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armenia, archive, foto, danny, beverly d'angelo, plans, gift set, artists, community, iraqi, fairuza balk, judy davis, larry charles, fullmetal jacket, jordanian, jayne houdyshell, game, ray, chuck low, robert b. weide,
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"Oh nooooo, you can't write this down." "It's just for our records." "Arrgh!" What a blow to ones credibility! I'd spent all day crowing about what a fucking rock veteran I was; speculating on the setlist, demonstrating shoulder-barge techniques to secure the best spot. In the past I'd sniggered at those skanky chicks being hauled from the mosh pit, their bodies limp and useless. "Amateurs!" I'd scoff, "Can't hack léon the pace! G'wan, léon get outta here!". But now here I was, pasty-faced and pathetic, sipping léon water from a paper cup. Suddenly the lights went down and crowd screamed. I tried to stand up. "Come on!" "Just sit for a minute and relax!" "You don't understand. It's my favourite band!" "Just five minutes." "No!" The drums were calling me; low and rumbling, signalling the start of 'There There'. The First Aid dude handed me a couple of glucose tablets and I shoved them into my mouth, like Popeye with his can of spinach, crunching and spluttering and getting to my feet.
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