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I hate that my cute little badger has become my default cranky icon. I need a different one.
I did not get to see Tool tonight and I am all sorts of cranky, the kind of cranky that $50 worth of books and a cookie only abated a little. The kind of cranky that means I listened to Nick Cave and sulked on the way back from the god-forsaken hellhole of the Tweeter Centre. The kind of cranky that means my husband spent over an hour apologising for the following on the way home: the concert, the crappy parking, dirty old men, the weather, breathing, and the Teapot-Domes scandal. Also: several wars, the internet, bad porn, and lack of Britney Spears on The Superficial today.
I bought Tool tickets for myself as a birthday present with most of a pay cheque. I've wanted to see them for years and there have been many reasons why I haven't gone, most of them involving lack of money, rides, or available tickets. I did a gleeful little dance when I actually managed to obtain Real!Tickets to the tune of $139 and change. (The tickets were $100; the rest was venue and inconvenience charges) . I was even willing to ignore my long running hatred of the Tweeter Centre (formerly Great Woods) because I really, really wanted to see Tool. I have been looking forward to this for weeks now.
I was so excited that I picked an hour long fight about marriage with my husband on the way to. I do this on all car rides and he will confirm this. It's one of my endearing personality quirks. I hate car rides. I also forgot our mosquito wipes and my sweater. I should have realized that these were signs from God that tonight was Not Meant To Be.
We didn't time our arrival correctly, so we were directed to Lot 13, which is located in the woods, next to the fourth circle of hell on former wetlands. It's an awesome place to park. There are absolutely zero lights, tonnes of woods, mosquitoes that could carry off dogs under 25 pounds and lots of places to hide if you are one of the following: axe murder, mugger, rapist, pervert, or interesting in smoking and drinking in the woods. If I were to murder someone, I would hide the body in lot 13, next to the guy who was already passed out from too much tailgating. No one would notice since lot 13 has no parking attendants.
The only way to get safe parking is to pay an additional $35. Then you only have to sit in traffic for two hours instead of 4.
We walked a good 3/4 of a mile back to the entrance where we had to wait in line to be searched. I will say this, at least they had same sex searches. I will also state that I nearly always carry a bo'sun's knife. It has two kinds of potential weapons on it: the blade itself which is damn sharp and the marlin spike, which is pretty much a stiletto. Since we just moved, I have it either in my bra or in my bag at all times because it's really good for opening boxes and undoing knots. I forgot to remove it from my bag before the concert. I was not attempting to sneak it in.
It was not concealed and it was on the bottom of my bag, under my keys, and there was no way you could mistake it as anything but some variety of knife. The young lady who searched me insisted I open my bag to she could sufficiently rummage through it. She must have seen said knife because she questioned me about my keys. She wanted to know if they were dangerous, if I had a camera on them, or was hiding something in them. I told her that the worst thing on my keychain was a pink pig with blue LED lights in the nostrils that oinked.
She did not ask about the knife that was under the keys. She lifted the keys up to inspect them and ignored the knife. That little pig keychain, it's a dangerous one.
I snapped at the half a dozen poor college interns who tried to foist free latex condoms at me. I apologize. I am not usually that big of an asshole, but I'm married, allergic to latex, and already told the four people in front of you also handing out free rubbers that I didn't need them. I think you're doing an awesome thing, even if I do kind of think that Trojans suck.
Since I only paid $50 a ticket, our seats were closer to Lot 13 than the stage. The Tweeter Centre has recently removed all video screens so that no one except the very tall may enjoy any part of the show unless you pay for the most expensives seats under the shed. On our way to our seats, which were in the dead middle of the row, we had to pass a good amount of people, three of which felt that it was their god-given right to fondle my ass. I understand I am wearing really adorable underwear, but the only person legally allowed to touch my ass is my husband and possibly some of my friends if it's in a jovial manner. Men who look like their auditioning for ZZ Top and reek of beer are not allowed, no matter how adorable my underwear might be. I don't appreciate it. If I thought it would do any good, I would have threatened to break fingers. My ass isn't even that great! Touch your friend's ass, he might appreciate it more.
We sat down and immediately discovered that the people who were searching everyone were incapable of finding the poorly concealed drugs that everyone and their uncle brought in. I haven't seen so much pot smoked in public since I went to the Hemp Fest in 1998. It was absolutely repulsive. Someone flicked still smouldering ashes on my foot. I became increasingly grouchy.
Sound check was conducted by the deaf. The opening band was so loud that my teeth actually rattled. Even in nosebleed seats, it was too damn loud and I know I am not that old. Steven suggested that we go to customer service so I could complain about things and ask if they had headphones. We chose to climb over the seats to make our exit. (Note: If I am climbing over seats, it is perfectly acceptable to look at my ass. It's the reason I wore cute underwear.)
The customer service woman who I originally talked to was awesome. She empathized with me, apologized on behalf of the venue, and got me a complaint sheet without even having to be asked. She deserves a raise. While I was bitching about how many things were wrong with the venue, the crowd, like drunken roaches, increased. A lot. The hooting commenced. Apes would have been proud. The awesome customer service lady called the general manager for me and I thanked her profusely.
Then, we waited. And waited. And waited just a little bit more. All in all, we waited almost an hour because Audrey the GM seemed to not be capable of answering her little walkie-talkie. Finally, she showed up and I repeated my list of complaints (people touching my ass, holy pot smoke Batman, parking in Satan's backyard, and having to pay top dollar for all of this.) She Doesn't Get It.
Listen, sister, I know I have hot pink hair and could pass for 18 if you happen to be drunk, near-sighted, or just plain stupid, but DO NOT treat me like I am a fucking moron and patronize me. I've been going to concerts for almost 15 years and I know a good crowd from a bad. I have been going to Tweeter Centre since It was Great Woods. I know what I'm talking about. Don't try and placate me by telling me if I had a problem, I could get an usher. The ushers don't give a shit and are the average age of the kids I teach. Do not tell me that Tool is your favourite show to work because I bet money that you've never even so much as seen them before because you're easily at least four years younger than me. And God help me, do not look at my husband like he's going to talk some sense into me. It's not going to fucking happen. Ever. He hasn't done so in all the time we've dated, he's not going to start, and he probably agrees with me because he's been going to concerts for more years than you've spent in school.
She grudgingly told us she would upgrade our seats to the middle of the walkway and that we could leave early if we'd like to beat the crowd and be mugged/assaulted/murdered in relative peace. Fine. I didn't want an upgrade, I'd like things to change, but fine. Steven had the tickets, so he waited for them to find someone to sign off on them. I went to survey the crowd on the way back to our seats. Approximately 1.3 million people are attempting to crowd through while simultanously maintaining a high level of drunkeness and whooping like this was a Limp Bizkit concert. Essentially, it was human version of Cape traffic. I watched security half drag/half frog march someone who looked suspiciouly like they were OD'ing past me. So I did what seemed the most logical thing to do in that situation.
I had a full blow panic attack.
I told Steven I could not, for any reason, make it through that crowd, hyperventilated, and got upset because I was having a panic attack in public which made it worse and left me on the verge of tears. I guess this attracted a lot of attention because staring at someone having a panic attack is absolutely the best thing to do. I didn't noticed because I was too busy trying to calm myself down. Audrey finally waved Steven back over and told us that she would refund most of our money if I really wanted to leave. We'd have to eat almost $40, but we could have most of it back in a couple weeks. Steven graciously accepts because the Tweeter Centre never, ever gives refunds and he figured it was best to get us out of there before the sun set. This was at 9pm and Tool had yet to even have taken the stage.
Getting out was just as much of a nightmare. No one seemed to be capable of understanding that we were actually leaving. People alternately hooted and heckled us, depending on their state of inebriation. When we made it back to the car, we noticed there were already creeps hanging out in the woods and one couple having sex in a car. We were barely capable of backing the car out because of the drunken parking. There was no exit set up and traffic was still backed up to the highway an hour and a half after the show was supposed to start.
I will never go to another concert at the Tweeter Centre. Ever year I go, it gets worse and worse. Security is so lax that they missed a fucking knife. The amount of pot being smoked there is enough that I've come home smelling of it. They're so busy trying to cram a few more tickets in that the venue is severely overtaxed. The only two concerts I've ever walked out of have been at the Tweeter Centre. The crowd was horrible. Most of them were intoxicated to the point where I wouldn't've felt comfortable going to the bathroom by myself and some of them could barely walk before the concert even started. The concert was mostly male and what seemed to be stereotypical college frat boys.
I'll probably never see Tool if the fans are like this. I don't even know if these are typical Tool fans or just people who were going because they have too much spare money and wanted to drink and do drugs in public. It sucks because I really wanted to see them.
I should go to bed. I consoled myself with a book about The Essex, as well of a couple other inexpensive books, so I'm going to continue being a cave troll and read for the next few days.
I did not get to see Tool tonight and I am all sorts of cranky, the kind of cranky that $50 worth of books and a cookie only abated a little. The kind of cranky that means I listened to Nick Cave and sulked on the way back from the god-forsaken hellhole of the Tweeter Centre. The kind of cranky that means my husband spent over an hour apologising for the following on the way home: the concert, the crappy parking, dirty old men, the weather, breathing, and the Teapot-Domes scandal. Also: several wars, the internet, bad porn, and lack of Britney Spears on The Superficial today.
I bought Tool tickets for myself as a birthday present with most of a pay cheque. I've wanted to see them for years and there have been many reasons why I haven't gone, most of them involving lack of money, rides, or available tickets. I did a gleeful little dance when I actually managed to obtain Real!Tickets to the tune of $139 and change. (The tickets were $100; the rest was venue and inconvenience charges) . I was even willing to ignore my long running hatred of the Tweeter Centre (formerly Great Woods) because I really, really wanted to see Tool. I have been looking forward to this for weeks now.
I was so excited that I picked an hour long fight about marriage with my husband on the way to. I do this on all car rides and he will confirm this. It's one of my endearing personality quirks. I hate car rides. I also forgot our mosquito wipes and my sweater. I should have realized that these were signs from God that tonight was Not Meant To Be.
We didn't time our arrival correctly, so we were directed to Lot 13, which is located in the woods, next to the fourth circle of hell on former wetlands. It's an awesome place to park. There are absolutely zero lights, tonnes of woods, mosquitoes that could carry off dogs under 25 pounds and lots of places to hide if you are one of the following: axe murder, mugger, rapist, pervert, or interesting in smoking and drinking in the woods. If I were to murder someone, I would hide the body in lot 13, next to the guy who was already passed out from too much tailgating. No one would notice since lot 13 has no parking attendants.
The only way to get safe parking is to pay an additional $35. Then you only have to sit in traffic for two hours instead of 4.
We walked a good 3/4 of a mile back to the entrance where we had to wait in line to be searched. I will say this, at least they had same sex searches. I will also state that I nearly always carry a bo'sun's knife. It has two kinds of potential weapons on it: the blade itself which is damn sharp and the marlin spike, which is pretty much a stiletto. Since we just moved, I have it either in my bra or in my bag at all times because it's really good for opening boxes and undoing knots. I forgot to remove it from my bag before the concert. I was not attempting to sneak it in.
It was not concealed and it was on the bottom of my bag, under my keys, and there was no way you could mistake it as anything but some variety of knife. The young lady who searched me insisted I open my bag to she could sufficiently rummage through it. She must have seen said knife because she questioned me about my keys. She wanted to know if they were dangerous, if I had a camera on them, or was hiding something in them. I told her that the worst thing on my keychain was a pink pig with blue LED lights in the nostrils that oinked.
She did not ask about the knife that was under the keys. She lifted the keys up to inspect them and ignored the knife. That little pig keychain, it's a dangerous one.
I snapped at the half a dozen poor college interns who tried to foist free latex condoms at me. I apologize. I am not usually that big of an asshole, but I'm married, allergic to latex, and already told the four people in front of you also handing out free rubbers that I didn't need them. I think you're doing an awesome thing, even if I do kind of think that Trojans suck.
Since I only paid $50 a ticket, our seats were closer to Lot 13 than the stage. The Tweeter Centre has recently removed all video screens so that no one except the very tall may enjoy any part of the show unless you pay for the most expensives seats under the shed. On our way to our seats, which were in the dead middle of the row, we had to pass a good amount of people, three of which felt that it was their god-given right to fondle my ass. I understand I am wearing really adorable underwear, but the only person legally allowed to touch my ass is my husband and possibly some of my friends if it's in a jovial manner. Men who look like their auditioning for ZZ Top and reek of beer are not allowed, no matter how adorable my underwear might be. I don't appreciate it. If I thought it would do any good, I would have threatened to break fingers. My ass isn't even that great! Touch your friend's ass, he might appreciate it more.
We sat down and immediately discovered that the people who were searching everyone were incapable of finding the poorly concealed drugs that everyone and their uncle brought in. I haven't seen so much pot smoked in public since I went to the Hemp Fest in 1998. It was absolutely repulsive. Someone flicked still smouldering ashes on my foot. I became increasingly grouchy.
Sound check was conducted by the deaf. The opening band was so loud that my teeth actually rattled. Even in nosebleed seats, it was too damn loud and I know I am not that old. Steven suggested that we go to customer service so I could complain about things and ask if they had headphones. We chose to climb over the seats to make our exit. (Note: If I am climbing over seats, it is perfectly acceptable to look at my ass. It's the reason I wore cute underwear.)
The customer service woman who I originally talked to was awesome. She empathized with me, apologized on behalf of the venue, and got me a complaint sheet without even having to be asked. She deserves a raise. While I was bitching about how many things were wrong with the venue, the crowd, like drunken roaches, increased. A lot. The hooting commenced. Apes would have been proud. The awesome customer service lady called the general manager for me and I thanked her profusely.
Then, we waited. And waited. And waited just a little bit more. All in all, we waited almost an hour because Audrey the GM seemed to not be capable of answering her little walkie-talkie. Finally, she showed up and I repeated my list of complaints (people touching my ass, holy pot smoke Batman, parking in Satan's backyard, and having to pay top dollar for all of this.) She Doesn't Get It.
Listen, sister, I know I have hot pink hair and could pass for 18 if you happen to be drunk, near-sighted, or just plain stupid, but DO NOT treat me like I am a fucking moron and patronize me. I've been going to concerts for almost 15 years and I know a good crowd from a bad. I have been going to Tweeter Centre since It was Great Woods. I know what I'm talking about. Don't try and placate me by telling me if I had a problem, I could get an usher. The ushers don't give a shit and are the average age of the kids I teach. Do not tell me that Tool is your favourite show to work because I bet money that you've never even so much as seen them before because you're easily at least four years younger than me. And God help me, do not look at my husband like he's going to talk some sense into me. It's not going to fucking happen. Ever. He hasn't done so in all the time we've dated, he's not going to start, and he probably agrees with me because he's been going to concerts for more years than you've spent in school.
She grudgingly told us she would upgrade our seats to the middle of the walkway and that we could leave early if we'd like to beat the crowd and be mugged/assaulted/murdered in relative peace. Fine. I didn't want an upgrade, I'd like things to change, but fine. Steven had the tickets, so he waited for them to find someone to sign off on them. I went to survey the crowd on the way back to our seats. Approximately 1.3 million people are attempting to crowd through while simultanously maintaining a high level of drunkeness and whooping like this was a Limp Bizkit concert. Essentially, it was human version of Cape traffic. I watched security half drag/half frog march someone who looked suspiciouly like they were OD'ing past me. So I did what seemed the most logical thing to do in that situation.
I had a full blow panic attack.
I told Steven I could not, for any reason, make it through that crowd, hyperventilated, and got upset because I was having a panic attack in public which made it worse and left me on the verge of tears. I guess this attracted a lot of attention because staring at someone having a panic attack is absolutely the best thing to do. I didn't noticed because I was too busy trying to calm myself down. Audrey finally waved Steven back over and told us that she would refund most of our money if I really wanted to leave. We'd have to eat almost $40, but we could have most of it back in a couple weeks. Steven graciously accepts because the Tweeter Centre never, ever gives refunds and he figured it was best to get us out of there before the sun set. This was at 9pm and Tool had yet to even have taken the stage.
Getting out was just as much of a nightmare. No one seemed to be capable of understanding that we were actually leaving. People alternately hooted and heckled us, depending on their state of inebriation. When we made it back to the car, we noticed there were already creeps hanging out in the woods and one couple having sex in a car. We were barely capable of backing the car out because of the drunken parking. There was no exit set up and traffic was still backed up to the highway an hour and a half after the show was supposed to start.
I will never go to another concert at the Tweeter Centre. Ever year I go, it gets worse and worse. Security is so lax that they missed a fucking knife. The amount of pot being smoked there is enough that I've come home smelling of it. They're so busy trying to cram a few more tickets in that the venue is severely overtaxed. The only two concerts I've ever walked out of have been at the Tweeter Centre. The crowd was horrible. Most of them were intoxicated to the point where I wouldn't've felt comfortable going to the bathroom by myself and some of them could barely walk before the concert even started. The concert was mostly male and what seemed to be stereotypical college frat boys.
I'll probably never see Tool if the fans are like this. I don't even know if these are typical Tool fans or just people who were going because they have too much spare money and wanted to drink and do drugs in public. It sucks because I really wanted to see them.
I should go to bed. I consoled myself with a book about The Essex, as well of a couple other inexpensive books, so I'm going to continue being a cave troll and read for the next few days.
