Friday, September 6, 2002

Free Show, Mesker Shelter #17
American Terrorists
punk band
School Yard Dope Fiends
punk band

I'm all over it.

Saturday, September 7, 2002

Where the hell is Mesker Shelter #17, or any of them, for that matter? There's a Mesker Zoo ; surely they wouldn't hold a punk concert at the zoo . (Surely, they would!)

A friend and I try to recruit people around campus to go to this free show, but no one's interested. Specifically, we're interested in women, but the one's we're able to get a hold of only want to watch movies. Fuck movies. And we don't even know where this place is, nor does the enigmatic Steve, o RA del second floor, but we leave anyway, in search of sex, sgurd, and rock and roll, and we're not coming back until we've found at least one.

It's six thirty, post meridian, and we're going to the Zoo when we spot a Volvo full of girls. Two in the front, four in the back: a concert car if I ever saw one. They seem to be headed for the zoo. We follow them until it becomes apparent that they aren't going where we'd like. Shit, because now where are we? Evansville. No help there. So I trust my instincts and begin making random left turns--a tactic that has yet to fail me--and lo, we come upon the Zoo once again, a back entrance I almost don't make.

Along a winding road bound by trees and a few bungalow homes, we discuss how this is so not where the hell we need to be. There's a road that branches off, looks like a driveway, we almost take it, thinking it goes where we need it to, but then somebody in a Frankenstein El Camino who himself looks rather bulky in a zombie, shot-gun owning way, turns onto it, and we drive on, relieved.

Free Show says sign number one, hand spray-painted, green on white.

Mesker Shelter #17 says sign number two, carved and crafted of wood and latex paint, yellow on brown.

We have arrived.

Free show. Free punk show. Free.

It was better than you'd think. The bands I remember are the ones listed: American Terrorists and School Yard Dope Fiends. They're really the same band, only SYDF has more class: a very pretty female lead. We found the violence. Three hours and forty-five minutes later , having expended no funds and having had a great time, we leave because the show's over. We stop by the grocery store because we're dying of thirst and pick up some Cream Soda and some Green Tea. I can't find the Green Tea! We head back.

There are unfamiliar girls on our floor in an open room we must pass. This room also contains those people who didn't want to come with us. We brag about what a good, free time we had. We demand they accompany us, one and all, the very next Friday for some hard rock (sgurd, sex). We go to our room, we stowe our stash, and Adam goes back for the talking, while I, I sit down to do a little typing, only to have my computer say to me, GO TO THE WOMEN! . God bless this box.

They have gone frisbeeing, and I must find them. Random left turns, there they are. We frisbee, it's pathetic, special Olympics style, so we quit--it's also midnight. You guys want to walk in the woods? Kevin cops out. The six or so girls agree to walk in the woods with us two guys.

About the time we near the woods along a concrete path, they begin to realise it's dark outside, and will stay that way. I offer to run back and get a flashlight (a valiant offer, given the distance), but they decline. We point out the trail, where it begins, and the dark, dark woods (lions and tigers and bears; Steve: POLAR BEARS). No, five of them are unwilling, even with a flashlight, so we continue on this concrete path. I winds through some treed areas, on which the road is deadly dark, and passes this electrical relay station, or whatever it is. It's sepulchral, and there's a light--like a floodlight--that blinks on and off every twenty seconds. This scares the girls. One nearly jumps into my arms the whole time. Not that I'm complaining. The only one unphased by the obviously demonianiacal light is Jenifer. We're all the way to the end of this path and back, and back at the dorms again. Well, we'll get the flashlight, who wants to go back? Only Jen.

We met this girl when we came back from the concert, and now a few hours later, she's walking through the woods, and we're sharing stupid stories. It goes on like this for eight goddamned hours , which is fine as pie by me, but still, it's odd. I've never spent that much time with someone I just met whose name I can barely remember. We go back to our dorm and we talk. We leave the dorm because my stories about my friends and my prediliction for towel wearing are probably too loud. It's probably Sunday, September 8, 2002 by this time. We go to Steak and Shake where the angry Samurai waitress nearly kills Jen and Adam for ordering shakes (I order a Coke prudently). We leave her a seven dollar tip, but receive no bill. We go to Wal-Mart, we go driving. It's dawn.

The spaces in between, I can't reasonably account for. It's surreal, just spending that much time with a stranger, for some reason, opening up to a stranger. I'm terribly afraid. I haven't felt this alive in so long. So, it's September again in my world.

November is coming. November is coming.

I've got a bird that whistles
   I've got a bird that sings
I've got a bird...
   Well, I worry about that bird
And I worry 'bout everything
   And I worry when I see my subjects
Bow down to the Worrier King

               "Worrier King", Warren Zevon