Another Saturday Night in Old Deutschland

I hate to come to this thing without anything to talk about but how my day went. It really turns this into a glorified diary, but considering that's what it is, I'm ready to roll with it.

I don't know if it was the dreary weather, the fact that mama cooked a breakfast with hog, or what, but I was feeling down all day. Work was the pits, man, and even a trip to Popeye's with Phil didn't do a whole lot to raise my spirits, although it was fun. Seriously, the day dragged on so much that I had a pushup competition with Matt P. Those of you who have seen our less-than-Hero-of-the-Beach physiques can imagine how well that went.

So here's an idea. How about we as a society all get together, join hands, and decide to never use the phrase "Workin' hard... or hardly workin'?" ever again. It shames us all.

My bad mood was knocked out by a trip to the Art Bar to see a few bands play, and I didn't catch one misuse of the Metal Sign. It was a great time--me, Chad, Robert, Tug and Carrie, and Matt G, who's back on the sauce. Even Scott made a cameo appearance. He'd punked out on us earlier that night, but after he got a call from an old friend, decided to punk back in for a bit.

The opener was a Stooges tribute by a band billed as the Spooges, although they also referred to themselves as--and I swear this is true--Teen Vulva Eye. They were good, and met all the requirements for a bitchin' rock show.

Frontman with no shirt occasionally bleeding? Check.
Drummer who kinda looks like Henry Rollins when he grimaces? Check.
Gutarist with a big metal cross around his neck? Oh you best believe that's a check.

Between shows I went out for a breath of fresh air, and Chad ran into a friend of his who wore a scarf that made him look like Number 2 from the Prisoner. His girlfriend was with him, a pretty blonde who introduced herself as Summer Brooks.

I've always been a little wary around people attatched to names that should belong to subdivisions, but she was nice. I stood there while Chad talked to Number 2, and she flicked her eyes down to my shirt, then back up to me.

"I like your shirt," she said. I looked down. Batman. Why is it always Batman?

"Thank you." There was a pause. "... I like your scarf."

I mean, what do you say to someone named Summer Brooks?

A few minutes later, Tug pointed out a guy in a cowboy hat and coat that I'd mistaken for a pimp earlier. "That's Hick'ry Hawkins. He's a legend." I tried, but no further explanation was offered. Hick'ry, if you're out there, keep on doin' what you do.

Then the second act came on, and I'm sad to say, I may never have sex again, because they rocked the fuck out of me. They were the Woggles, and they were absolutely amazing. Downright hellacious. I mean, the frontman's called the Professor of Rock 'n' Roll, for crying out loud, and that might be cooler than Shaft. I could write all night about how great they were, but "amazing" pretty much sums it up. They were all over the stage and out in the crowd, and a couple times they were rocking out like three feet away from me. Although, to be honest, they were rocking out three feet away from Carrie, and I just happened to be there.

Towards the end of the show, the drummer even moved his whole kit off the stage and into the audience for a couple songs. It was great, and between the fantastic show and my friends, it really cheered me up. They're out of Atlanta, I think, but if the Woggles ever come anywhere near you and you're not performing life-saving surgery, drop whatever it is you're doing and go see them. I guarantee you won't regret it, and you'll get to see what rock 'n' roll really looks like.