07/07/2004 - 4:37 p.m. | the possessions of nearly 100 geriatrics [one fine twangcore bar band]

Okay, let's work backwards. The last few entries have been disjointed to the point where I couldn't even tell you what I did and didn't do, but I'm going to try and get it all together. Tuesday night, we saw Spider-man 2. The fat indie people in front of us dug through the garbage to take advantage of the special Tuesday Night 50 Cent Refill Program. Wednesday, I thought I didn't have to work until 6. I was wrong. Still, I was only half an hour late, Jane didn't seem mad, and since I would've had guilt anyway, I skipped my break, so in the end, Inside Scoop and me are square. Odd sighting that day, this little kid decked in full Harry Potter regalia - glasses, wand, cloak - leaping about and yelling and cursing (magic, not swears). What was he there for? Could I adopt him maybe?

Thursday morning went about as I predicted - "No shorts? Exit!" - and then I had all these errands I think I wanted to run but instead slept until 2:30 and frantically tried to get myself together so we'd be able to leave on time. Not to worry, I was dealing with Kyle and his brother here. We left when planned, though, to the tunes of Chumbawumba, which should have been planned. It isn't sad that I know the lyrics to "Tubthumping" - practically everyone does. What is sad, however, is that I know, even remember, the majority of the lyrics to their two lesser-known singles. I like to think that the inside of my brain is a firestorm of chaos. Jevon was starving, me to a lesser extent, and he started digging around Kyle's car for anything he could potentially devour besides a pack of gum and some Tic Tacs (both of which were eventually consumed). In the glove compartment, he found an opened package of Pretz sticks that I know for a fact have been there for over a year because I ate them the first time around. He was entirely unwilling to eat them - how hungry are you really, man? - so I did the damage. They actually weren't so bad (God bless preservatives), at least until the bottom of the package. Where they had been soaking for months and months in a pool of 2 Fast 2 Furious body spray. One doesn't even begin to question where this body spray came from. Not if he knows what's good for him.

Come to think of it, pretty much from the start of the trip on, none of us stopped singing for about 2, maybe 3, days. It seemed fine at first. Lost in nerdery, I thought the trip passed by pretty quickly, but who knows what others think? I AM NOT A MIND READER. I am a Diviner. Right. So, with little time to spare (We thought), we made it to Waterloo, picked up Shelly, and raced away... to the Tropical Sno three blocks away. Normally I would be all for the notion of a free Lover's Delight and the chance to scrawl "POSEUR" above whatever nerd wrote "Nate" on the sidewalk in chalk, but these were dire times. If I missed one second of Rhett Miller, things would get ugly. And yes, I spelled that correctly, Kyle/Jevon/Shelly/Earth.

Unfortunately, a good deal of our plan hinged upon the fact that Shelly knew where St. Louis was, and if you trust Reader's Digest cartoons and RV magazines, girls have no idea how to give directions. Once again, an announcement: Please stop confirming stereotypes. Girls, learn to navigate. Asians, stop wandering around the store for hours, pointing and examining everything in meticulous detail, then leaving. And so on. Anyway, we were sort of caught up in Chumbawumba and local rap stations for a while, but Shelly had said that we should be able to see the arch shortly, and that was like half an hour ago. She had no idea where we were, we had no idea where we were, let us go consult the gas station monstrosities. Jevon used his massive charm and good looks and barely escaped with his life from the flock of fatties, and we were shortly on our way again. 20 minutes later, we were sort of downtown which as far as I can tell is an insane cycle of loops and bridges ever and anon until you die of starvation next to the Spaghetti Factory. We all had tasks to complete. One, we would ask any nearby car or passerby if they knew where the place we were looking for was at. Hardly. More importantly, we would flash the funbags sign I had meticulously scrawled in ballpoint on the drive over there, mostly at males when possible. And when escape would be quick and painless. Jevon discovered that the key element of comedy was reading the sign as you displayed it. "Show us your funbags!" That way, there would be no confusion.

Thanks to a series of highly unhelpful people and one Jamaican cab driver, we made it to the place only about 20 minutes late. Luckily, everyone knows that only lame bands start their shows on time. Oh - here's an incidental for you: The week of the concert, still nobody had talked of who was buying tickets or when or how or whatever. Finally deciding that with the amount of useless contained within the other three, there would be no way they would ever remember, I bought four tickets. Seventy-something dollars. A few days later I learn that everyone had finally decided to buy their own ticket, leaving Nate dicked for sixty-some dollars. Conscientiousness is for idiots.

Incidentals aside (both good and bad), the concert was frickin' awesome. Mississippi Nights was pretty much the perfect place to see the 97's. Far less of a venue, much more of a dive. And since you couldn't bring alcohol to the main floor, the drunkos stayed in back, and we could move up the stage pretty much as close as we liked. Strange mix of people there, though - weird, fat, hickish grownups, the Hottest Guy in the World with slobbering beast monster in pink, punks, indie fags, little kids, one (1) Asian girl who knew the words to every song, drunken dancing beersluts, and, of course, Beatle Bob (1, 2, 3). None of us had any idea who this guy was at all, but it seems he's more or less a St. Louis institution. He's this middle-aged guy a 60's Beatles-style mop top and these awesome vintage suits, who finagles his way into the front row of local concerts and dances like a lunatic. I'm talking chaotic, off-tempo air drumming and wild spins and kicks and this side-to-side hoedown thing, on-stage if the artists will let him (Rhett did!). The man is amazing, and apparently very well known. I guess it's common knowledge that when Beatle Bob shows up at your show, you've finally made it. Add this to the list of dreams, folks. Right at the top.

OK, now back to idolization where it is due. The first opening band was pretty good - the lead guy was all rowdy and got the crowd all fired up with his grizzled songs and frequent swearing. The second guy was kind of an asswipe who was trying waaay too hard with his tight Willie Nelson shirt and Buckle necklace and "No, really, I'm from Mississippi" attitude. And yes, Rhett and the guys were perfect. I've been to far too many clean-cut concerts, it seems; pretty much every band I've seen has been sober and professional. I even missed the days when Dave Matthews was a vicious alcoholic. Thus, I would have been pretty letdown if Rhett had not lurched onstage drunk off his ass. I was not disappointed. He stumbled on some of the words - hell, he practically stumbled off the stage - and he did these crazy leaps and dances that Beatle Bob must have been proud of (I will gladly demonstrate the one crazy ass one), and he had this short-armed spinning guitar strum that made me soooo happy, and he was sooo cute in his little maroon button-up shirt with his crazy, sweaty hair and probably too-tight jeans, at times screaming off-key and swigging something from a wine glass. I hope to God that it really was white wine, because getting drunk off that would push him even further on up the cool list. The rest of the band was great, too - even the cute, nerdy guy that we usually all get mad at when we get to one of his tracks on an album - but you could tell that they were sober and serious. It's almost exactly as I pictured it - the group of well-trained professionals somewhere between amused and aggravated at the precocious drunken genius who hardly even appreciates his gifts as the Best Songwriter in the World.

Did I neglect to mention that Kyle and I had dragged my homemade signs all the way from Champaign to show to the world? We tried to keep them hidden right up until the start of the show when we let them fly in full, confusing glory. RAW IS WAR! RHETT MILLER 3:16 I'm sure no one had any idea what we were talking about; Rhett certainly didn't. I saw his look of utter confusion, and Kyle says he saw him mouth, "What the hell?" to the other band members. After the show, we screamed for a roadie and had him hold onto the 3:16 poster for us. Hopefully, he actually did give it to the band. Who no doubt threw it away immediately thereafter. Just like my Oscar to Bill Murray :(

Standing there, mere inches away from both Old 97's and Beatle Bob, screaming at the top of my lungs all the songs I love so damn much (Acoustic "The El!!!"), dancing like only we lanky white boys can, one can hardly imagine things getting any better, right? Well, it just so happens that I also met The Perfect Girl while I was there. As is my tendency, I almost immediately started scoping the crowd, not so much because I would do anything but because I always need to know, all right? So, standing next to Shelly was this cute sort of indie girl. She had on some adorable low-top Chuck Taylors - which usually don't work for me, but this time they did - and she smiled at me a couple of times. Tooth-smile, not grin. Important difference. Because I am about as subtle as sin, it would seem, Kyle and Shelly quickly caught on and switched me places so that I was right next to her. OK, now what? Well, turns out it didn't matter because I'm pretty sure she was there with some Jew, so fuck. Nevermind. (Had you going there for a minute, though?) I passed this on to Kyle and Michelle, and they quickly started insulting him in every way possible - his hair and the massive overbite and a bunch of other stuff probably who knows. FUCK! I just remembered! The two of them (Wonder Twins, I mean) kept whispering and looking at me right before the show! What the fuck were you guys saying about me?! RAR! Angry! Anyway, I was so busy guaging my chances with the one girl that I didn't really pay any attention to the crowd of girls behind me. I mean, I had noticed them when we came in, but they didn't seem like the type of girls ("Blind?") I usually have any chance with, especially the short one in the green who I deemed the cutest. Well, either fate finally stepped in or it was darker there than I thought, because, hell, she was. That's right, Kyle, Michelle, I was aware that she was into me - even I am not that oblivious. Unfortunately, however, I am still this massive clod, even when (especially when?) the girl is interested. So; even when she kept throwing me these blatant glances, even when she tried dancing right up on me before the show, even when she talked to me, God damnit!, I remained aloof. Nate Walsh is a fuckup. My confidence is a fucking slow boil, all right? I don't understand how it works either. BUT! Finally, very slowly, over the course of the concert, I moved closer and closer to her. Then dancing beside her. Then dancing with her. Then sort of half-hugging whenever the band played a song we really liked (so often). Before the show, when Kyle and Michelle had been trying to convince me to go dance with her or something, Shelly was like, "She dances like you, you know." And I acted vaguely insulted like I always do, "What the fuck does that mean?" But she was right, and I can't really explain it either, but here was this adorable girl who danced to alt-country like me and seemed mutually interested, and holy fuck, what is going on? This is at near-Perfect status right now - she is still a girl, of course, and still has all of the girl rules and shit that make it so difficult for a guy like myself. BUT! After the show ended (17 happy encores later), and I met up with everybody else and dropped off the poster with the roadie, and we were getting ready to leave (and I was getting ready to maybe go over and ask her... well, fuck, I didn't know what), she runs over to me. "That was awesome! Do you need a hug?" THE FUCKING PERFECT GIRL. She shows initiative! So, we hugged and introduced ourselves, and I got her e-mail address, and I was ridiculously content for the rest of the evening. Funny how easily I'm fixed.

Yes, I am well aware that I more time describing this half-assed encounter with some girl than the best concert of my life, but fuck off. If you want to know about the concert, go read a message board. You read this to find out how crazy and stupid I am. That's the deal we made. We made our way back to the car. It kind of reminded me of how everyone cruises Ottawa, IL, except here in the 618, they all have amazing cars and bass and are black and smoke weed. I very much wanted to yell at one guy, "Are you 50 Cent?!" but I sadly would've been shot. Once again, our lives were in Shelly's hand, and once again, she had no fucking clue where we were going. That was fine by me. Everyone else seems to get stressed when lost, but as long as I have nowhere super-important to be, I actually find it kind of relaxing. We drove around and around, still singing, voices growing weaker, ending up deeply-entrenched in the ghetto, flasing the funbags sign only when it absolutely had to be done. I believe that part of the problem was that we hadn't fully decided whether our destination was home or White Castle, but that's just a guess. We tried asking for directions some more, but that didn't really work, so Jevon ended up buying a map at one of those creepy late night bank teller gas stations. This stoned guy tried to help us, but I'm not sure he was even fully aware of which planet he himself was on. "I can help you out, man! Where're you tryin' to get to?" "Illinois." "Aw, shit..." We somehow made it back onto the correct road, although I must say through no help from Jevon or his map. I have a feeling the 9 shots he had at the concert might have had something to do with that. Watching him squint at the tiny print for each street name ("God damn it, there are three Broadways!") made me laugh a lot on the inside.

Only Kyle and I made it to Shelly's awake (which I suppose was fortunate, as he was driving), so our voices were even more shot than before. Damn you, mid-90's hits! Kyle and Jevon immediately entered Glutton Mode, which is just hilarious to watch. "OH GOD SNICKERS" *dig, dig, devour* We sat up for more than a few hours, watching BET Uncut, which is the most horrible thing I may have ever seen. Kyle and Michelle had been telling me about it for a while, but I had wisely stayed away until that night. Uncensored (well, less censored) black music videos. So... much... booty. FUCK! I can't even stand it, they're so ... FUCK jelly. I see them when I close my eyes. Actually, I was talking to Toy the other day about big asses, and I've come to the conclusion that it's some sort of symbiosis. See, the black girls need big asses to prevent themselves from being reamed by giant black penises, and black giants need huge penises to be able to penetrate the giant asses. The circle of life!! Shelly's sister Jessy was downstairs with us, and she is an amazing pop culture phenomenon. She kept telling us - well, mostly me, as I was the only one profoundly interested - little bits and pieces of weird facts about celebrities and sales at sports stores. It was just fascinating. I actually decided that I'm going to send her 5 bucks every now and again so she can write me a little newsletter of things like that I should probably know. Because I do feel so much better off knowing them. We briefly entertained the thought of watching Mystic River ('though I was mostly shooting for the epic "Shelly's 14th Birthday"), but fuck Spiccoli. I think I was the last to crash and/or stop talkng just because I sat there transfixed by the music videos making comments that no one would hear, and it didn't really matter because I was saying them for myself anyway. What? Huh?

OK, so I've just realized that even though I work from 6 - 10 each night this week, every time I've been really close to the wire getting there? Why, you ask? Because I fucking write diary entries and read about serial killers and Harry Potter fan fiction and look up skinny ties on eBay, and AHHH what the fuck is wrong with me? So, let's try and move it along, shall we? On Friday, Jevon left very early with Kyle's car for reasons I don't entirely understand. Fine. Then Kyle was his usual horrible lazy self. "Go get me donuts and a glass of milk!" And Shelly enables him, God damn it. You'll be regretting that when he is a fucking 800 pound Crisco Party, and he wants to do you up. Have I mentioned that I want Kyle to get "CRISCO PARTY" tattooed across his chest in Old English letters just like the Mexicans put on the back of their cars? VALASQUEZ. CRISCO PARTY. I'm just saying. Also, we finally decided on the name for our emo band: Wednesday Night Programming. Fucking perfect, am I right? Jessy desperately wanted to get us up so we could drive her to Springfield so she could meet her pud of a boyfriend, but the rest of us were far too engrossed in Ashlee Simpson's reality show and the E! True Hollywood story about Jean-Claude Van Damme. I know so much more about that man now than I needed to. Wait, is that the truth? Everyone says I sing too loud. I think you sing too quiet. We drove to Springfield (after another free Tropical Sno, what luck!), Jessy and me in back reading fucking "Star" or "People" or one of those shit heaps I love so much. Then I got completely lost in a crossword puzzle. I say I hate them, and I truly believe I do, and yet they never fail to captivate me. After dropping sissy off, the three of us ate at a fucking bowling alley restaurant. Always a good start. Shelly and I both had fish for whatever reason (although hers actually still had the face and tail and bones and everything), and Kyle had a horseshoe, which I guess is the dish God decided would finally be his match. Two hamburgers covered in fries covered in more fake cheese than a bathtub could hold. We all got diarrhea in succession - me halfway through the me, Shelly when nearly home, Kyle thereafter. Then I shit my pants. OR DID I?

Oddly enough, Andrea visited for a few hours with her friend Abby from back home. I believe Abby was vaguely offended when I tried introducing myself because we had sort of already met, but then I went on this crazy tirade about how we had been at the party together, yes, because I remembered everyone commenting about her haircut, but also we had never been formally introduced. Don't try and kick my ass, for I rule entirely too much. Actually, I seem to be internally devouring my own morals, I think, because I found myself amazing attracted to this Abby person, even if her voice was sort of strange. I am going to hell hell hell. We tried to figure out what to do with the three hours we had and ended up getting bubble tea and spitting the tapioca balls at one another. Then Spider-man again. What a well-cast movie. Alfred Molina was perfect as Doc Ock, and I love Joxer's bit role, and yeah - best cast, everyone. Except the guy who plays Robbie? Yeah, his head is sort of stupid and diamond-shaped. And apparently no one else watched the 90's cartoon - or rather, they have not retained photographic knowledge of it as I have - because they pretty much spelled out the next one is going to be about Man-Spider. The losing powers and everything? Made it seem like erectile dysfunction? Oh no, Spidey's mutating. All the nerds get it. We went out to Perkins afterwards - our waiter was very punchy and amused that I would order only cereal. "Go long, Cereal Guy!" he yells as he whips the ketchup bottle at me. It's weird how I make friends like that. By which I mean, how come nobody will sit by me in a crowded lecture hall, but psycho mutants come up and make friends on a nearly daily basis? Remind me to study that.

OK, getting closer. Saturday, I covered the important stuff ("I hate life! Wahh wahh wahh!") except for one crucial detail: Stupid Shelly showed me her boob... twice. She was pretty tipsy, I guess, and she's like, "Oh, God! A bug!" and pulls out the front of her tank top to try and get it out. FUCK! So I start yelling and wigging out (Ditto Kyle) and she's like, "What?! I did not show you my boob! I only pulled my shirt forward like this!" And then she did it fucking AGAIN! I tell you, scarred for life is Nathan Walsh. He hates it. Sunday, covered ("Fourth of July sucked! Wahh wahh wahh!"). Monday, did absolutely nothing all day long. Well, dyed my hair, I guess. A very, very dark red. Almost red-black, which I think I like a lot. Kind of wanted to do blue-black because it would be more punk, but I couldn't find it anywhere. Watched Lion King featurettes with Kyle and Shelly while eating spaghetti. Mostly Kyle and I just fell in love with Lebo M., the crazy son-of-a-bitch who yells right at the start of the movie. NYAAHHHHHHH!! Went to Hot Topic for work - what the fuck am I doing there? It's such an odd place, and I'm not even sure if it's for the obvious reasons. I mean, yeah, it's all goth and punk and dark and trying so hard to be sarcastic... except that a whole place like that just seems silly. Like, it's trying to be sarcastic and it's not working? I can't describe it right. But, like, we have all these pins, right? And they all say snotty or "funny" or crazy things on them, like, "The voices in my head tell me what to do" or "You're ugly" or quotes from "Family Guy" or I dunno what. And I guess I'm just so used to seeing them in single cases on specific freaks that to see them all together like that is like they're making fun of the people for buying them? I'm not sure. "Everything about the music" is Hot Topic's retarded motto. I think, "Hawking irony to the masses" is more like. And if there is too much irony, it's not ironic. It's just... there. Like, it might be ironic for a person to wear a pink shirt, but then everyone does, and it's just the standard. We wear pink. Individuality homogenized? To be different there, you'd have to dress like a preppie kid. I can't quite wrap my head around it. And my co-workers? They're nice enough, I mean, but they remind me of people... in part. And not people I like or even people I hate... just a very generic type of person. Like the one girl says everything is hot. "Finished those forms? Oh, that's hot." And the other one is all like, "I'm such a sugar junkie blah blah blah!" It's just the same thing over and over again maybe? Mostly I just fold shirts and help people pick out piercings, which seems to be my unusual forte. Yesterday, class was slow and awful and there was nothing to do or look at, and somehow it quickly became time to work, and there was a monsoon again (one on Saturday as well), and I secretly worked on my D&D shit because I am awful, and then I came home and ate with Kyle, cartoons, haircut, blarg, blarg, end. There are always so many things I mean to do instead. Damn it.