I’m BACK you nut-huggin nimrods!! How much did you miss me?
…
What? You didn’t even realize I was gone?
…
Bro. Bro! Don’t make me say it… BRUH!! I’ve done like SOOOOO much cool shit that you don’t even know about.
…
Like what? Well for starters, I went to a little place called Europe. EVER HEARD OF IT?
…
Oh, you have? Well, I went there. And I liked there. So I made the decision to move to Europe on January 13th, which is (*checks calendar*) HOLY SHIT—less than 2 months away.
But I’m not here to talk about el futuro. I’m here to tell STORIES. That is what this whole blog is about, right?
(PSA: If you haven’t yet, READ MY LAST FUCKING 4 BLOGS)
Anyways, let me tell you as much as I can remember happened in recent days. From as far back as my memory goes:
Ten days. (beat that memory wizards)
What happened ten days ago? I’ll tell you what happened ten days ago:
I went to GUATEMALA to investigate a MURDER. Oh what’s that? You didn’t know I was a detective?
Well, I’m not. I’m a TV producer. But I didn’t go as a producer either. I went as a cameraman. My TV station gave me a camera and said, “Darby go to Guatemala and film the house some Japanese girls got murdered in.”
When I got to Flores, Guatemala (via a 10 person airplane), asking the townies about the murder elicited some strange responses. One guy in a steak restaurant told me, in a whispered tone, that a local gang of 30 guys was behind the killing. The police were just like “no hay commento.” And the local hospital wouldn’t let us interview the one girl that survived. I smell… a cover up! Or something!
After I got my footage, and visited the Guatemala City Zoo (best zoo EVARRRR!), I flew back to LA for one night, to do a stand up comedy bit. It was the first time on stage where I was going to just tell a story. No jokes, aside from the story itself. And it was about a night when I had to choose between my first threesome, or my first Nubian Queen (this blog coming soon). People in the audience laughed, but more so they were captivated. So I’m leaning towards just telling stories on stage from now on. But I’m still new to this, and I’m still experimenting.
The very next day I took my last big vacation of the year, and I chose to visit the place of my birth:
My mom’s vagine.
Which is located in… Chicago, IL.
As you may have guessed, the CHI was cold AF and I was just SMH like WTF is going on in this B?
…WYD?
Oh man, that’s the one that always gets me. Whenever someone writes “WYD” I’m like “are they saying ‘WORD’ in like a slangy way?” And then I have to go back in the conversation and see if I told an astounding fact and they are just responding in a cool way. Incidentally, that has never happened.
My Chicago trip kicked off hard. Hard-CORE as a matter of fact; I went to my first “hardcore” concert. Genre-wise, hardcore is like death metal, but without the Satan imagery. That’s my understanding at least. My sole mission was to get inside the moshpit, and I accomplished my dream… and more! The pit was just as violent as I expected. I took various blows to the body, a kick to the ribs, caught a downwards elbow to the spine, and I almost lost my shoes.
My fellow moshpit partners (/enemies?) were some real goons. One dude with blue hair and a Chicago Bears jersey had some extremely bloody tissues jammed up each of his nostrils. But a mere busted nose didn’t slow him down; he was going harder than anyone else… Oh wait a second I just remembered the CHICKS. There were three chicks in the pit, all shorter than me, and nonstop just kicking the ever-living shit out of me. I actually had to take a time out and leave the pit due to severity of punishment I was dished by these little lunatic ladies. Good times.
…
You know, life itself is much like a moshpit. We are all here in this tiny space, bouncing around and smashing into each other. People are moving in a circularesque motion, but nobody really knows where they are going. How could they? It’s so loud and chaotic. Sometimes you slip, and usually people will be there to help pull you back to your feet. Other times you get trampled, and the threat of death, while minimal, is always present. Some people sense that threat of death and that’s what propels them to go into the pit in the first place. The “blue haired bloody nose” guy is one of those people; someone who wants to live and experience life to the fullest. Of course there are people who want to enjoy the show from outside the moshpit. They want to play it safe, to make it to an old age. And they will, most likely. But when they reach old age, will they be questioning themselves and the decisions they made? Will they be wondering if they should have experienced the moshpit when they were young and they had the chance?
…
Okay that’s my profound-ness for the day year. Back to being shallow and stinky.
Two days after the hardcore show, I went to see ANOTHER band, albeit with a much different vibe: dancey, not moshy. An Australian trio going by the name of Rufus Du Sol. For my money, the most remixable band of all time. And on a Wednesday night, in a cold and snow-threatened Chicago, they sold out the Aragon, a large, open ballroom with a capacity to hold 5,000 people.
We got there late but still managed to shove our way to the front of the crowd. This came after 20 mins of waiting outside, and another 20 minutes to get downstairs to the coat check. The band was supposed to go on at 10, but it was now 10:28. People were getting anxious. Then, the band emerged.
“…It is with a heavy heart, that I tell you guys, we are going to have to postpone the show.” Cause: a broken soundboard. People starting screaming. I tried to get out before the stampede, but my coat was still in coatcheck. And the coatcheck line was now… about 3 hours long.
I met a guy while waiting who told me that a paramedic told him that “it was a easy night… minus that one fight.” Apparently, two girls got into a fight and flipped over a guardrail and landed on the soundboard, leading to the ruination of the show. Of course, other people had their own theories as well. One girl told me that problem was that the band “never does soundchecks” at their shows. But there were two other bands that played just fine before the headliners. So that theory is cleary retarded.
When we finally trudged out of the Aragon, we stopped by a DJ named Romeo’s house, where I met a guy wearing this shirt:
Which was ironic, because he definitely was on drugs.
After a bit of mindless cruising around the city, we settled on what would be the main event of the night: a club called Electric Hotel. All I knew was that the first and second bands from the show were doing a DJ set there, so it was kinda… “thee after party”?
No, it ended up being thee official after party. They even took our concert tickets in place of a 30 dollar entrance fee.
Inside Electric Hotel we were surrounded with lushness and luminescene, our earsdrums graced with earthy house beats. This was Chicago after all; the home of house music. And then at 3 AM, the music stopped. Nobody wanted to believe it was over. The crowd that had made it this far looked deflated.
“Well, that’s all she wrote,” I told my only remaining party partner. We turned and started walking towards the coat check.
…And then the HARDEST BEAT EVER dropped, and we (well, I) dashed back onto the dancefloor and threw it down. How could I have forgotten? Chicago bars/clubs stay open until 4/5 AM. Unlike that other fucking city I live in, Los Angeles, where it’s like… 2 AM!
Right around 3:30, the DJ’s played a song by Rufus Du Sol and everyone just started howling it out in unison. I was amazed. Everything had come full circle. We had SEEN Rufus (the people) that night, and now we had HEARD Rufus, so it was kinda like… we had done all we set out to do? And this Electric party was a bonus.
Wednesday was for dancing, and Friday was for drinking.
I visited a bar that I worked at over the course of 15 years, the best Irish bar in the world, Butch McGuire’s. And OMF (oh my fuck) am I glad I don’t work there anymore. The staff is hilarious and the crowd is always filled with legends. But that night I drank 10+ shots and… drank one cider. And then I had a piece of gum, four french fries, a tic-tac I found in my pocket, licked a penny to pass a breathalyzer test, and then accidentally got some sperm on my lip. But THAT’S not important. I wanna talk about the shots.
The SHOTS I did MOSTLY with the staff. That’s right; at Butch’s, you can drink while on the clock. When I worked there as doorman, I was sometimes drunker than the customers—but I never showed it. That is my curse and my blessing. When I get drunk, I act… normal. In fact that’s my giveaway. If you ever see me acting like a normal human being, and not being a fucking savage spaz-cake, you know I’ve been hitting the bottle.
But I’m getting off track here. What was I gonna say again?
Jesus, ADHD much??
…
Okay, I’ve lost my thought. The MOMENT IS GONE.
That was my last night in Chicago, which is great because WHO DOESN’T LOVE A 5 HOUR FLIGHT WITH A HANGOVER.
Just kidding. I didn’t have a hangover;
I had explosive diarrhea.
(ZOMG I can spell diarrhea now without consulting a dictionary. This is a big day for me guys)
When I got back to LA, perhaps inspired by all of the pizza I devored in Chicago…
I went skateboarding at Venice Beach, and I landed my first grind! A boardslide. And boy did it feel good.
So good, in fact, that I’m going to go envision myself grinding down that long, hard, slippery pole and touch myself. While Queer Eye is playing in the background. Because who doesn’t love Queer Guy! Am I right? Am I right Netflix heads? Gay guys talking about straight men’s fashion? Isn’t that just cum-diddily-umptious?
…
Ahh… aren’t you glad I’m back people?
…
No?? Well that’s rude.
…
I’m not back for long. I’ve heard (from credible sources) that they don’t have internet in Europe so this could be your last chance to enjoy my writing. And of course if you’re in America try and make a face-to-face/crotch-to-face meeting with me before I depart. Until next time, mad lads.
Be First to Comment