roll and fun times, were relatively free of "Something's Always Wrong"-caliber stories. They were mostly just me stumbling around the Lower East Side, going from free show to free show. Some highlights from the first three nights:

-Walking into a local bar only because they served a shot called "Fuck Yeah Global Warming" I took it.

-Finding a tambourine at a bar, and since there was a solo artist performing, drunkenly deciding that he needed some "accompaniment". He was not amused by the drunk kid filling in on tambourine, and kindly dispatched one of his roadies to get me to "shut the fuck up with the damn tambourine" (Note: PA, from "Road Trip From Hell" was sitting right next to me when this happened. Somehow, since I no longer work for his company, he found it hilarious)

-Getting totally scammed yet again. Since I now consider myself a writer, I like to support other writers. But after about 10 PBRS, I could not draw the line. This guy came up to me and asked me to check out his book. It was called "The Passion of Sir Shizzle Monizzle". Looked funny at the time. So I bought it. It turned out to be a religious pamphlet disguised as a funny book. I desperately want my 2 bucks back. BASTARD!

But the final night was when the real action happened. Although I had drank three straight nights, one of the bands I had been waiting to see the whole time was playing an early show, I decided to start early and gun it for the rest of the night, daring the repercussions of the last three nights to catch up to me. Let's see how this turned out:

3:45 PM: I arrive on the LES scene. Since I know it's gonna be a long night, I grab a slice of pizza. The closest thing to a "meal" I will eat the rest of the day. I make sure it's completely out of my system, before I find it: The Fader Lounge. It is a relative heaven (living in NYC, anything that comes for cheap is paradise, and anything that comes free is Heaven), with FREE bands all afternoon, FREE Guitar Hero (the world's coolest video game) access, and most importantly, FREE Bud Lights and Southern Comfort punch cocktails all afternoon.

4:00: In celebration of this fact, I grab a free Bud at the bar area and announce, to no one at all: "4 in the afternoon, 4th straight night! Here we go baby!" before literally slamming it.

5:00: After a good hour of Guitar Hero and free Bud, I head over to the show I am there to see.

5:35: The band goes on. I will describe them as "Frat Metal". I don't mean in a sense that it's metal that frat boys like, I mean literally that there's an entire fucking fraternity onstage singing along to heavy metal tunes, while the "band" (guys with instruments) blaze through ferocious guitar solos and pounding riffs straight out of a Slayer song.

This combination of lots of guys onstage, very loud music, and a relatively small crowd (there were almost more people onstage than there were in the audience), makes me very happy. So happy, in fact, that I slam a few more beers. Remember, it's only 6PM we're talking about. The band's set is so intense that they only break for applause around 3 times. During one of which, I scream out "Crank That Soulja Boy" as a request. The band members, and everyone in the audience, just look at me confused. I get a good laugh from this (As of when I am writing this, October 2007, the "Soulja Boy" is an extremely popular song and dance among black people in America. But by the time you are reading this, and possibly even by next month, the dance will be long forgotten, faded into pop culture obscurity, somewhere between Alf and Unk).

By the time the band has ended their set, somewhere around 6:10, I am elated I had just seen such a cool show. This was, by far, the high point of the entire evening. As I would soon discover, when you're drunk at 6PM, it's all downhill from there. I began to walk back to the Fader Lounge, and noticed it was still light out and I was already stumbling. If it's Saint Patrick's day or a tailgate party or something and everyone else is getting as drunk around you, then its OK to be drunk this early. But if it is not, and everyone else is sober, coming home from work and whatnot, which they were at this time, it's a Screaming Red Flag.

6:20: Once I get back to the Fader Lounge it's on to the Soco and Punch cocktails.

6:35: I perch myself at the Guitar Hero console. Somehow, when your mind is slowing down as a result of alcohol, you become euphoric and think you're great at everything. In this case, I thought I was hitting all the right notes. "I am a Guitar Hero champion", I loudly proclaim.

7:00: After about five more Soco/Punch cocktails, I begin to feel drowsy. Keep in mind, this punch tasted great. It was one of the best-masked drinks I'd ever tasted. The alcohol in there was so well-masked that you could drink it straight for a while and everything's going good, then next thing you know it's five hours later, you're passed out on the street, you have no idea where you are, and all your shit is stolen.

7:15: I get a call from my supervisor at work. Our conversation goes like this:

Supervisor: Hi Scotty

Me (with loud music, loud chatter in background): Oh, supervisor, hey what's up man?

Supervisor: Are you OK? Just making sure you know you have a shift tomorrow night

Me: Oh yeah that sounds groovy man.

Supervisor: I can't hear you. Sounds like a lot of static. I will call back tomorrow. (click)

7:30: I find a cool chair to sit on.

7:45: I am napping. The Friday Happy Hour crowd has shuffled in and the room is packed. Yet no one seems to mind me taking a little catnap on the chair. I am so lucky no one jacked my shit. I credit this to the fact that they were giving away so much free stuff (CDs galore, handbags, magazines, etc) at the festival that people must have thought "ehh, what's another backpack? what's another Ipod?."

8 :00: I wake up, and play another half hour of Guitar Hero, while consuming even more Soco Punches.

8:30: The Lounge closes. It is time to go. By this point I was so drowsy, I just wanted to find a nice spot in a nice bar where I could just take another nice long nap and refresh myself for the night. After about 20 minutes wandering around, I found the perfect bar, a space which for the festival, had been transformed into "The Viper Room".

9:00: I walk into the bar, find a nice couch in front of the main room, and start my nap.

9:10: The bouncer shakes me a few times, tells me "you can't sleep here". OK, this is how drunk I was at the time. I figured I would take another drink. NOT WATER, which I should have done, but another drink, to keep myself awake. OK, it was drinking too much that was making me drowsy, and somehow in this state of mind, I was such a dumbass as to order another one. I look at the specials, and I see they have one for "Citron". I never had tried it before, and since it sounded like "citrus", I figured it was some kind of orange juice mix. But upon my first sip, I was horrified to find that it was STRAIGHT VODKA I was sipping.

9:15: Feeling bad about spending money on a drink that I did not know was fucking vodka, I chug as much as I feel safe at the time. Thankfully, since I had gotten that pizza out of my system hours earlier, I am in no danger of throwing up. However, I am about to hit a fucking wall, thank you citron. I go down to the basement, since I figure the bouncers can't find me down there. I find my little nook in the back of the basement.

9:20: I continue my nap, but soon, everything I had consumed today, as well as everything from the past three days, catches up to me all at once.

9:25: I am completely passed out in the basement of the "Viper Room".

10:10: I am disturbed by lots of lights and sounds. I feel massive shaking, almost like an earthquake.

10:15: I open my eyes, to see a massive bouncer, the same one who had awakened me before, shaking me violently and telling me I have had too much to drink. The room is crowded and there is a band onstage. As this point though, it was all flashing lights and colors. I had no idea where the fuck I am. Is this the Fader Lounge? Is this Madison Square Garden? Am I dreaming all of this? It takes around 5 more minutes of continued shaking to get me back to my senses. After that, the bouncer gives up on shaking and simply yanks me up with one massive pull, telling me to leave and never come back. At this point I am still dazed and confused, stumbling through the crowded room. People are pushing and shoving me- I hear one "Get the fuck away from me you drunk, I'm trying to hear this band" before I finally reach the stairs towards the exit. I am most likely banned from this bar for life. Whatever. Fuck them.

10:25: If I were any normal person, I would have packed it in for the night, considering the fact that I had just passed out at a bar. But not me. Earlier, I had gotten a call from my buddy 'Sportskid" telling me he had an open bar uptown from 11 to 12. At this point I figure fuck, I've had enough of the whole music festival scene. I might as well go to a place where normal 9-to-5 people such as Sportskid- normal, citizens-of-the-working-class people, are getting drunk. And the venue where he had an open bar was one of those places. I figure that everyone else is getting so wasted that they wouldn't notice my haphazard condition. Boy I was wrong.

11:00: The first thing Sportskid says to me when I show up there is "Man, you are not in good shape". And coming from this guy, that means a lot. Just a little background on Sportskid. Out of all of my buddies, he has seen me drunk the most times, beginning in college, and continuing in Manhattan. He has probably witnessed 9 of my 10 worst drinking binges (including the previous New Year's, when he assisted my mom in carrying my lifeless, vomit-soaked body up a full flight of stairs and tossing me into bed. THAT's bad).

11:15: After slamming 5 or 6 beers himself, to unwind from a full week doing actual work, Sportskid has a change of heart. "You know what man, fuck it. Get yourself a beer" he tells me. So I saunter up to the bar for perhaps the 1200th time today and wait in line for about 5 minutes before the bartender takes one look in my eyes and says "Uh uh kid, we can't serve you"

11:20: After arguing with her for five more minutes, she finally gives me water. A few girls waiting in line demand to sniff my drink, just to make sure it's water and not vodka. They are concerned. Hmm, maybe that's something I should have done earlier, if my dumb ass wasn't too drunk to see.

11:40: After reviewing the situation, Sportskid hands me a beer.

12:00 AM: Sportskid tells me that he was planning to stay in the city and drink with me for awhile, but after seeing my condition, he is planning to take the next train home from Penn. Once again, leaving me alone in this frazzled state.

12:30: After Sportskid leaves, I stumble into yet another bar in this neighborhood. This one is a rock bar where they are playing music loud enough that people might not notice my condition. I walk to the back of the bar, where there is a lounge area. Uh oh, you know what's coming next.

12:40: I am resting in the lounge area, eyes half shut. In danger of passing out yet again.

1:00: With my eyes barely open, I notice that there is a stripper pole in the lounge area, extending to the 20-foot high ceiling. Then, wait a second, I notice there is a girl ON THE CEILING. She has somehow climbed all the way up the pole, and is doing gymnastics on the ceiling. Somehow, this gravity-defying spectacle is enough to snap me out of my alcohol-addled trance. When I wake up fully, she is gone. After a few more minutes of pondering whether I had really witnessed such a feat of athleticism, the music takes control over me. I begin to dance.

1:30: After a half-hour of dancing, I finally get the balls to get another glass of water. And another slice of pizza next door.

1:45: I am in a cab home

2:15: My dad is yelling something to me, something about me slamming the door when hes sleeping or making too much noise upon my entrance. Whatever. I am passed out again, but On My Own Bed! Awesome. Rock N Roll.