...I typed cryptically into the away message box for AIM. I then finished loading up my car with all the things I could think of needing for the two days ahead. I cleaned out the litter box. I set out a giant bowl of extra food and another giant bowl of extra water so that Jezebel wouldn't die. I skirted off to my dad's with a carload of belongings and a laundry basket of dirty clothes.
I stopped at my dad's long enough to start a load in the wash and pile all the black clothes (the new work shirts need to be washed separately from the rest of my clothes for awhile) to the side for my dad to wash when he got home from work. I checked the pantry and fridge - just in case - and then headed back to the car and pointed myself towards Fishers.
Pizza Hut wasn't too busy, and I didn't feel like going through the Arby's drive-thru despite my shiny new coupons. I had Jessie make some breadsticks and a Jon-pizza. I got to chat with Al, Michael, and Jessie for the next fifteen minutes. Al asked me why I wasn't working that night. I told him I was going on vacay. I told Jessie I'd say "hi" to Dick Freeland for her (I didn't).
I drove up 116th and headed for I-69 North. The time was 4:17. I was due at Barnes 'n' Noble at six for a rendez-vous with Jon Schaller. I had quite a drive ahead of me. Out came the Garden State soundtrack.
An hour and a half and two cds later, the sun was setting behind and to the left of me. I thanked my cleverness for the thought of twisting my rearview mirror (who needs it?!)(okay, I do...about one-third of my drive time is spent looking behind me) to an angle at which I could observe the awesome colorworks going on in the clouds behind my car. I started to listen to the old Finch cd, but felt God nudging me. I turned the music off and spent about 15-20 minutes praying and humming praise songs. God and I had "A Moment."
The moment ended as I got nervous about the upcoming driving, and started looking for my exit. I found it, I went the right way, I was going where I was supposed to be. I passed what I thought might be the mall I was headed toward, but it just didn't look as posh as it had in my head, so I kept going. Just as I was beginning to think about turning around, a giant, glowing Von Maur appeared on the horizon. Where there is Von Maur, there is poshness. As I was finagling my way into a turning lane that I was fairly certain would take me towards Von Maur, I looked behind me (rearview mirror action, see) and realized I was being followed by a cop. I was nervous enough already, dang it! Somehow I managed to not get pulled over.
I drove around the expansive parking lot, not finding B&N. I called Jon -- he was already there. I turned around and drove the other way. Huzzah! Victory was mine! I parked and headed inside, dialing Jon's number. As I was walking in he picked up and we finally found each other, causing one woman to be amused by our cellular antics. "I do that all the time here!" she exlaimed to Jon. We smirked and chuckled. And then my nose was pricked with the delicious scent of new books -- thousands of new books -- all mine for the taking...er, purchasing. I had $7.63 worth of Caryn's old gift card burning a hole in my pocket, and I immediately picked out three necessities. Voltaire's Candide, E.M. Forster's A Passage to India, and Victor Hugo's Les Miserables (which, incidently, is 1,463 pages long). I looked at many other books which did not make it to my loving embrace. I found a giant volume of every single poem ever published by E.E. Cummings for the price of $50.00 -- not happening. THIS WOULD MAKE A GREAT CHRISTMAS GIFT. Give the gift of poetry! I may or may not have shed a tear. Jon and I had debates about E.E.'s poetry and the merit and understandability of it as opposed to James Joyce and his unfathomable Ulysses (we've both read) and Finnegan's Wake (not yet read by myself, not going to be read by Jon). Then Jon noticed the time (something like 6:43) and comment on the fact that the Bradley Hathaway Extravaganza was due to start at 7:00. We paid, we walked out. I tried to start my car. It took a few tries. I started to get scared. I started to think about giving up and just leaving my car there all weekend. Then it started. Stupid cantankerous car. Bah.
I followed Jon to Anchor Community Church and we parked along the side of the street in a random residental area. We walked the two blocks to the church. We read the poorly-made signs made with concert fliers and a sharpie telling us that the concert had moved to some unknown-to-us "Osage" street. Our faces fell. A friendly, mellow scene kid tripped up the stairs to us and read the sign himself. "Do you guys know where the concert is now? I'm from Iowa. Well, technically now I'm from Ohio, but I just moved there, so I don't know the area at all." We couldn't help him, being out-of-towners ourselves. A church lady and a little town kid came up the stairs next. We asked for directions to the concert, and the woman told us to go to the "Old Ecrich Building." Not much help. Instead of giving us street names and directions, she hopped into her car and showed us the way. In the interest of keeping up with Church Lady, we hopped in Iowa Scene Kid's car (I think his name was Darren?). Jon later told me he felt okay with it because ISK reminded him of Kevin Stinehart. I was just amused with the randomness of the entire thing (Jon was afraid I'd be mad that we were hitching rides with strangers).
We arrived at the venue, parked in some ghetto parking lot with giant metal objects strewn about, and headed for the front. We paid an unimpressed girl five dollars each, got our hands marked with a black sharpie, and went inside as the first band started their first song.
And we were hit in the face with people throwing their instruments around, banging them, anything but playing them -- and some "lead singer" who was belching/screaming lyrics into a microphone. I don't think one line of any song was intelligible. As soon as the music started I felt very much ashamed of myself and sheepish, and from the looks Jon was giving me I deserved hellfire for what I'd dragged him into. We stood there for one song, after which I had just enough time to shout "I feel very proud of myself right now" to him. Then the next song started. As soon as it ended I continued shouting with "And by proud, I mean ashamed." A few measures (could they even be called measures?) into the third song we looked at each other, turned around, and walked out. The next couple of hours were spent standing/sitting against the side of the building just talking and catching up. For awhile we stood out front with the rest of the scene kids who refrained from partaking in the noise pollution inside...but that got annoying fast. Two guys were holding onto ropes hanging off the flagpole nearby and were chasing each other around it very fast, sometimes kicking one another. Then a group of kids got into a heated discussion about which scene kids were better -- The Goshen Kids or The Fort Wayne Kids. Jon and I had a mock battle which ended with a surprise win by the unmentioned Kokomo Kids (who, let's face it, invented the scene).
There was a moment in our conversation where we both heard something peculiar -- a jazz trumpet being played outside the building. We hopped up and investigated. One of the next bands was warming up, and they already sounded promising because they sported a few horns. As soon as the next two or three screamocrap bands were finito and we heard the horny band (mua ha ha ha) start, we skipped inside. It was mostly enjoyable. See, yes...I have a dark side that enjoys the hardcore music...as long as it is music and not a group of people who don't know how to play or sing getting together and screaming at a microphone for a set. Therefore I found this band to have merit. Jon liked the random horn playing inbetween hardcore music. I almost thought about buying the cd, but ended up deciding against it (yay, maybe I'll eat steak one night next week instead!). Jon kept glancing back toward the merch tables (never, never call it "merchandise") and decided that he really wanted to buy Bradley Hathaway's book. I loaned him some dough, and he squeezed inbetween some scene kids to snag a copy. While I was waiting, I suddenly found myself in the middle of a vigurous handshake with an emo girl wearing jeans and a tunic. "You get ten cool points!" she exclaimed, very much enthused. She stopped shaking my hand long enough to let her short-haired friend pump my arm up and down. "Um....okay? WHY?" I asked, very much confused. I quickly scanned my clothing choice (it had to be about the clothes...what else is there that a teenager could find "cool points" to give about?) -- brown old navy cords, brown reefs, brown/white/pink track jacket...I didn't get it. "You are so cool for wearing your nametag here! All the kids are going to be doing that now! That's AWESOME!!! I'M SO DOING IT!!!!!!!"
-- -- Flashback to the beginning: I'm doing laundry. While I'm chucking a dirty apron into the washing machine, I realize my nametag is still on it. I remove the nametag, and for lack of a better place to put it, it ends up on the front of my jacket. I promptly forget I put it there and go on with my night. -- -- And that's how I revolutionized the Ft. Wayne Scene -- --
I relay my story to Jon, he laughs. I ask if his shiny new book is autographed (no). But it did come with the free cd (yayyy!). I suggest he get it autographed while he still can. Then I remembered the line from "The Annoying Hardcore Dude That Goes Too Far"
...you won't see me asking for no autograph...
And I told him that would be the perfect place to have Dear Bradley autograph his book. I think I saw a little twinkle in Jon's eye at that...the merest of glints...he was pleased. It took about ten minutes for him to discover the right moment for the taking, but the taking was took. That made sense, so shut up. Shut up right now.
A couple of calls to Dignal were made, seeing as how she was off work and expecting us. We weren't leavin, oh no. We came for Bradley. And Bradley we were going to have, no matter now many Dignals had to be sacrificed along the way. Luckily we didn't have to sacrifice any, but that's beside the point. We skipped another pointless hardcore band and ran back to our cars to talk Dignal through Ft. Wayne to our locaish. Jon managed with a few maps while I curled up in his backseat. He ate some of the beautiful Buffalo Chicken pizza I brought for him while Dignal rambled and roamed. After a few wrong turns she finally made it to the church, and we hopped into her Kia Sportage and pointed her towards the concert. We ran inside just in time to catch the beginning of Bradley's set. Or perhaps the middle...whatever. It was poetic. There he was, all skinny and boycute, standing in the middle of about forty scene kids and seated on the floor around him, eyes fixated. His body writhed and twisted with his words. His hand punched the air to emphasize. He made us laugh. In between poems he told stories based on the names of states and cities people shouted out. There was very humorous story about how he caught Mono in Europe from drinking water out of the tap and later finding that the source of the water was a swimming and bathing area for a hippie commune. At this same location some girl dancing in the crowd caught on fire, started screaming, and then as soon as the fire was put out started trance dancing leopard-style with some other people. Bradley awed us. Dignal was amazed. It was so great that we walked in as he was started "I am a Manly Man." She giggled so hard. It was beauteous.
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