I finally went to the doctor about my eyes. They have both become extremely red, is if I've smoked cannabis for the last few -
weeks. I didn't know if I had an infection, or if I had gotten some dangerous chemical into my eyes. I usually call these particular dangerous chemicals, "Art Supplies".
Tuesday, I had finally called. They told me I needed $100 up front, since I am a new patient. I don't have $100, but I made the appointment anyways. I had a fear that I may go blind if I didn't check this out. I thought in the way I think, that if they deny me admittance to see the doctor, I'd give them a sob story and offer to paint a portrait or two. I mean, that's what starving artists do, right? We trade for everything. We're cool that way. I bet I could get a car traded to me for a painting. Maybe that'll be a goal of mine next year.
Tuesday night had me with my left eye red, dilated, enlarged and generally feeling very very dry. I couldn't really concentrate on anything. After school, I went to a burrito shop on Colorado Blvd to buy some dinner. I paid with a credit card, but it wasn't accepted. I told them to wait and I went to the 7-11 across the street. I took out the last $20 I had and paid. The burrito girl didn't register that I would be back and threw out the burrito she had made for me, so she made it again. I wish she would have just given me the last one for free, before or after she chucked it into the trash. I hate food being wasted and I'm always possessive over food that was deemed mine.
I sat at the shop eating my burrito, reading the Westword. They had an article about Interpol who were playing that very night. I had forgotten all about the show, even though I went with Claudia to pick up her ticket a good month ago. The article touched upon how their sound is similar to Joy Division, of which allegations they denied. The show seemed to a good way to waste a night and that's exactly what I wanted to do. Call it running away from your problems, but stress doth needs to be relieved. I hadn't the money for the show, one of my credit cards was over its limit and I didn't know where the other one was.
I decided that when I got home, I would clean and look for the card. If I could find it, I would go to the show. If I couldn't, I would beg and plead to Claudia to lend me the money. If that didn't work, I'd just miss it. I've been going to too many shows as of late. I should become recluse and cry much more than I have. This socialite part of my life is only good in small doses. da Vinci would say something like, you can only be whole alone. Then again, the only thing we really know about him is his journals.
I was really on Colorado Blvd, because I needed to send a fax. PayPal decided that they didn't think I was really who I said I was and wanted me to fax my driver's license over, which I did a week ago. They emailed me back saying they couldn't read the license and could I please fax it again. Regardless of how gelastic it is for a web-based company asking me to fax anything where I could just upload/email them the picture and keep the $3.50, but it's really caustic when I have to fax something twice.
Kinkos was crawling around like a nest of Taratulas at a sideshow. I got to the fax machine after a few minutes of waiting. I wrote on the cover sheet something to the affect that the money that they're not allowing me to transfer to my bank account was slowly facilitating my death and I didn't want to die, so they should allow me to transfer my funds, which were quite a few Benjamins, post hast.
That must of worked since I received a "thank you for cooperating" email the next day. More like - "we're happy we didn't kill you, now get a real job".
Getting home, I cleaned a bit but couldn't find my credit card in the obvious places: I looked in all the pants' pockets, on the kitchen counter, the bathroom. But, As luck would have it, I remember I had a scratch lottery ticket that I hadn't turned in, worth $20; almost exactly what I needed for the show.
I got dressed in all black and started walking to the Ogden, which is much too close for me to rethink such acts as going to a show when I should be doing something about being flat broke. It took me awhile to realize I lived blocks away from downtown, instead of miles and I missed a few events that I really wanted to check out.
Waiting in the long line to purchase tickets, someone was yelling out if anyone needed tickets, so of course I yelled back, "hey!". After a bit of self confusion on their part, I nabbed the tickets for exactly the amount the lottery ticket was for.
Moving to the "OK, I have my ticket, I want in", line I met up with Claudia, dressed ravenously in all black as well. I met a few of her friends. Learning about an after-party, I parted and moved to the pit. I never go to shows without being right in the performers face. I had being part of an audience.
It took about 30 seconds for someone I knew to spot me. A sensationally looking but short girl approached me to give me a hug. I hugged back, having absolutely no idea who it was. This happens to me all the time. Last Sunday I talked to another girl over the phone for a good half hour before I realized who it was and that I had slept with this person a few weeks ago.
Realizing it was Cat, I begged to hug her back. She escorted me to the middle of the pit, where Evan, her boyfriend was. "Here," she said, "Have a flyer, it has my picture on it.". It was for some local band at a local venue. "We're going to try to push to the front, wanna join?" This was not unheard of territory for me. Catherine and Evan had the whole, "We're a cute couple, so we'll just cutely push our way to the front. I did not. Slowly they went forward, as I figured my plan of attack.
I saw Cat give out more flyers at the front and I acted as if I didn't receive one yet, and solicited another copy. I reached out my right hand, lunched forward and ended up right with Cat and Evan, three people back, right in the center. My show crowd skills are second to none.
Interpol's performance was fairly good, very moody and I'm happy to find out, not very Joy Divisiony at all.
I met up with Claudia at Gabors afterwards, "I got bored. We left early.", was her comment on Interpol. Granted, she was probably pilling to the fucking skly, but Claudia usually has a opinion as plastic as silly putty on these types of things. It wouldn't be Claudia without that. We did come to the conclusion that Interpol was good make out music or perhaps good Getting Ready music but they don't hard clearly hard enough. "Where's the after party?", I asked. "James's house. We left directions for the opening band and Interpol to come, but we wrote the wrong directions for the opening band by mistake. It's doesn't matter though,
it's just The Stills."
The after party was fun; it's always fun to be out late on a school night, isn't it? Isn't that the definition of fun? Staying out late, partying with the hot-as-shit band from England that just played, dancing to the Cure in someone's living room with the soon to be hot-as-shit band's completely sexy girlfriend and laughing, laughing, laughing; drinking cheap beer someone gave you from a 36 pack on the back porch, listening to silly stories from good friends in the cold of a Denver September. Life can't always be a party but when it is, it's best to have a smile.
I walked home from the party as it was slowly thinning out. It was a good walk, but long walks in Denver are always a pleasure. I got up early for the eye doctor, ready to pleade my case. They really weren't interested in all that and I gave my sister's address for them to send the bill to.
The doctor came to me, looking into my eyes and asked me what was up. I told him. "Hmmm". He held up a little bottle with a red cap. He asked me what color it was. I told him, "red.". I was right. He blocked one of my eyes, then another and I noticed that my left eye showed the red cap much brighter than the right. I thought that was really cool.
"Hmm," he said some more. "Did you know," (pause), "that you have acne?".
Why, no, I didn't. Silly doctor. I was wondering if he was going to mention my slowly retreating hairline. I swear.
"You're eyelids are infected with bacteria. I'm going to give you a perscription for drops - they're very expensive and also a perscription to help get that bacteria out. It'll also clear up your face. You'll need to wear your glasses for at least a week."
Now, I sort of have glasses. They were the coolest pair of glasses I've ever owned, before I stepped on them and broke one of the hinges clear off last December. I don't even want to get into how expensive they were, but I treated myself.
Since then, I've worn them for about an hour total. The reason being is that my perscription is so strong, that the glasses distort perceptual reality so much as to leave me feeling absolutely disjointed from all visual information, so much so that I become depressed, have fits of anxiety and I can't think or communicate. But, the frames themselves are so cool as to be the most perfect pair of glasses I will ever have.
Although, everything in life is an adventure when I wear glasses. On Thursday, I went to Robischon Gallery for Art Industry. We were to see the behind the scenes part of gallery work. Turns out the behind the scenes of a gallery is inclusive to a small office and paintings in storage.
Although, every painting that I looked at, I took off my glasses with a sweep of my hand that I then rested on my hip. Hunching down, humming, "hmmm" and raising an eyebrow dramatically. This entertained me throughout the entire gallery.
Even though I wanted desparetely to be in recluse mode, there was a show at the Climax that I wanted to check out and I told someone I'd meet them there. Youth Brigade and the Swinging Utters were playing. Before I went, I shaved off the boy beard I was growing to ward off potential new friends. Simple enough, right, shaving? Not quite.
You see, I had to take off my glasses, which means I can't see what I'm shaving. I'm not good with sharp things. Driving to the show, I brushed the bottom of my jawline and discovered a huge patch of unshaven fuzz. I stopped at a convenience store, bought some disposible razors and shaved again right in the car. I also called the Climax, since I couldn't find it. I couldn't find it, because I can't see a damn thing in the car with glasses on. The perscription is a bit old but the glasses themselves just strain my eye so much.
I got to the Climax very late, so late the doorman basically told me I shouldn't go in. I was wondering if, in fact, this was a doorman from a competing venue. Who tells you not to spend your money with them? I went inside and saw the last of Youth Brigade. I won't even touch on the irony of their name, which is obvious, but I couldn't believe the scene I just entered myself into -
The place was hot and sweaty, a large crowd of people were circling the floor in a counter-clockwise fashion, pushing and being pushed, wearing your typical punky street wear. Most of them were fifteen year old boys, a few of them were dressed as the skinheads they probably saw pictures of from Maximum Rock and Roll or hell, Rolling Stone. Youth Brigade was playing as if they were in 1982 and the crowd really didn't seem to mind. Standing in the back with glasses on, I really couldn't run around since I would loose those glasses fast.
The thing is, I really didn't want to. I felt as if I had traveled back in time to when I was sixteen, digging like, Operation Ivy, when I didn't know shit about shit, except that I didn't go to many shows like this. We put on our own shows. I instantly loathed the people around me and tried to fish a reason for this.
The reasons I came up with seem to be so Literi PoMo BS and that further infuriated me. I looked around and felt old at 22. "I can't have stupid fun anymore," I thought. I have become over-educated.
Then I realized maybe there was a reason for me to feel totally out of place. "Wait a minute", I thought. This is all fake. I don't know any of these people, there is no punk scene like this in Denver. I know, because I go to the shittiest venues for the price of nothing to see bands that no one had heard about, who do crazier acts than just playing loud in complaining; they through flour in the air and light fireworks into the crowd. Those aren't skinheads over there, those are just stupid prick kids that don't know what they're doing. Everyone's just having a reminisance orgy. This is stupid - the wrong kind of stupid." I guess kids can have their fun any way they want, I'd rather not live the past this way.
Youth Brigade played, "Sink With California, which I actually heard the day before at Illegal Pete's as I talked with Jack and his friend who's in the first stages of divorce. It sounded exactly like the recording. That being their last song, I left. I was so confused, partly from my glasses, that I thought that the band I just saw was Swinging Utters. I thought the show was over. I stayed a bit to see if my friend came out of the show, but she didn't, cause well, the show didn't end. I went home and freelanced, feeling a little odd.
Saturday, I started an internship at the Andenken gallery. After visiting Robischon, we went there. The gallery director mentioned it and for some reason, I was interested. I asked what the benifits were. She told me, "If anything, this place is a chick magnet." Enough reason for me and there I was getting the title or "Webmaster" to the Andenken website as well as gallery sitter/store clerk/changer of lightbulbs. Something about doing work I used to do for oddles of money for FREE just to have what is almost a real job seem to strike a cord with me. Either that, or I'm a masochist.
Or I know I'm going to make some massive connections.
Rudy called me up an hour before I got off, told me about a dance party he was DJ'ing at the Linoleum that very night and of an after party dance party at the Hipster Youth Halfway House. I again had something to do.
I arrived at the Linoleum at around 11:00pm and started to immediately dance, wearing my black streachy dance pants, my dancin' doc martens, my white bowling shirt with ben day dots on them and a rose tucked into the shirt pocket.
The place slowly swelled as more and more people came in. Rudy was spinning nothing but music from the 80's and I acted as goofy as possible. Not that anyone noticed, as Linoleum was the place I was at before with the costume chest and everyone was getting spoils from it. Beer was free and plenty and it all went down so lush. Thirsty, I left around 2 to go to 7-11 to pick up some Gatorade and went back, but saw Courtney, Maghen and someone else walked towards me and towards the HYHH.
