Navigating with Herbert and why I'll never get sick of saying Rainbow Butt Monkeys

So last night was the Finger Eleven show in Kitchener.  I'm running on about four hours sleep as, being badass that I am, got to bed at 3am and went to work the next day.  I don't even know how T (the friend that accompanied me) managed to function today, as she has to get up WAY earlier than I do.  After work I hit Wal-hell, which I have been doing way too much of lately, so I could buy socks, painkillers - wisdom teeth are a bitch and a half - and a bathing suit bottom for my upcoming trip to the Dominican.  I had lost a pair earlier in the summer in an incident that was a lot of fun at the time, but now I just wish I had those bottoms back.  They fit really well.

So we left for Kitchener around 6 with me assuring T that although the doors opened at 7 (it's a 2.5-3 hour drive to KW) they never start at seven, and besides, there are two opening bands that we can miss if we have to.  We left guided by a GPS system that spoke to us in the voice of Herbert, the perverted old man from Family Guy.

Herbert had some interesting ideas about travel, because a few times he had us travelling down some godforsaken twisty-turny backroads, and at one point we nearly hit two very young deer.. maybe not babies, but certainly preadolescent deer.  There were a few instances of 'Fuck you, Herbert' when he'd tell me to look up ahead three hundred meters, and go straight.  Really, Herbert?  Was that necessary?

So as it turns out, we had cut it a bit close as when we got there, the second opening band was on their third last song.  Between their set and F11's I laughed at some guy behind us trying to convince the chick he was with of how indie he was (like, look at this fucking hipster).. talking about how he doesn't like 'mainstream' music.  That mentality pisses me off to no end.  The 'OMGZZ THIS BAND MADE MONEY THEY SOOOO SOLD OUT AND NAO I DON'T LIKEEE THEM!!" mentality.  I listen to a lot of pretty obscure shit, but the thing is, when a band like the Burning Hell makes it big and can quit their call centre day-jobs, I'm still going to like them if they keep making kick-ass music.  Music fans are so fickle.. and stupid (keeping in mind that I'm fully aware that I'm one of them).  But that's a rant for another day. 

Oh, quick customer service tip.. even though $4.75 is a relatively good price for a mixed drink in a bar,  it's no excuse to be skimpy.  If you serve someone who discovers that their drink is leaking through a hole in the cheap plastic cup, and a good third of their drink is now on the bar please just pour them a new drink.  Don't just toss the remainder in a new cup and hand it back.  You can bet your arse that I took my tip back after that scene.

During the break, we travelled out to the vendors so I could add another shirt to the collection.  They also had CD's for sale, which I'm glad I didn't buy any since I had forgotten that along with the passes to the show, I also have a complete discography coming in the mail.  That would have been a waste.  Chatting with the cute T-shirt selling dude, I suggested that they should have been selling copies of Letters from Chutney, since I would have totally picked that one up.  This was the CD they put out while still performing under the name Rainbow Butt Monkeys.  I guess Finger Eleven was more sellable, and less snicker-inducing.  Still, Chutney was a pretty strong album. Cute T-shirt guy informed me that the idea had been brought up, but apparently the album is no longer in print and the label that it was released under isn't even in business anymore.

Add one to the pile.

F11 put on a pretty fantastic show.  I fell a little bit in lust with the guitarist, James Black.  He was ridiculously energetic and on his game the whole set.  Dude was covered in sweat by the end of the night.  I love bands that seem to be having a loads of fun when they're playing, not treating it like a job or an obligation.  It's a great, infectious attitude.  I think Scott Anderson may have been having some vocal issues because throughout the night he got a little quieter and was making "Holy shit that hurt" faces after some of the more difficult parts.

 

My Camera = Teh Suck

Although I like them, I can honestly say I've never thought of myself as a huge fan. So it came as a surprise just how many songs I recognized and thoroughly enjoyed. They played a few of the ones I knew I would know, like Above, One Thing, and Paralyzer (great choice for a second encore) but I had forgotten about other tunes like Drag You Down and Broken words. I had really hoped to hear Bones + Joints but I guess it's kind of slow for a pretty high energy show. I'm really looking forward to this discography showing up so I can revisit some of this stuff. (P.S. they do an awesome cover of Depeche Mode's Walking in My Shoes)

So after the last song we headed out to begin the long drive home. Now, going into the bar I had a distinct memory of getting out of the car, and asking T if she needed anything before I locked it. Returning to the car, the first thing I noticed was the interior light on. I wasn't worried because my battery usually lasts quite a while. THEN I noticed the doors unlocked. THEN I saw my KEYS sitting on the seat.

Nothing was touched. We were flabbergasted, first because I had done something so dumb as leaving the keys on the seat of the unlocked car and second because NOT A THING WAS TOUCHED. Hell, the fact that the car was still there at all was pretty impressive in and of itself. All my CD's, All T's CD's and even Herbert were still there.

I am one LUCKY Dumbass. Kudos, Kitchener, for not being populated by car-thieving douchebags. KUDOS TO YOU.

So this may be my last post for a bit, as I'll be MIA for the next week or so. Sunny tropics, here I come.

One last weird random thought I had during the concert.  All band members?  WEARING PANTS THAT FIT!.  Thank you, Finger Eleven, for wearing pants that fucking FIT.  I thank you, the world thanks you.

Yeah, ill fitting pants are a *thing* of mine, especially after the age of oh, say, 25.  No visible underpants, please.  No baggy-assed hood jeans and no emo-fucking-girl pants.  Thanks.  Grr.