Of the Shame:
My Gorilla says I got punk’d. My Budaphest says I got punk’d. My heart, says I got punk’d. I slept later than I’ve slept in years today, and it had nothing to do with what I put in my body last night (ed. note: maybe a lil’). Mostly it has to do with my shaming, a shaming that could have easily been avoided.
We were out on baby girl’s first jaunt. She was purring, good God was she purring. We pulled up outside of the Spacelight (ed. note I’ll call it what’a’fuck I want), we hablo’d con el parking dudes, they let us play our music, they let us holler at the peoples, the peoples, they dug. A couple of our most stank’nasty’rock’and’roll friends came outside to say hi to baby girl. I could tell she was happy to see them, they make her rock oh so nice.
From the Spacelight we rumbled on down the tight-denim-strip to the Silver Lake lounge, where we found ample parking at the bus stop directly in front of the door. We posted up and I proceeded to inform everyone who was en route to meet us, that we were at the Echo (ed. note: this had everything to do with what I put in my body last night). So since our old friends were re-routed, we had to go ahead and make new friends, and make them we did. Thanks to all of you who came outside and checked us out. I hope to twit at you soon.
Now, new friends aside, there was a purpose to this blog post, and it was my shame, and that came not from the introduction of new acquaintances, but rather the introduction of, I’m not gonna say a new enemy, cause it’s not, to me, but I’m not real sure what was up with his agenda, he made it quite clear that he didn’t dig my treats, and so take from that what you will.
As it started, I saw the team gorilla talking to a red-headed fella at baby girl’s door. Seemed innocent enough, so I came over and was introduced. Following the introduction, the fellow, who I’m going to refrain from describing, refrain from cheap shoting in the least, because, and in fact, he said this (ed. note: in more words than less), because that would be cowardly. I have no intentions of hiding behind words, or social media, or whatever you want to dub it. This is not my m.o., you can choose to believe this or not, but the Jam Van don’t make habbit of that. Fuck we’re getting wordy here, but bare with me…
So I ask this guy, this band guy (ed. note: real hard to not make up a funny name), I ask him why the CIA barrage of questions. He had some cackling creature to his right (ed. note: I owe her no duty of honor) who said that he was in fact in the CIA. He himself said the questions were out of curiousity. At some juncture of the transgression it came up that he was in a band, that we had asked his band into the van (ed. note: to fill a sick slot last minute)(ed. note: just the truf). He refused to tell me the name of the band, and so at that point, being disinterested, and not looking to play silly word games, I walked away thinking he would do the same.
Not so much. I re-encountered him about fifteen minutes later, about five feet further into baby girl’s gullet. He was speaking to our Budaphest, and he had at this point made his intentions clear. He was upset about something that I had posted a while back about our newest Twit-Bird Follower. This band fella seemed to feel that I was out of line to respond to my adversary’s affront by slappin’ my fingers to some plastic keys and I guess denegrading (ed. note: I guess because it really wasn’t) one of the East side of Floss Angeles’ Indie Rock and Roll Scenes’ Royal figures.
So band guy kept coming with the questions, where am I from?How long have I been here? It was pretty bothersome, but I wanted to give the guy the benefit of an ear. Unfortunately, I was a bit pre-occupied with telling everyone whom I’d told to meet us at the Echo to meet us at the Silver Lake Lounge instead. So for most of this fellow’s verbal berating of me I was face in my phone trying to finish a text message, which I found to be excessively difficult while being verbally berated.
Upon the confrontation’s conclusion, home-slice shook my hand, told us he dug our videos, and told me some karma type shit or something, then split. I turned to my Budaphest and asked him if he was o.k. with how I handled that. He said he was not. He explained to me that it wasn’t that I’d angered a member of the music community that upset him, it was that I had acted a bitch while being talked shit to. I played what he described as the “passive aggressive douchebag” card, when I should have manned up and defended baby girl’s honor, defended the team, defended myself. I let him walk out of that green and blue Winnebago, right past that picture of Lil’ Kim, right off to tell people what a staring at my phone Lil’ bitch I am, and he has every right to.
So to the band fella (ed. note: who clearly reads my shit), we make it known where we’ll be when we are out and about, and I owe you an ear to berate. So feel free to accept this rain check, and I hope you don’t feel this was too cowardly a response, I was just a bit elsewhere at the moment.
Now to the other personage involved in this post, next time I pass you, don’t do some creepy say my name to see if I turn shit and then look away. Don’t expect I’ll recognize you, I didn’t. Please sir, announce your presence, I’ll shake your hand, I never said nothin’ about your mama, you never said nothin’ about mine, so we really ain’t all that bad. Oh, and thanks for Twit-followin’ me, that made my night. So you made a lil’ boy’s night. I’ll stop rambling now. East F-LA we had a blast, see you soon dahlin’.
Track for the Day: Jerry Garcia Band covering “And it Stoned Me” from 11/12/91 in Philly, PA.
Links for the Day: