Go Ahead, Eat Their Fuck
SMUT & The Ray Gradys//Manitoba’s//7/31/06
The E came first, right when the R pulled into Jackson Heights, so I had to go for it. I wasn’t sure if the F was right behind it, so I went. It was a little late when I left in the first place, so. Except the car had no air conditioning. It was unbearable. A guy opened a window and that helped a little, like when we went express, but when we made those piddley little station-to-station stops—holy. Every time the train door opened it was like a blast of steam. Thing is, I’ve never been one to change cars. Rarely. To me, it’s just that with subway cars, you just don’t know what you’re getting into in another car. The next one could have a smelly bum clearing the place out, or a flasher. I always take the hand I’m dealt. So when a gal got on at 42nd eating a big bowl of Cold Stone, with the chocolate-covered cone shell and all, I didn’t even have the energy to drool or be jealous that she had the money to go get one.
Of course I was expecting the F or V to have problems at W4 and go express and straight to Delancey, but it came in a timely matter. And I’m convinced that every time I start out on a V and transfer around to expresses and then wait for a train at W4, if a V comes next on the track, that’s the train I started out on and I’m not saving any time at all, just stressing myself out over connections, but there you have it. The convo to my right was about tattoos, and a woman said that the worst tattoos are on the L train. The guy maintained that that’s because they’re not done by professionals and they’re ruined. He knew a woman who had a tattoo of a happy face sperm on her arm, but it came out bad and as he was telling her what it looked like instead, the train made noise so I missed the punchline, but I could pretty much guess—and then I glanced down to see if my sock was covering mine, lest I be the next example after I get off the train. Like hers.
Standing at the top of the staircase at 2nd Ave. was an elderly man in shorts who was shirtless and carrying a blind stick. As I hurry past him, I could’ve sworn that he said, “Excuse me, is this the morning?” Not a convo I want to have. Ever.
Rushing in this weather is not advised, but that’s just what I did anyway, my earplugs in by 4th St. and I hit green lights at every intersection, except when I was going over to B. Besides, since when does 8:00 mean 8:00, right? I got there on SMUT’s 1st song and I saw their packed list of like 13 songs and was all happy—except the place sounds like Manitoba’s. (Damn, I complain a lot. Why the fuck can’t I just be happy about a show? There’s always gotta be something fucking with me and something I find wrong. I just realized that. But I digress.) Still, it was a good set. And ya know what? It was all warm ‘n’ fuzzy ‘n’ Manitoba-y. Aw. It’s all dark in there now, the columns painted black, as well as the bathrooms. Or maybe it was the one closest to the quote/unquote stage. I didn’t go in the other, the one by the juke. One’a them used to be turquoise. So if anybody wants to write graffiti about bands, they can’t. And that’s a good thing. Graffiti is wrong. Oh, sorry, I digress again. SMUT. Right. Awesome. They had the second guitar player this time around, filling out the fuzz.
The Ray Gradys, from Philly, have a mohawked happy face sticking its tongue out for a logo. Fitting. Their drummer wanted to spit on the ceiling and try to catch it, but he didn’t want to spit on as nice a place as Manitoba’s. And when they did their Dictators’ cover, they said they were hoping that “Richard” would be there. They also had a funny story about being stopped by a cop in Ohio, after their van died and they were pushing it for miles. As the cop approached, they saw that he was naked. Not sure if this was a true story or just a clever segue to their next song, but they told it with such a straight face that I had to wonder. See what I mean about their punk happy face logo?
After the show, there was just a blast of steam hitting me the minute I opened the door. I didn’t think it was that much cooler inside the place, but it was. I think it was even cooler on the subway platform. A wall of unmovable air. Holy shit. The V was there first and even though that’s local, I so didn’t care if the F came on the other track. I wasn’t getting off that train for anything until I got back to my stop.
The E came first, right when the R pulled into Jackson Heights, so I had to go for it. I wasn’t sure if the F was right behind it, so I went. It was a little late when I left in the first place, so. Except the car had no air conditioning. It was unbearable. A guy opened a window and that helped a little, like when we went express, but when we made those piddley little station-to-station stops—holy. Every time the train door opened it was like a blast of steam. Thing is, I’ve never been one to change cars. Rarely. To me, it’s just that with subway cars, you just don’t know what you’re getting into in another car. The next one could have a smelly bum clearing the place out, or a flasher. I always take the hand I’m dealt. So when a gal got on at 42nd eating a big bowl of Cold Stone, with the chocolate-covered cone shell and all, I didn’t even have the energy to drool or be jealous that she had the money to go get one.
Of course I was expecting the F or V to have problems at W4 and go express and straight to Delancey, but it came in a timely matter. And I’m convinced that every time I start out on a V and transfer around to expresses and then wait for a train at W4, if a V comes next on the track, that’s the train I started out on and I’m not saving any time at all, just stressing myself out over connections, but there you have it. The convo to my right was about tattoos, and a woman said that the worst tattoos are on the L train. The guy maintained that that’s because they’re not done by professionals and they’re ruined. He knew a woman who had a tattoo of a happy face sperm on her arm, but it came out bad and as he was telling her what it looked like instead, the train made noise so I missed the punchline, but I could pretty much guess—and then I glanced down to see if my sock was covering mine, lest I be the next example after I get off the train. Like hers.
Standing at the top of the staircase at 2nd Ave. was an elderly man in shorts who was shirtless and carrying a blind stick. As I hurry past him, I could’ve sworn that he said, “Excuse me, is this the morning?” Not a convo I want to have. Ever.
Rushing in this weather is not advised, but that’s just what I did anyway, my earplugs in by 4th St. and I hit green lights at every intersection, except when I was going over to B. Besides, since when does 8:00 mean 8:00, right? I got there on SMUT’s 1st song and I saw their packed list of like 13 songs and was all happy—except the place sounds like Manitoba’s. (Damn, I complain a lot. Why the fuck can’t I just be happy about a show? There’s always gotta be something fucking with me and something I find wrong. I just realized that. But I digress.) Still, it was a good set. And ya know what? It was all warm ‘n’ fuzzy ‘n’ Manitoba-y. Aw. It’s all dark in there now, the columns painted black, as well as the bathrooms. Or maybe it was the one closest to the quote/unquote stage. I didn’t go in the other, the one by the juke. One’a them used to be turquoise. So if anybody wants to write graffiti about bands, they can’t. And that’s a good thing. Graffiti is wrong. Oh, sorry, I digress again. SMUT. Right. Awesome. They had the second guitar player this time around, filling out the fuzz.
The Ray Gradys, from Philly, have a mohawked happy face sticking its tongue out for a logo. Fitting. Their drummer wanted to spit on the ceiling and try to catch it, but he didn’t want to spit on as nice a place as Manitoba’s. And when they did their Dictators’ cover, they said they were hoping that “Richard” would be there. They also had a funny story about being stopped by a cop in Ohio, after their van died and they were pushing it for miles. As the cop approached, they saw that he was naked. Not sure if this was a true story or just a clever segue to their next song, but they told it with such a straight face that I had to wonder. See what I mean about their punk happy face logo?
After the show, there was just a blast of steam hitting me the minute I opened the door. I didn’t think it was that much cooler inside the place, but it was. I think it was even cooler on the subway platform. A wall of unmovable air. Holy shit. The V was there first and even though that’s local, I so didn’t care if the F came on the other track. I wasn’t getting off that train for anything until I got back to my stop.
posted by heather @ 9:49 PM
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