Prostrate
I throw myself upon the mercy of the court. I'm knew I shouldn't have promised anything as rash as more than one post on a weekend. I guess the pressure got to my head; I'm basically working the blog solo, unless you count Carl, and I thought that I could do the work of four people. This weekend has shown that I can't even do the work of one person.
Larkin's party was a success, though I was nervous for a while. Right around midnight, the party was at the point where it could either flop or take off, and then a bunch of people showed up and liftoff! Poor Larkin, though, got ill and retired to her room by 1:30; the party was self-sustaining by that point. I'm not sure who got all of those people out of there when it was time to disperse. For all I know, there are still people there.
But yes, I owe you an account of a brilliantly long road trip, and the concert that made the whole thing worth it.
Friday
I woke up, still feeling the effects of Old Navy, less than two hours after going to bed. I showered, got coffee, and dragged myself across campus to Russian. I thought, surely, I was in for horrible embarassment; but, by the grace of the stoner gods (lowercase g, pagan as they are), that day happened to be one of the three days we used to watch a film. Not wanting to push my luck, I skipped psych and took in another 3 hours of sleep before it came time to get lunch.
Now, Carl lives in Atlanta, but he's about as southern as good grammar and intelligable speech; the man hails from New Jersey, originally. I tell you this (or, rather, remind you, because I think it's been mentioned) to further an argument posed by Alfonzo and supported by me: Chick-Fil-A exists due to the Grace of God. A story which I will not tell, so Carl may tell it, involves a Real Estate agent, a healthy skepticism towards Georgia, and divine providence.
So, as I was saying, the four of us went out to Westfield to obtain some chicken and to tour the mall. They, along with everyone else who has been, has concluded that WfWC is a wholly enjoyable mall, though for reasons no one has been able to name.
Our adventures brought us back to campus, where we picked up Marina and hit the road. Even with my lead foot and Carl's sporty VW, we drove for three and a half hours and arrived with fifteen minutes to spare.
Truman University is in the middle of nowhere. This isn't just "Oh, we're out of the city" middle-of-nowhere, or even "We're in a suburban zone which has no readily distinguishable buildings" kind of middle-of-nowhere. I'm convinced that, like the Isle de Muerta, Kirksville could not be found by those who do not already know where it is; they would unknowingly drive through it, never suspecting that there was a college, nor that CAKE might be playing there.
The opening band was incoherent, but I'm sure that's how John McCrea likes it. One of the CAKE roadies looks like a bizarro McCrea, so Carl and I declared him Don McCrea, John's less cynical and less talented brother. Our position in the crowd was roughly equivalent to a fourth row seat, and our position was a favorable one until the X-heads snuck in and started moshing. The important thing is that we could see the whites of John McCrea's eyes, which he opened as wide as he could, whenever he god-damn felt like it.
I'd tell you what the set-list was, but I'm sure I'd fuck it up and forget something. Carl, I'm passing the buck to you; you predicted every song, anyway.
Oh Christ, folks. It's late. I'm going to wrap this up in another post, tomorrow (read : today, ten hours from now).
Sleep well, everyone.
-Alan
Larkin's party was a success, though I was nervous for a while. Right around midnight, the party was at the point where it could either flop or take off, and then a bunch of people showed up and liftoff! Poor Larkin, though, got ill and retired to her room by 1:30; the party was self-sustaining by that point. I'm not sure who got all of those people out of there when it was time to disperse. For all I know, there are still people there.
But yes, I owe you an account of a brilliantly long road trip, and the concert that made the whole thing worth it.
Friday
I woke up, still feeling the effects of Old Navy, less than two hours after going to bed. I showered, got coffee, and dragged myself across campus to Russian. I thought, surely, I was in for horrible embarassment; but, by the grace of the stoner gods (lowercase g, pagan as they are), that day happened to be one of the three days we used to watch a film. Not wanting to push my luck, I skipped psych and took in another 3 hours of sleep before it came time to get lunch.
Now, Carl lives in Atlanta, but he's about as southern as good grammar and intelligable speech; the man hails from New Jersey, originally. I tell you this (or, rather, remind you, because I think it's been mentioned) to further an argument posed by Alfonzo and supported by me: Chick-Fil-A exists due to the Grace of God. A story which I will not tell, so Carl may tell it, involves a Real Estate agent, a healthy skepticism towards Georgia, and divine providence.
So, as I was saying, the four of us went out to Westfield to obtain some chicken and to tour the mall. They, along with everyone else who has been, has concluded that WfWC is a wholly enjoyable mall, though for reasons no one has been able to name.
Our adventures brought us back to campus, where we picked up Marina and hit the road. Even with my lead foot and Carl's sporty VW, we drove for three and a half hours and arrived with fifteen minutes to spare.
Truman University is in the middle of nowhere. This isn't just "Oh, we're out of the city" middle-of-nowhere, or even "We're in a suburban zone which has no readily distinguishable buildings" kind of middle-of-nowhere. I'm convinced that, like the Isle de Muerta, Kirksville could not be found by those who do not already know where it is; they would unknowingly drive through it, never suspecting that there was a college, nor that CAKE might be playing there.
The opening band was incoherent, but I'm sure that's how John McCrea likes it. One of the CAKE roadies looks like a bizarro McCrea, so Carl and I declared him Don McCrea, John's less cynical and less talented brother. Our position in the crowd was roughly equivalent to a fourth row seat, and our position was a favorable one until the X-heads snuck in and started moshing. The important thing is that we could see the whites of John McCrea's eyes, which he opened as wide as he could, whenever he god-damn felt like it.
I'd tell you what the set-list was, but I'm sure I'd fuck it up and forget something. Carl, I'm passing the buck to you; you predicted every song, anyway.
Oh Christ, folks. It's late. I'm going to wrap this up in another post, tomorrow (read : today, ten hours from now).
Sleep well, everyone.
-Alan
posted by Alan Orlanski at 1:39 AM
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