We check into a wreck of a hotel named the Harley. The stink clings onto our skin as we chew on veggie burgers (or bangers and mash and burgers), and sneak the free wi-fi. After 15 minutes, my step down converter deteriorates like a melted toy soldier. To avoid the grimy mattress, I blanket out some towels on the bed and crash, becoming jaded about the days of quad skating.
Tonight's show is at a sweet roller rink. Unfortunately, it's got a lot of stairs- 5 to be exact. So, We load our brutish equipment up 5 flights of auditorium stairs, huffing all the way. It's a sad display of human fatigue. The free skates, and an unusual spread of boxti and mayonnaise salad. The cheap wine kicked in. As I was skating, I found an umbrella and did my best impression of Singing in the Rain. The cops started screaming and chasing me for half a lap.
After about 14 bands, and the Black Lips are up. Highlights include Cole puking off the side of the stage, and then some kid stealing his hat. If you find it on ebay, please hit us up. He wants to rep his Pilgrim roots.
We head to the Eurotrash party upstairs. They spin some DeeLite, Smiths, and Violet Femmes. It was me, Jared, and two girls sitting at a table, when some dude tells Jared that he hates the new album, but loves the band. Jared calmly puts down his beer, and gently swipes the chair our from under the guy; it was a glorious display of airborne beers and mixed drinks. Wrong choice of words there buddy.
After hailing down 6 taxis, we end up at Kate’s flat. People mingle in every possible living and non-living space available. Two snotty gents were dry humping on the same couch as me. I tell them where we’re from. They proclaim they hate America. Then why are your women all into us? We’re charmers, not fighters.
-Kang
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