I want to walk away, however that would be down right wrong. Even if, I was to think back, where would high tailing it get me? I’m walking up and I have no choice but to appreciate the dedication of his ruse…As sadistic and well planned out it is. I have a certain amount of respect for this son of a bitch. How long did it take him to make this plan? Was it all on his own accord? I have never taken him as the kind of person to think beyond his own purview..Yet here we are.
“Wow”! he esoterically spouts. “I never in in a million years would of thought you would of been dumb enough to show up”. I hate to admit it but he was right, but I will be damned it I would let it show.
“What kind of favours did your mom have to “pull”, I hold out the hooker joke as long as I can, “to make this bull shit party happen?”
It was quite uncomfortable the way he threw his hand over my shoulder but wjat was more chilling was the line that came next as he brought me to the trunk of my car, the place where all my beer laid so peacefully.
“This wasn’t my plan”, he was saying almost honestly and then it hit, “I am sorry”.
Part 4 of Space Face may be found here
I should change my tires, I really should. The amount of salt on the roads and the gravel beneath my feet has made my tires more bald than my most present grandfather, false god rest his soul. I’ve never gone down this road but something about it is so familiar, it just happens that I can not place it on the back of my mind. By quick glance it all looks so familiar. Fern to the left, fern to the right all on the brief edge of the road with rows upon rows of government planted pines. It is both beautiful and scary. The acidity of the needles negate any chance at life. For a metal show this is both a good sign and bad. At first I thought I was lost which happens to be an easy thing on these concession named roads. I could drive hours upon hours and maybe see only one farm house raised and protected through the generations of inheritance. It’s not until the light pollution dims that perfect sky I reflected upon earlier that I feel I am getting closer. Corners are sharp and sudden and before my mind has time to compensate for the change I wheel into a row of vehicles. Not directly but for the first time I actually think this is real. There is a hum beyond my vehicle which can only be described as music pumped through a wall of speakers. I am here, I made it, and this is real. Something isn’t right though. Something is off. “Turn Back”, the better part of me says. Fuck me however, as much as I hate to admit, this brain of mine has been wrong before.
Everyone on this dusty track is parked like a prick. So similarly so. It dawns on me with this night that I have seen this parking before. It is the same style of parking of every asshole from school. The four wheelers and tractors parked between every car is what really gives it away. “What are these degenerates doing at my show, my sanctuary, my peace and haven”, these thoughts beat me down. If it wasn’t for the multitude of trailers, usually hitched to multi-tonnes, I would call foul. My bands, my favourite bands are plastered all over their sides and they are accompanied by tour style buses. I am here, I have made it and so have my bands. Beyond all odds this is real.
I grew up close to a border where rules of the road were nothing but a suggestion and as a result I ignore the courtesy of parking far away. I am after all the only one in this hell hole of a place that likes the kind of music that is promised to be played and as such I will ride in like a king. That is, of course, until I pull into the lane way and realize where I am. This is Justin’s house. My enemy, my hatred and I know this is not a dream come true. It’s a fucking nightmare and there he stands on his porch, waving, with that fucking shit eating grin.
Part 3 of Space Face may be found The Worst Case of Space Face (Pt.3)
I know these back roads about as much as I know myself. Retreating into my car, with its over the top flaming bird upon its hood, forced me to learn every nook and cranny of this county. I’ve dreamed of just skidding across the gravel and heading face first into a tree larger and older than myself more times than I care to admit. I never have of course and I doubt I ever will. I embrace death but I don’t necessarily welcome it. There is a life in which I see myself living. “Hope”, dammit this speaking out loud shit is really getting out of hand , yet there is always hope even in these disconcerting outbursts. Hope is what lays upon my mind always, especially tonight, even if my blinders are on.
On the right side of me in the passengers seat sits three binders. A collection of pure musical bliss. There is a disgusting amount of pride I bled my ears for to rack up such a grandiose library like that. Sure I tend to skip continents when it comes to my choices but sometimes the western side of your own country hides a few hidden gems. It’s not easy to find these diamonds amongst the rough. Our broadcasting system put in place to represent local content actually does nothing but promote one or two garbage bands and export our best talents down south to be eaten whole and scrapped of any self worth and integrity. So these binders to me are a perfect trifecta of albums and a proper prospectors dream. An essential parabola of scales harmonising in such orchestrated purity. It really takes the edge off.
There are not any cops on the roads tonight and I don’t expect I will see any. Not in a town like this. This isn’t the city. Tonight most likely has a grand total of one alcoholic outstanding officer of the law maintaining the peace across maybe six towns and their depraved townships. Even with the odds that we cross each others paths I’ll just give the ol’ home town sports team salute. I can fake it when I need to but I die a little every time I skip a few levels down through hell.
The limestone mill I pull into for a quick breather is anything but the underworld. I suppose in a sense it may represent its desolate chasms and rusted cogs but that sounds more like the problem of people always looking down. I’m in the middle of a place with no man made light yet there remains a multitude of shadows. Everybody is so fucking concerned with our “Sun” they never pause and care about the stars always being taught to look for shapes and meaning in the night sky, forging gods and myths, always telling us we will never compare. I get that for sure I truly do. It would be nice to not feel that deep level of understanding but here I am shuffling through my coat questioning myself, “Why in the fuck?” did I not put my lighter back in the same pocket. By now it should be habit. Bigger issues at hand undoubtedly yet my heart races over something as trivial as this and I feel the anxiety ready to sweep me under into a deep slick spiral.What other option do I have? Be calm and relaxed, complacent and logical? Fuck no! Why should I Be calm and control of my emotions? I can twist, rip, shout and rage as easily as any tiny task but yet beyond all odds my hand slides in the very last possible pocket and my mind snaps back. The familiar sticker ware and tare some how calming, fits into groove . A persistent fixation to slow my mind. One hit at a time. How lost will I get? Will I fly down or fall up? People throw out “Just breathe”as a favourite mantra as if life is that simple. I’ll choke in death only to find peace….. a hard feat along the hand crushed quarry.
“How many lives have changed here?”, a simple question from my simple wandered mind. Normally one wouldn’t fall upon such trivial things but tears aren’t running dry these days. Perhaps drugs are a bad call tonight. I doubt it……but just maybe.
Before I know it I feel the thermal kick of the cone as it canoes along the inside of my left middle finger. It would bothersome if it wasn’t for the thick layer of callous created both from hobby and shame. As much as I enjoy this perverted peace it never will last. The more time spend in this place the smaller my life feels. I will take one last look up. I will feel empty but for the first time after, I will look forward.
Part 2 of Space Face may be found here.
“Hey dick-bag!”, goddammit right on cue “Think you got friends or something?”.
I don’t even need to turn around to know who is sputtering faeces from their mouth like some sort of poop eating dragon. It’s Justin “Doosh” Templestein, his equally terrible rag tag band of cronies and to my surprise Jessica Alton. I always find it odd when I see that majestic unicorn accompanying such bridge trolls. The light and brevity this girl brings into any room seems so out of place with degenerates that I always get the notion she wants to escape this place as much as I do, if not more. She always dresses on the cusp of what I would consider “Punk” with her bright red lipstick, tattered jeans and eye liner making her look like some goddess of some old lost world. Besides Toph she is probably the only other person who hasn’t treated me like shit since I have been here. Now she doesn’t talk to me, like at all, but whenever I catch her eye she does flash me the faintest of smiles and being young, all hormonal, I pretty much assume that means we are in love.
“Best be careful drinking that much all to yourself loser!”, Doosh casually insults as he looks side to side for vindication from his posse. He gets it of course but continues spewing none the less, “I know third time is the charm, but we can’t have you drinking yourself to death.”. Poor taste for sure but I expect nothing less from him and there is at least a little victory in the disapproving look he receives from my potentially small town inamorata.
“I could out drink pretty much anyone in this town Justice…”, I use his moms stage name. The whole town has seen her dangle her goods at Titty City every Tuesday and Thursday, “….Anybody except maybe your Dad. I’d lose to him for sure, but you would know that considering the good beating he gives you every night.”. I’d never condone the abuse of children but Templestein is such a raging prick my comments garnish snickers from most of the peanut gallery.
“Wow really Curtis? Is that the best you got?”, he briefly questions me although I suspect he knows he’s been outwitted. He starts motioning to the rest that it is time to leave and like ants they dutifully follow their drama queen. “Seriously man suck my dick and enjoy your sissy concert tonight. I bet you’ll fuck up and not be able to find it.”
“Find which? The concert or your cock Needle Prick?”, not my finest insult but his back is turned and flipping of the bird is his only retort. I am going to take it as a win but it seemed almost too easy. Usually this would of ended in a game of fisticuffs with no true winner.
Maybe people do change. Wait…..no that’s absolute bullshit. The only thing that has changed about this situation is the expression from Jessica. That cute tight smile of hers has transformed into something entirely different as she gives me one last look. What is that written all over her face?
Oh now I see it. That’s definitely pity.
Part 1 of Space Face may be found at The Worst Case Of Space Face (P1)
Any good concert blatantly requires a few obvious things. The PC (politically correct) army would have you believe the essentials include water, hearing aids and sunscreen. They are, at their very core, absolutely wrong. All you need is an unhealthy dose of THC and Forfeit Lager.
Now Forfeit isn’t exactly the greatest beer around but it’s got one edge on its competitors. It’s not a razor sharp edge by any means but having your beer taste the same cold as warm makes all the difference in a world where one throws a righteous tailgate party . Sure so far it’s gonna be a party of one but hopefully, if the websites are any indication, I am about to meet an outrageous amount of like-minded souls. As such I think it would be quite necessary and hospitable of me to purchase enough for myself and my future friends.
The drinking age limit in rural areas always tends to be on the extremely lax side of things. To put it bluntly “Nothing but a suggestion” represents the identification process. This is especially true, all things considering, the highway cops have children in my school and/or are cousins with the other reality of a town which only has six last names……..Cousins having weird cousin sex and having children with incredibly low IQ’s. The real cream of our crops. Although at least our farmers export their yields. If only they followed that same status quo with their families.
The only “cousin” I don’t mind is Chistoph who happens to run the local (and only) gas pump in town known as Tophers. Chistoph isn’t too fond of the “fun for the whole family” attitude around here so when it was his turn to become fourth generation “Pumpee” he wrote off any relation he could to the old family name. It didn’t take much for him to flip that switch and I will forever cherish that attitude beyond belief. The fact that it’s the only place in town to buy beer is only the icing on the cake.
“You look like absolute shit Curt”, Toph grins through his menthol stained teeth. I can see the cracks forming. The yellow crust fading into plague and tartar.
None of this changes my rapport with the man, nor should it. The only one who hasn’t jerked me around with false condolences deserves my attention and respect. He knows what I am here for. The posters are everywhere and if this pit stop of his wasn’t the only hope between two cities it is most certain he would be kicking it hard with me tonight.The closest thing I can call a friend around here. The man has integrity that is for sure and luckily it gets better. Curt has a knack for living vicariously which is becoming more and more clear as he loads the third free two-four of Forfeit into my trunk. He wants this to be “the” perfect night. I want it to be too……
But when the hell does that ever happen.
Here I lay, pathetic as always. Something is ripe and most certainly not right. It would be easy to blame my shitty parents and all their selfish faults for my so called lack of “ambition” but where the hell is the truth and fun in that. So often children are lost in the one tracked minds of our elders, a fact not lost to the ages, whom rage on with old school mentalities and bullshit perceptions of a future they most likely wont have the luxury of seeing in 10 years time. So here I sit, twisted feet with loose stitched shoes, hoping for a glue to hold their very fabric together. I don’t have that glue and I probably never will. What do I have? Well….I have this weekend.
Normally a weekend would mean shit all. I don’t like people it’s true. Being a hermit, with all it’s lonesome perks, is quite easily the best response to living in the navel of nowhere….unfortunately the pride of being deep in the anus of the unknown takes on basic instinct and all I am left with is arrogant self centred jerks with only one mentality. Delusions of grandeur spurred by men and women whom have never seen a world beyond their pretty trees. For those which see a world of colour, such a serene palette, it always confuses me how they can be such bigoted racist pieces of shit. So close to nature but so far from nurture.
I didn’t always live in a small town. In fact I wish I never had and I would do anything to get out of this gaping, ingrowing hellhole, no matter the cost. I don’t hate the country. Not even in the slightest. In fact I actually quite adore it with all it’s quiet beauty. As an adult I am sure this would be the pinnacle of success for me. But I am not an adult. I am nothing but a mere child. New to this town and ostracised so rapidly that my parents suicides are nothing but mere illusions . You see….That is typical in a small town. You have two choices to make in a place such as this. You live or you die in a world where a single bullet is cheaper than any of your bills.
Dad always joked about his hair. It wasn’t funny on the first day, and even less so on the third day, as I take the chisel to the fan to pluck out his metal fillings….or is it moms? I am pretty sure I will never know. For individuals that despised a messy home they sure as hell have gone and done a number to the walls, roof or essentially the very fabric that holds this house together.
It is quite odd how calm I am today. Sure both parents were shitty but both were mine. I’ve lost them forever, this is for sure, but yet tonight’s concert is far more important than the potential feeling of loss I should be feeling.
My town with all its flaws has managed to throw the biggest stoner rock concert ever. I first saw the posters after Mr. MacFarlynes art class. I didn’t believe it at first, and why should I, when all the headliners hailed from a so called “Socialist” nation. Our country tends to rap pretty hard on such ideals but honestly they did the same with communism. Just more propaganda for angry, uneducated and just straight up pathetic hillbilly’s. To me this concert sounds far too good to be true. Maybe it is. Something honestly doesn’t sit right with this whole situation. At first I thought it was the death of Debbie and Danny but truth be told “Fuck them!”. A common phrase I have found myself saying out loud since mom and pops decided to go full blown volcano on the ceiling with their skulls. Those selfish pricks took their own lives and left me here all alone.
Hopefully my apprehension and paranoia of this show only stems from the mile high pile of legal herb and not so legal alkaloids. I guess I will soon find out. T-minus five hours to go. It’s fucking Go-Time!