Open Road (Oneida Part II)
We got to San Francisco and it was raining. It was also a bit later that I thought, and I was afraid that we'd have trouble parking and I'd miss part of Oneida's set (they were playing seconds). But Mr. Bir Toujour, who was driving my car, is an excellent finder of parking spots in crowded cities. We scrambled a few blocks through the Mission to the venue.
We'd bought tickets beforehand, and I thought it would be a simple matter of waiting a moment or two at will call. But we got to the club and saw a line of scruffy hipster kids stretching down almost half the block. We joined the line, the long long line. What else could we do? Most of them were there for will call tickets themselves.
Then it started raining. We all stood on the filthy Mission sidewalk, over a hundred young music fans in vintage jackets and tight jeans. Droplets of rain fell, making cigarettes soggy and destroying carefully tousled hair. Really, you see the most disgusting fashion in the Mission--THE WORST girl haircuts in the universe. This layered thing, a Mrs. Brady mullet meets Olivia Newton-John thing. My hair is not so hot right now, but that's because I am growing it out--that is, my hair looks like that for free. These girls pay to look like that. They should be asking for refunds.
The line was not moving. Mr. Joe and I didn't have our raincoats, so we and the other 98 kids in line were getting soaked. I looked up and saw the drops falling in the beam of the streetlight, and I felt so helpless. Vague but loud music spilled out of the open door of the club, and it drove me crazy. I wanted to see Oneida, and I wanted to see them RIGHT THEN. It was like rushing in bad traffic to an important appointment, only to arrive breathless and be told to sit and wait in a lobby with no good magazines.
There was a dirty white van parked in front of the club. "I wonder if that's Oneida's van?" wondered Mr. Bir Toujour. The thought thrilled me--Oneida's van! We are so close it it! But it repelled me, too; the van was filthy. It had a brittle-looking fiberglass extended roof, just like the van Mr. Bir Toujour's band used. Mr. Bir Toujour's van is not glamorous or extremely clean, but it's not gross. Even from the outside, this van looked sick--empty, broken cassette tape cases were piled up a few inches deep all along the dashboard, and an eviscerated stuffed animal hung from the rear view mirror. Along the front top of the fiberglass extened roof black letters spelled out "OPEN ROAD." That van didn't look like it would make it three feet down a closed road.
"That can't be Oneida's van," I said. "They drove all the way from Brooklyn, after all." Please don't let it be Oneida's van, I thought. Homeless men live in way better vans than that.
The line was by now moving about one foot a minute. The bouncer had to come out and make an announcement that the show was sold out, and anyone without a ticket should leave. The line didn't shorten at all; most all of us were waiting for will call.
This is getting boring now, I'll do a part III someday.
We'd bought tickets beforehand, and I thought it would be a simple matter of waiting a moment or two at will call. But we got to the club and saw a line of scruffy hipster kids stretching down almost half the block. We joined the line, the long long line. What else could we do? Most of them were there for will call tickets themselves.
Then it started raining. We all stood on the filthy Mission sidewalk, over a hundred young music fans in vintage jackets and tight jeans. Droplets of rain fell, making cigarettes soggy and destroying carefully tousled hair. Really, you see the most disgusting fashion in the Mission--THE WORST girl haircuts in the universe. This layered thing, a Mrs. Brady mullet meets Olivia Newton-John thing. My hair is not so hot right now, but that's because I am growing it out--that is, my hair looks like that for free. These girls pay to look like that. They should be asking for refunds.
The line was not moving. Mr. Joe and I didn't have our raincoats, so we and the other 98 kids in line were getting soaked. I looked up and saw the drops falling in the beam of the streetlight, and I felt so helpless. Vague but loud music spilled out of the open door of the club, and it drove me crazy. I wanted to see Oneida, and I wanted to see them RIGHT THEN. It was like rushing in bad traffic to an important appointment, only to arrive breathless and be told to sit and wait in a lobby with no good magazines.
There was a dirty white van parked in front of the club. "I wonder if that's Oneida's van?" wondered Mr. Bir Toujour. The thought thrilled me--Oneida's van! We are so close it it! But it repelled me, too; the van was filthy. It had a brittle-looking fiberglass extended roof, just like the van Mr. Bir Toujour's band used. Mr. Bir Toujour's van is not glamorous or extremely clean, but it's not gross. Even from the outside, this van looked sick--empty, broken cassette tape cases were piled up a few inches deep all along the dashboard, and an eviscerated stuffed animal hung from the rear view mirror. Along the front top of the fiberglass extened roof black letters spelled out "OPEN ROAD." That van didn't look like it would make it three feet down a closed road.
"That can't be Oneida's van," I said. "They drove all the way from Brooklyn, after all." Please don't let it be Oneida's van, I thought. Homeless men live in way better vans than that.
The line was by now moving about one foot a minute. The bouncer had to come out and make an announcement that the show was sold out, and anyone without a ticket should leave. The line didn't shorten at all; most all of us were waiting for will call.
This is getting boring now, I'll do a part III someday.
posted by Lefty at 3:01 PM
1 Comments:
What, you are now just writing about this? I thought you weren't going to write about that night. Just don't mention the homeless person encounter, let 'em read it at www.morninghater.blogspot.com "Misanthrope vs. Misanthrope"
And yes, whoever owned that decrepit van out in front of the club should be ashamed of themselves!
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