Hurrah for Earplugs.

“Same dances in the same old shoes
You get too careful with the steps you choose
You don’t care about winning but you don’t want to lose
After the thrill is gone.” ● Eagles

Because I’m insane a nice person, I agreed to catsit for the weekend. Turns out I instinctively cut a wide birth around the small meowing things at the stables due to an innate survival instinct that directed me away from allergy-instigating objects. You know that saying, the cat will always gravitate toward the one person who despises it? Correct. Atop its innate inclination to investigate new objects and rub against them (what are you doing? No, no; stay on your side of the room, please), a thunderstorm activated its “must find and follow human” proclivities. In all fairness, the thing does have charm, and the whole “let’s play” concept almost approached tolerably cute until thunder tore into the sky and HOLY CRAP, CAT HAS CLAWS. CAT HAS CLAWS. Needless to say, I’m slightly dazed today for lack of proper slumber.

One thick pair of cold weather running pants, one pair of winter socks, one tank top, one Monty Python Silly Walks shirt, one H.I.M. shirt, one pair of gloves, and one purple mountain bike later, I successfully braved the elements to terrorize the neighborhood on bikeback. Not quite as entertaining as its equine equivalent, but you do what you can. On one hand, clearly my biology requires greater proximity to the equator. On the other, the universe has a verrrrrry formidable opponent.

And ever onward. Three black-clad and multi-hued-haired teenagers clustered around the side steps at the venue when I pulled in, evidently seeking prime positioning for the show this evening. Our bar manager Tower A slunk against the front stoop tucking in to a bag of McDonald’s, his massive 6’8” frame folded against the thick breeze. He almost bears comparison to Turtle of Entourage in his attire – today, an oversized Orchid purple windbreaker and matching flat sneakers, which clashed spectacularly against the constellation of tattoos webbing both arms.

Past the harangued weekend box office girl (tattooed, but I like her anyway), up the eighty-plus year old stairwell, into the offices. I started fishing through my backpack for office keys only to have a completely illuminated hallway and ajar entryway halt the process, and as I strode down the hallway two voices chattering in quick Spanish ceased. “Umm. Hello.” Evidently we’re recarpeting this weekend.

I located mice remnants in my office and executed my standard pushup routine with a slight measure of trepidation, expecting to encounter Remy or his counterparts. (Hmm… perhaps ought to enlist the assistance of the aforementioned furry creature? Whoa. Insight.) Noticed too late that I ought to have invested in a foam mat or something – I have acquired a sizeable tailbone bruise as payoff for my attempts to better myself via sit-up. Nothing compared to horse tumbles; just enough to twinge.

Currently positioned in the conference room amidst the scattered, dust-adorned innards of a gutted office. Stacks upon stacks of portable filing cabinets, bearing the names and dates of upcoming shows. A rack of mail, partially-opened, with a row of green sticky tabs protruding that bear such eloquent text as You won’t believe this crap and You’ll hate this crap. Partially-melted scented candles, the wax slightly coated on the edges. A rolling chair with metal backing, a box of unopened Green Day bobbleheads stacked upon it. Miniature replicas of a violin and harp, signed by someone of presumable repute.

The Gaslight Anthem have coiled through three songs thus far in the Rave, employing the time between them to noodle through guitar licks and gleefully pound the backbeat. No idea whether these constitute actual tracks, as I have no working knowledge of their catalog, but they seem above decent without vocals (which leave something to be desired for the non-punk-aligned among us). Hurrah for earplugs.