85% of the time I know exactly what I’m doing
no, not really mom.
So, the other night we went to see Mickey Avalon. Apparently, Mickey is a big deal in San Francisco, as in my roommates love him, and he’s a formerly transsexual jewish prostitute, or something like that. They of course had tickets, and I of course being the late-bloomer that I am did not. They were convinced that I could scalp a ticket at the door. I was not, but decided to go along with this dream anyway, as it was a Thursday night and I had nothing else going on, not that I have much of anything going on any night of the week. So, we get there and there’s this huge line, and about 10 other people looking to do the same thing I’m looking to do, and it looks bleak. Then I stumble across a little group of 19-year-olds who are waiting for their friend’s mom to drop of their tickets, which they are planning to sell. These are not your typical 19-year-olds, first of all one of them has about 8 dead ferrets wrapped around his neck. One of their little crispy feet is getting dangerously close to his mouth, and I point this out, telling him that wearing fur is gross anyway. He retaliates by squealing, “Ah girl, it’s vintage.” I nod like this makes it acceptable since I am after all trying to work these two kids for their tickets. They are also as my roommates quickly point out “Yayed out of their minds.” Yayed being SF speak for coked out, riding the white horse, etc, etc, etc. But they’re so friendly, I say…
Long story short these kids inevitably fell through, as soon as their friends arrived they decided to go to the show, and by way of explanation offered this little gem, nodding at one of their newly arrived crew, a lovely girl with long red hair, ferret boy stated simply raising his eyebrows a little, “I mean what can you do? She’s a ginger.”
But then as soon as it looked like all was lost, a guy who had been scalping in my area, comes up to me and says that he found someone selling cheap tickets, and just like that we were in.
Inside was pretty much your average thing. Hip-hop shows always freak me out a little. I like the music, but never really want to pump my hand in the air. Then there was a song called Lady Killer, which included the MC trying to murder a female mannequin. I wasn’t sure about this so I went across the street to eat some baklava at the Greek deli. I came back just in time for a brief dance party, and to be asked on a date by my scalping buddy, who impressed my friends with his good looks, and impressed me by cracking off-kilter jokes.
Soon after, we pranced home to be incredibly tired and confused the next day at work, and all promising that we would never ever drink again. I