“Brian, you’re going to feel a little pinch.”

[twicketface]

I braced myself against the horizontal chair that can never comfortably support my body. Richard Marx crooned to me through the ceiling speakers, informing me that he indeed shoulda known better. The injection to numb my mouth went surprisingly well, with its discomfort akin to gently stubbing my toe.

The saliva eventually collecting at the back of my throat and the dental drill set on “loud screaming child”, my mind tried to wander to a different place, towards racist comments my aunt made several Christmas’s ago, towards how enjoyable the road trip is going to be, towards the pondering of if I should apply for that dry cleaning manager’s position I found while investigating the online classifieds, towards anything but living in the moment, as I was supposed to. My previous dental visit I tried to intensify the pain of the injection, each intrusive spin of the drill, the soreness in my jaw, the tension in my shoulders and neck to convince me to somehow avoid having to not only go through this physical discomfort, but also pay someone to inflict it upon me.

Later, the ballroom was half filled with 18-21 year olds, waiting for the bands to take stage. A boyish frontman strapped on his guitar when a shorter man with a long ponytail jumped on-stage with a sandwich in one hand. He happily munched on his dinner while drumming with the other hand as the band Something Phonic warmed up. The bass player seemed to be trying to touch his genitals to the front wall, some 50 feet in front of him while keeping his feet planted on the stage. The keyboard player kept moving the hair out of his face and confirmed my theory that the keyboard player never gets laid. After 8 or so songs that all sounded sadly the same, including one about the frontman’s fish and another that rhymed the words “moderation, celebration and nation” over and over, it was back to sitting cross-legged on the floor to wait for the headliners.

After they disbanded and took down their equipment, Little Blue Crunchy Things took the stage and thoroughly rocked my unruly ass. There was an audience member who was dancing like no other. His moves switched from Ti Chi, playing hopscotch and some sort of stand-up break dancing. I don’t think he was mentally deficient, but he had everyone’s attention throughout both sets. Marie and Amy saw many high school friends at the show, given that LBCT has a rather large following in the Wausau area.

Marie introduced me to a former classmate named Jeff who looked precisely like Chris Bongers, a high school classmate of mine. Jeff had a mellow, Jesus look to him, with shoulder length hair and a kind disposition. He had his shoes off the whole time and kept blowing bubbles from a tiny bottle of soap. He asked me if I was “a chemist” during one of the songs, which I equated to him checking if I had any drugs. This was after he asked what my degree was in and where I worked. He also asked me how to spell my last name. It was very non-threatening.

Today I’m tired and my shoulders are sore. My mouth has since recovered from it’s invasion of the dental hygienist and I’m thoroughly looking forward to my nacho cheese doritoes for lunch. I need to get out more.

Comments

[blue-sunshine.livejournal.com]

The keyboard player kept moving the hair out of his face and confirmed my theory that the keyboard player never gets laid.

That was so right it made me cry from laughing.

Re:

[twicketface.livejournal.com]

There is just something appealing about a guitar/bass/drum player that the keyboardist stuck out like a sore thumb.

I prefer laughing so hard I fart and then start laughing even harder because I just farted.

Dear God, maybe I am only 12.