Went to a show at Terminal 5 two nights ago. This is FACT.
All-Ages Shows
Clifford: Whoa, dude, I haven’t seen you since New Year’s. Where you been?
A-Jay: Well, after I awoke at around 4 p.m. on the 1 to the 1 to the 11, I promptly tucked myself under a sheet of malaise — like a child being folded into a warm bed on a cold winter’s eve, only to slumber with nightmares…
Clifford: For, like, three fucking weeks, though?
A-Jay: Indeed.
Clifford: So what did you do on the last night of 20-10?
A-Jay: Well, I went to this show at some unnamed venue. Saw this super rad band whose album I got on vinyl, like, eons ago.
Clifford: Sounds good.
A-Jay: Indeed. It should have been enjoyable to the power of e=mc squared (because MC finally squared up on that E that he owed me), but it was super lame because, get this, is was a fucking all ages show. Like overgrown 13-year-olds with faces as fertile as freshly tilled fields looming before me, groping in corners, screeching at the stage like caged monkeys who have been injected with one too many experimental drugs.
Youth is usually a breath of summer vespers, no? Instilling all those in the vicinity with renewed vigor — a desire, an urge, a loin-pulsing need to be young and free. But in this case, my soul merely withered — my passions dried up, and I felt a husk of a man, looking upon the young folks — like those in that over-played song by Peter, Bjorn & John — like a brine-soaked octogenarian, pickled in the juices of my own malcontent. I hated their mirth. I hated their grease-soaked faces. I hated their over-abundance of joy. I hated my own aging flesh… I hated this thing we called life.
Clifford: Dragster, man.
A-Jay: I know! Also, you know, that show was totally supposed to be a secret deal. How the fuck did all those little fuckers get on the listserv?
Clifford: So basically you’re pissed that you have the same taste as a bunch of a 13-year-olds?
A-Jay: Fuck off.
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