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I wasn't really feeling too lively after work, but I stopped by my mom's place anyway. After a half-hour debate, she convinced me to take her Bluesfest ticket to see The Dirtbombs. I tucked in my white t-shirt, threw on my emo glasses and grabbed my cigarettes, guitar and black leather jacket to round out the clich�.
For a band I knew nothing about, I was fairly impressed with the songs, though the amp troubles left the guitar piercing and my ears bleeding pints. I stuck it out, for the sake of hearing something new. I know, I'm the real American hero.
The concert my dad was seeing was going to be a while so I grabbed my guitar from the van and sat down in the park across the street. It was an hour and a half before my dad showed up, but I enjoyed serenading the dates and the neighbourhood. A teenaged couple actually tossed my two dollars and I couldn't help a little laugh. I couldn't help feeling like a swindler because people shouldn't think I'm that good.
Point is: I'm going to a movie tonight at the Bytowne and I'll inevitably end up romanticizing my addictions, so gimme a ring. Were it a ship, I'd yell "All aboard!".
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