Concert pee voyeur

2020.10.23 07:24 wishthiswaseternal Concert pee voyeur

My employer has been struggling since the pandemic started, and I went from working 40 hours a week in the city to working 2 days a week from home and having some income supplemented by a government subsidy scheme. It doesn't make up my full pay but it doesn't even matter that I am getting paid less because I am now spending so much less. I didn't realise how much I basically paid to work and how much more I had to spend on things because of work.
I no longer have to pay for an expensive gym membership to keep fit because I can go for a (free!) run in the late afternoon, while I'd get home after dark when working in the office and I don't feel safe going alone at night.
I no longer come home too exhausted to think about cooking a meal and ordering UberEats or DoorDash because even on the days I work, I have time to put something in the slow cooker, and am right here at home when I log off at 5pm, rather than getting home after 6pm.
I no longer have to pay to to constantly fill up my car to drive to work or pay the ridiculous public transport fares in my city to be crammed in like a sardine and have to stand pressed up against others the entire journey.
I no longer feel obligated to put in an hour or two at Friday Happy Hour and pay for overpriced cocktails I don't want.
I don't need to go to therapy nearly as often and pay a large co-pay because I'm not nearly as depressed as I was before.
I no longer have to spend money on makeup in order to be considered professional. I don't have to buy uncomfortable work shoes and blister guards. I no longer have to buy expensive scratchy uncomfortable "corporate clothes" that I don't wear in any other context and constantly replace tights that got a rip/run in them. I sit around my house in fun t-shirts that cost $15-20 dollars and am happy and comfortable.
I am actually getting enough sleep because on the days I am working, I can wake up at 8:30am to be at my desk in the other room to log in at 9:00am because all I have to do is pee, brush my teeth/hair, throw on a t-shirt and a pair of leggings, and put a piece of toast in the toaster and I can get that done in half an hour without feeling rushed. It beats having to be up by 6:30am so I can put makeup on my face and style my hair on top of breakfast/peeing/teeth brushing/changing/etc before having to spend ~90 minutes commuting to work because traffic always sucks or catching the train and paying Peak Hour Fares even though I don't want to be on the train at 7:30am, spending ~40 minutes on the train and then having to spend 20 minutes getting out of the station and walking the 6 blocks from the train station to my office in uncomfortable shoes and praying the line is short enough at a takeaway cafe on the way so I can quickly get a cup of coffee because I'm still kinda tired.
Oh yeah, I'm not a caffeine addict anymore because that extra two hours of sleep (sometimes three on non work days because I try and be awake by 9:30am at the latest on free days to keep my sleep schedule more or less regular) is making such a difference to my quality of life. It's like getting a whole extra night of sleep during the week. I'm so much more refreshed and feel so much more energetic and I'm not needing to down cups of coffee to stay awake in the morning. I'm also finding it easier to sleep because it is easier to wind down at the end of the night because I'm not stressed about going into an office I hate and haven't pumped my body full of caffeine all day. And that's another way I'm saving money - I no longer have to import sleeping capsules from fucking US Amazon (over the counter there, expensive and prescription only here) to fall asleep on work nights because my body is still a bit wired from coffee and dreading a fresh day of slavery in the morning.
And then that propaganda pamphlet arrived today, all about how this party needs us to vote for them (and I won't because I don't vote conservative) so we can all GET BACK TO WORK!!!!!!! OUR STATE DESERVES TO GET BACK TO WORK!!!!! WE WILL GET YOU BACK TO WORK!!!!!!
I literally burst into tears when I saw it, and that's actually super unlike me.
I'm so much fucking happier right now. I'm not suffering from suicidal ideations because I'm a miserable wagie. Life doesn't feel hopeless.
For the first time in 10 years, I finally feel like my life is my own.
I've been learning Spanish and Korean as a hobby and loving it. I've been going for walks in the afternoon. I'm eating healthier. My skin is glowing because I'm not forced to paint it in makeup all week to be considered "professional". I am finally spending more time with my family and friends than co-workers I don't really like and have no connection to other than the fact we are wagies at the same place. Admittedly, a lot of it is over Facetime, but it is still enough to bring me happiness. I'd rather facetime interactions with my loved ones than in person interaction with coworkers. I now actually have the energy to go and spend a day with my 2 nieces on a Saturday instead of being utterly drained from my 40 hours of wage slavery. I'm not nearly as reliant on anti depressants and sleeping pills as I used to be. I'm not......dreading life anymore or wishing I could die. I have time to watch that series my friend was telling me about on Netflix, time to watch an online concert, I can go to the doctor without my boss giving me a difficult time etc.
But the capitalists don't want me to stay happy. They want me back in my miserable station in life because FUCK ME for not being born a millionaire's child. I can't imagine anything worse. I hope this pandemic would inspire people to realise that the 40 hour slave week is miserable, but the normies are desperate to have it back because they have been brainwashed to think it is freedom.
I finished graduate school in November 2010, and despite the fact this year has been a pandemic, this year has actually been the happiest of my life since then. I didn't realise how burned out I was with full time work. Sure, I can't travel internationally right now, but I'm actually not craving a holiday as much as I normally do because I'm not suffering the usual burn out I do by this point in the year.
I honestly kinda hope the pandemic lasts another couple of years so I can continue to be.........happy and not depressed. I don't want this to end. I'm dreading the return of capitalist normalcy.
But of course, the part of normalcy society is desperate to restore is the most miserable part of it - wage slavery. And people are so brainwashed by capitalism that they are eating it up and I just want to burst into tears. I finally feel like my life has meaning again, and like there is more to life than making other people rich, and the normies and rich people just want to take that all away from me and send me back to misery.
I know this post is going to be preaching to the choir, but I just wanted to share my thoughts without being told I'm some combination of lazy, selfish, entitled, spoiled, or a typical millennial snowflake.
All I want from this pandemic recovery is for part time work from home to be normalised, not a huge rush back to 40 hours a week of wage slavery. But it won't happen, so I kinda hope it drags on longer.....
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2020.10.20 03:31 Cultural_Fucklopment Concert pee voyeur

Hi all. I adopted my girl Maggie this past Sunday and while walking her that night a car with live concert level bass drove by and it scared every last bit of her; I have never seen a dog more freaked out... I am honestly glad that she did not hurt her neck. We were only two blocks from my apartment at the time and she took a B line right back to the door to come back inside.
Some background: I live in a city center on a busy road but my apartment opens up to the back parking lot in the alleyway not the street front. She is a 2 year old ex racer and was fine around cars and loud noises until this specific car drove by.
She now is terrified, and I mean terrified, to leave the apartment building to the point of having to yank her to the nearest grass spot or carry her. She will go potty outside (she is still having frequent stress urinations inside) but is so stressed that she will not accept a treat as a reward most of the time while outside. I drove her today to a neighborhood 15 minutes away and she did much better but still was stressed when a motorcycle and a car playing loud music drove by.
I am not sure what to do to fix this problem and I am starting to think about bringing her back to the adoption agency so she can find a home in a quiet neighborhood; the last thing I want to do is torture the poor girl. She carries her stress into the house and has been stress peeing on my bed and in her crate as well as having frequent nightmares; she whines in her crate non stop if she is locked in even if she can see me. I have been working with her but it is difficult as I cannot award her outside.
Have any of y'all dealt with your dog with similar fears and how did you overcome them?
I am scared because she is the sweetest dog and I can work with her but do not know if she will get better. I also don't want to torture her every time she goes out and would rather see her happy in someone else's home than terrify her every day here.
submitted by Cultural_Fucklopment to dogs [link] [comments]


2020.10.18 17:25 creature_fear12 [For Sale] Build Your Own Bundle - 5 LPs For $20 Shipped! Rock, Pop, Prog Rock, Hard Rock, Southern Rock, Psych, Jazz, Soul, R&B, Gospel, Folk, Country, New Age, Ambient, Hawaiian, Comedy, Soundtracks, Children's and More!

Need to clear out some space so I've got the following MASSIVE list of titles available for sale today. Pick ANY 5 titles from below for $20 shipped (US only) - LPs are a combination of original US presses, early reissues and the occasional foreign press - no modern reissues here. Payments through PayPal only please. All items ship via USPS media mail with tracking.
All items grade at VG/VG or better unless otherwise noted
Here's the list!
Rock/Pop/Etc.
America - Holiday
Angel - On Earth As It Is In Heaven
Adam Ant - Strip
April Wine - The Nature Of The Beast
April Wine - First Glance
Joan Armatrading - S/T
Bachman-Turner Overdrive - S/T
Bad Company - Run With The Pack
John Baldry - It Ain't Easy
The Beatles - Sgt. Peppers (Cover ONLY; Original US stereo cover)
The Beatles - Let It Be (Cover ONLY)
Jeff Beck With The Jan Hammer Group - Live
Pat Benetar - Precious Time
Pat Benetar - Tropico
Pat Benetar - Seven The Hard Way
Pat Benetar - Crimes Of Passion
Pat Benetar - In The Heat Of The Night
Blood, Sweat & Tears - 3
Bloomfield/KoopeStills - Super Session
Tommy Bolin - Teaser
Jackson Browne - For Everyman
Roy Buchanan - You're Not Alone
Jimmy Buffett - Volcano
The Jon Butcher Axis - Along The Axis
The Call - Reconciled
The Call ‎– Into The Woods
Cher - S/T 2LP
Cher - Stars
Chicago - VI
Chicago ‎– Chicago At Carnegie Hall (Volumes I, II, III And IV) -- Counts as 2 LPs
The Dave Clark Five - Weekend In London
The Dave Clark Five - Best Of
Climax Blues Band - FM/Live
Climax Blues Band - Lucky For Some
Climax Blues Band - Gold Plated
Cold Blood - Sisyphus
Cold Blood - Cold Blood (Vinyl VG-)
Cold Blood - Thriller (Cover VG-)
Cold Blood - First Taste Of Sin
Judy Collins - Recollections
Chi Coltrane ‎– Chi Coltrane
Ry Cooder - Into The Purple Valley
Ry Cooder - The Border
Ry Cooder - Bop Till You Drop
Country Joe And The Fish - Together
Country Joe And The Fish - I-Feel-Like-I'm-Fixin'-To-Die
Marshall Crenshaw - S/T
David Crosby/Graham Nash - Wind On The Water (Seams unglued)
David Crosby/Graham Nash - S/T
Rick Derringer - Live
Jackie DeShannon ‎– Laurel Canyon
Neil Diamond - Touching You Touching Me
The Doobie Brothers - Stampede
Ian Dury & The Blockheads - Laughter
The Electric Flag - A Long Time Comin'
John Entwistle - Whistle Rhymes
John Entwistle's Ox - Mad Dog
John Entwistle's Rigor Mortis Sets In - S/T
Marianne Faithfull ‎– Marianne Faithfull
Fanny - Rock n Roll Survivors
The Fixx - Walkabout
The Fixx - Phantoms
Flash And The Pan - Headlines
Foghat - Night Shift
Foghat - Energized
Greta Garbo - Garbo
Art Garfunkel - Watermark
Art Garfunkel - Angel Clare
Geils - Monkey Island
Go West ‎– Go West
Godley & Creme - The Histroy Mix Volume 1
The Barry Goldberg Reunion - S/T
Lesley Gore - Girl Talk
Grand Funk Railroad - Survival
Grand Funk Railroad - Shinin' On
Grand Funk Railroad - Live Album
Grand Funk Railroad - Caught In The Act
El Grupo Sexo - Mom's Home
Debbie Harry - KooKoo
Heart - Magazine
Heart - Bebe Le Strange
Honk ‎– The Original Sound Track from Five Summer Stories
Hot Tuna - Burgers
Hot Tuna - Yellow Fever
Humble Pie - Smokin'
Frank Ifield - Portrait In Song
The Indigo Girls - Strange Fire
It's A Beautiful Day ‎– Choice Quality Stuff / Anytime
Jan & Dean - Golden Hits
Jefferson Airplane - Volunteers
Jefferson Airplane - Crown Of Creation
Jefferson Airplane - Bless Its Pointed Little Head
Jefferson Airplane - After Bathing At Baxter's
Jefferson Starship/Paul Kantner - Blows Against The Empire
Jefferson Starship - Dragon Fly
Jefferson Starship - Spitfire
Jefferson Starship - Red Octopus
Jethro Tull - Bursting Out - Live
Jethro Tull - A Passion Play
Jethro Tull - War
Joan Jett & The Blackhearts - Fake Friends 12"
Jo Jo Gunne - S/T
Jo Jo Gunne - Jumpin' The Gunne
Jo Jo Gunne - Bite Down Hard
Elton John - Jump Up!
Howard Jones - One To One
Rickie Lee Jones - Pirates
Rickie Lee Jones ‎– Rickie Lee Jones
Rickie Lee Jones - Flying Cowboys
Rickie Lee Jones - Girl At Her Volcano
Tom Jones - Live In Las Vegas
Jorma Kaukonen & Vital Parts - Barbeque King
B.B. King - Love Me Tender
Carole King - Welcome Home
Carole King - One To One
The Kinks - State Of Confusion
Mark Lindsay - Arizona
Kenny Loggins - Celebrate Me Home
Loggins & Messina - Full Sail
Loggins & Messina - On Stage
Jackie Lomax ‎– Livin' For Lovin'
Jackie Lomax ‎– Three
Jackie Lomax ‎– Home Is In My Head
Jackie Lomax ‎– Is This What You Want?
Lone Justice - Lone Justice
Lone Justice - Shelter
The Lovin' Spoonful - Hums Of The Lovin' Spoonful
The Mama's And The Papa's - 16 Greatest Hits
The Mama's And The Papa's - Deliver
Manfred Mann's Earth Band - Get Your Rocks Off
Manfred Mann's Earth Band - S/T
Manfred Mann's Earth Band - Angel Station
Dave Mason - Let It Flow
Don McClean - Homeless Brother
Brownie McGhee & Sonny Terry - A Long Way From Home
Christine McVie ‎– The Legendary Christine Perfect Album
Lee Michaels - S/T
Lee Michaels ‎– Barrel
The Steve Miller Band - Brave New World
Steve Miller Band - Number 5
Steve Miller Band - Your Saving Grace
Missing Persons - Rhyme & Reason
Joni Mitchell - Miles Of Aisles
Molly Hatchet - Flirtin' With Disaster
Montrose - Warner Bros Presents
Gary Moore - Corridors Of Power
Mott The Hoople - Mott
Elliot Murphy - Aquashow
Graham Nash - Wild Tales
Stevie Nicks - Bella Donna
The Nylons - Seamless
Laura Nyro ‎– Nested
Laura Nyro - The First Songs
Ted Nugent - Weekend Warriors
Ric Ocasek - Beatitude
Roy Orbison - More Greatest Hits
Peter And Gordon - The Best Of
Grace Pool - S/T
Elvis Presley - His Songs Of Inspiration
Suzi Quatro - Suzi... And Other Four Letter Words
Quicksilver Messenger Service - Shady Grove
Rainbow - Jealous Lover EP
Gerry Rafferty - Can I Have My Money Back?
Gerry Rafferty - North And South
The Rolling Stones - Love You Live
The Rolling Stones - Let It Bleed (Cover ONLY)
Romeo Void ‎– Benefactor
Todd Rundgren - Todd (G+)
Todd Rundgren - Back To The Bars
Todd Rundgren - A Capella
Todd Rundgren’s Utopia - Another Live
Todd Rundgren's Utopia - Ra
Bobby Rydell ‎– We Got Love
Mitch Ryder - Naked But Not Dead
Savoy Brown - A Step Further
Boz Scaggs - Down Two Then Left
Seatrain - S/T
Carly Simon - S/T
Carly Simon - Another Passenger
Paul Simon - Hearts And Bones
Paul Simon - Still Crazy After All These Years
Simon & Garfunkel - Parsley, Sage, Rosemary & Thyme
Simply Red - Picture Book
Siren ‎– All Is Forgiven
Grace Slick And Paul Kantner - Sunfighter
Chris Spedding ‎– The Only Lick I Know
Chris Spedding ‎– Hurt
Chris Spedding ‎– Enemy Within
Chris Spedding ‎– S/T
Chris Spedding - Ready Spedding Go
Spirit - Clear
Split Enz - Time And Tide
Split Enz - Waiata
Spooky Tooth/Pierre Henry - Ceremony
Steppenwolf - Early Steppenwolf
Steppenwolf - Monster
Cat Stevens - Back To Earth
Cat Stevens - Foreigner
Rod Stewart - Blondes Have More Fun
Rod Stewart - Foot Loose & Fancy Free
Rod Stewart - A Night On The Town
Rod Stewart - Every Picture Tells A Story
Sting ‎– The Dream Of The Blue Turtles
Stoneground - Stoneground
James Taylor - JT
James Taylor - Mud Slide Slim
James Taylor - Never Die Young
James Taylor - Dad Loves His Work
Mick Taylor - S/T
10cc - 100cc
Ten Years After ‎– Watt
George Thorogood And The Destroyers - Maverick
Three Dog Night - Naturally
Pete Townshend - Who Came First
Pete Townshend-Ronnie Lane - Rough Mix
Traffic - Welcome To The Canteen
Traffic - Last Exit
Robin Trower - Bridge Of Sighs
Robin Trower - For Earth Below
The Tubes - What Do You Want From Live
The Tubes - Outside Inside
Tommy Tutone - Tommy Tutone-2
Dwight Twilley - Wild Dogs
Uriah Heep - Wonderworld
Uriah Heep - Innocent Victim
Uriah Heep - Fallen Angel
Various - The Anthology Of British Blues
Suzanne Vega - S/T
The Ventures ‎– Knock Me Out!
The Ventures ‎– The Ventures
The Ventures ‎– A Go-Go
Joe Walsh - You Bought It You Name It
Edgar Winter's White Trash - Roadwork
Steve Winwood - S/T
Yankees ‎– High 'N' Inside (Great Private press Power Pop LP)
Neil Young - Sample And Hold 12"
The Youngbloods - The Best Of
Zebra - Zebra
Prog Rock/Art Rock, Etc.
Mike Batt With The London Symphony Orchestra ‎– Schizophonia
Brand X ‎– Moroccan Roll
Brand X - Livestock (Cover VG-)
Keith Emerson - Nighthawks OST
Keith Emerson with The Nice - S/T
Keith Emerson & The Nice - Attention!
Emerson, Lake & Palmer - S/T
Emerson Lake & Palmer - In Concert
Emerson Lake & Palmer - Welcome Back My Friends..
FM - Black Noise
Steve Hackett ‎– Please Don't Touch!
Kansas - Masque
Kansas - Vinyl Confessions
Kansas - Kansas
Kayak - Royal Red Bouncer
Marillion - Brief Encounter
The Moody Blues - This Is The Moody Blues 2LP
The Moody Blues - Seventh Sojourn
The Moody Blues - The Present
The Moody Blues - To Our Childrens Children
Patrick Moraz - The Story Of i
Patrick Moraz - S/T
Patrick Moraz - Human Interface
The Alan Parsons Project - Pyramid
Renaissance - Prologue
Sky - Sky 2LP
Sky ‎– Sky 3
Andy Summers & Robert Fripp - I Advance Masked
Thee Image - Thee Image
Rick Wakeman - Criminal Record
Zon - Astral Projector
Jazz
Airto - Virgin Land (Cover G+)
Ronnie Aldrich - The Romantic Pianos Of
Ronnie Aldrich - The Magic Mood Of
Ronnie Aldrich And His Two Pianos - That Aldrich Feeling
Ronnie Aldrich And His Two Pianos - Where The Sun Is
Mose Allison - Wild Man On The Loose
Nestor Amaral And His Continentals - Brazil
Brian Auger's Oblivion Express ‎– Happiness Heartaches
Warren Barker And Frank Comstock ‎– TV Guide Top Television Themes
Earl Bostic - 14 Hits
The Bob Brookmeyer Quartet - Oslo
The Les Brown Story - Greatest Hits In Today's Sound
Barbara Carroll - Plays The Best Of George & Ira Gershwin
June Christy - This Is June Christy!
Michael Colina - Shadow Of Urbano
Jackie Coon - Jazzin' Around
Sammy Davis Jr - California Suite
Martin Denny ‎– Exotic Night
Paul Desmond With The Modern Jazz Quartet ‎– The Only Recorded Performance Of Paul Desmond With The Modern Jazz Quartet
Ella Fitzgerald - Montreux 1975
Ella Fitzgerald ‎– Ella A Nice
Roy Fox And His Band - At The Monseigneur Restaurant
Benny Goodman - Francaise
Dave Grusin ‎– A Jazz Version Of The Broadway Hit Subways Are For Sleeping (VG-)
Dave Grusin ‎– Mountain Dance
The Bobby Hackett Quartet Plus Vic Dickenson - S/T
Lionel Hampton - Live At Midem
Lionel Hampton - Hamp's Golden Favorites
Herbie Hancock - Crossings (Cover F)
Wayne Henderson - Big Daddy's Place
Jon Hendricks & Company ‎– Love
Billie Holiday - Volume II
Paul Horn - Inside
Paul Horn & Steven Halpern - Connections
Lena Horne/Harry Belafonte - Porgy And Bess
Jackie & Roy - Time & Love
Milt Jackson, Count Basie - Vol 1
Antonio Carlos Jobim - Love, Strings and Jobim
The Jonah Jones Quartet - A Touch Of Blue
The Jonah Jones Quartet - On The Sunny Side Of The Street
Tom Justice - Justice Makes Love
The Roger Kellaway Cello Quartet - Come To The Meadow
Yank Lawson And Bob Haggart - The World's Greatest Jazz Band
Meade Lux Lewis - Barrel House Piano
Ramsey Lewis - Live At The Savoy
Chuck Mangione - Love Notes
The Manhattan Transfer - Best Of
Herbie Mann - New Mann At Newport
Herbie Mann ‎– Windows Opened
Ann-Margret - Kitty Kallen - Della Reese ‎– 3 Great Girls
Mark-Almond - S/T
Mark-Almond - II
Mark-Almond - Rising
Les McCann ‎– River High, River Low
Carmen McRae - The Greatest Of 2LP
Jay McShann - The Man From Muskogee
Jay McShann ‎– A Tribute To Fats Waller
Glenn Miller - On The Air Vol 1
Glenn Miller - On The Air Vol 2
Red Mitchell - Red Mitchell (VG-)
Wes Montgomery - California Dreaming
Wes Montgomery - The Best Of Vol 2
Turk Murphy's Jazz Band - San Francisco Jazz
Turk Murphy's Jazz Band - San Francisco Memories
Oliver Nelson ‎– Black Brown And Beautiful
Jimmy Noon & Earl Hines - At The Apex Club
Red Norvo, Teddy Wilson, Gene Krupa.. - Jazz Concert
Claus Ogerman/Michael Brecker - Cityscape
Billy Oskay And Michael O Domhnail - Nightnoise
Oscar Peterson And Joe Pass ‎– Porgy & Bess
Oscar Peterson And The Trumpet Kings ‎– Jousts
André Previn, Gerry Mulligan, Carmen McRae ‎– Performing Music From The Subterraneans - Original Sound Track Album (Cover VG-)
Spike Robinson ‎– The Gershwin Collection
Linda Ronstadt & The Nelson Riddle Orchestra ‎– What's New
George Russell & The Living Time Orchestra - The African Game
Pee Wee Russell - S/T
David Sanborn - As We Speak
Diane Schuur - Schuur Thing
Diane Schuur - Timeless
Bud Shank ‎– Heritage
Bud Shank/Shorty Rogers - California Concert
George Shearing / Jim Hall ‎– First Edition
The George Shearing Quintet With Dakota Staton - In The Night
Bobby Short ‎– Bobby Short Is K-Ra-Zy For Gershwin
Bobby Short ‎– Celebrates Rodgers & Hart
Bessie Smith - The Bessie Smith Story Vol III w/ Joe Smith & Fletcher Henderson's Hot Six
Lonnie Liston Smith - Love Is The Answer (Cover G)
Dakota Staton ‎– The Late, Late Show
Art Tatum / James P. Johnson ‎– Art Tatum Masterpieces Volume II And James P. Johnson Plays Fats Waller
Clark Terry ‎– Ain't Misbehavin'
Clark Terry And Zoot Sims ‎– Mother------! Mother -----------!! A Jazz Symphony
The Clark Terry Five ‎– Memories Of Duke
Cal Tjader - The Shining Sea
Joe Turner - Effervescent
Various - Round Midnight OST
Sarah Vaughan ‎– Duke Ellington Song Book One
Sarah Vaughan ‎– I Love Brazil!
Grover Washington Jr - Live At The Bijou
Lou Watters' Yerba Buena Jazz Band - S/T
Zaccarias And His Orchestra - Dance The Bossa Nova
Soul/R&B/Funk/Disco/Gospel
Marian Anderson With Franz Rupp ‎– Spirituals
Marian Anderson - The Lady From Philadelphia
Automatic Man - S/T
Blue Magic - Thirteen Blue Magic Lane
Tyrone Brunson - Fresh
Bus Boys - Minimum Wage Rock & Roll
The Chambers Brothers - The Time Has Come
Ray Charles - His All Time Great Performances (2LP)
Chocolate Milk - We're All In This Together
Commodores - Natural High
Commodores - Heroes
The Crusaders - Chain Reaction
The Crusaders - Crusaders I
The Crusaders - At Their Best
Godfrey Daniel ‎– Take A Sad Song...
Tyrone Davis - Turning Point!
Earth Wind & Fire - Electric Universe
Fats Domino ‎– Sings Million Record Hits
Fats Domino - Twistin' The Stomp (Cover VG-)
Dobie Gray - Drift Away
Al Green - I'll Rise Again
Jester Hairston And His Chorus ‎– A Profile Of Negro Life in Song
Alberta Hunter - The Glory Of
Ink Spots - Vol 2
Mahalia Jackson - The World's Greatest Gospel Singer
J.O.B. Orquestra ‎– Open The Doors To Your Heart
Quincy Jones ‎– The Dude
Kongas ‎– Africanism
O.B. McClinton - Album No. 2
The Persuasions - Comin' At Ya
The Pointer Sisters - Energy
Lea Roberts - Lady Lea
Smokey Robinson - Yes It's You Lady
Diana Ross - Lady Sings The Blues 2LP
Diana Ross - Baby It's Me
Diana Ross & Lionel Richie - Endless Love
Diana Ross & The Supremes - Anthology 3LP
Silver Convention - S/T
Dakota Staton ‎– Ms. Soul
Dakota Staton - Confession'
Dakota Staton - Madame Foo-Foo
Dakota Staton - I Want A Country Man
Donna Summer - A Love Trilogy
Donna Summer - She Works Hard For The Money
Donna Summer - Donna Summer
The Supremes - A Bit Of Liverpool (Cover VG-)
The Sylvers - The Best Of
Johnnie Taylor - Super Taylor
Marlo Thomas And Friends - Free To Be... You And Me
War - Deliver The Word
Dionne Warwick - Friends
Nancy Wilson ‎– This Mother's Daughter
Nancy Wilson - From Broadway With Love
Nancy Wilson - Who Can I Turn To
Nancy Wilson - For Once In My Life
Bobby Womack - So Many Rivers
Folk/Country/Southern Rock
A Goodly Company Of Dulcimer Artists ‎– Pastime With Good Company - Dulcimer Music For The Christmas Season
Joan Baez - Recently
Joan Baez - David's Album
Joan Baez - Any Day Now
Bobby Bare - Hard Time Hungrys
Black Oak Arkansas - High On The Hog
Black Oak Arkansas - Keep The Faith
J.D. Blackfoot - Southbound And Gone
Glen Campbell - The Artistry Of 2LP
Harry Chapin - Heads & Tails
Kevin Coyne ‎– Marjory Razor Blade
Malcolm Dalglish & Grey Larsen ‎– The First Of Autumn
The Charlie Daniels Band - Whiskey
John Denver - I Want To Live
John Denver - Autograph
John Denver - Whose Garden Was This
John Denver - Spirit
John Denver - Farewell Andromeda
Dueling Banjos - Deliverance
Nelson Eddy - Stour-Hearted Men
Joe Ely - Musta Notta Gotta Lotta
Norman Greenbaum - Petaluma
Nanci Griffith - Storms
Nanci Griffith - Little Love Affairs
Nanci Griffith - One Fair Summer Evening
Nanci Griffith - Once In A Very Blue Moon
Nanci Griffith - Poet In My Window
Nanci Griffith - There's A Light Beyond These Woods
Nanci Griffith - Lone Star State Of Mind
Nanci Griffith - The Last Of The True Believers
Arlo Guthrie - S/T
Arlo Guthrie - Amigo
Tim Hardin ‎– Suite For Susan Moore And Damion - We Are - One, One, All In One
Burl Ives - More Folksongs By 10"
Waylon Jennings And The Kimberleys - S/T (VG-)
The Kingston Trio - The Last Month Of The Year
The Kingston Trio - Hungry i
The Kingston Trio - Somethin' Else
The Kingston Trio - String Along With
The Kingston Trio - At Large
Leo Kottke - Leo Kottke
Leo Kottke - 1971-1976
Sleepy LaBeef - It Ain't What You Eat It's The Way How You Chew It
k.d. lang ‎– The Making Of Shadowland
Peter Lang - Back To The Wall
Gordon Lightfoot - Summertime Dream
Mama's Pride ‎– Mama's Pride
Reba McEntire - Greatest Hits
Mother Earth - Living With The Animals
Tracy Nelson - S/T
The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band - All The Good Times
The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band - The Rest Of The Dream
The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band - Ricochet
Outlaws - Ghost Riders
Peter Paul And Mary - S/T
Jim Post ‎– Slow To 20
Mason Proffit ‎– Wanted
Redwing - Redwing
The Roches ‎– Keep On Doing
Kenny Rogers And The First Edition ‎– Ruby, Don't Take Your Love To Town
Linda Ronstadt & The Stone Poneys - Stoney End
Linda Ronstadt - Hand Sown Home Grown
Linda Ronstadt - Greatest Hits
Linda Ronstadt - S/T
Linda Ronstadt - Different Drum
Linda Ronstadt - Silk Purse
Linda Ronstadt - Heart Like A Wheel
Tom Rush - Tom Rush
John B Sebastian - S/T
John Stewart - California Bloodlines
The Stone Poneys Feat. Linda Ronstadt - S/T
Various - White Mansions - A Tale From The American Civil War 1861-1865 (Jessi Coulter, Waylon Jennings, John Dillon, Steve Cash)
Wet Willie - The Wetter The Better
Hank Williams Jr - Country Shadows (Cover G+)
Jesse Colin Young ‎– The Soul Of A City Boy
Jesse Colin Young - Love On The Wing
Jesse Colin Young - Light Shine
Jesse Colin Young - Songbird
Jesse Colin Young - Song For Juli
New Age/Ambient
William Ackerman ‎– Conferring With The Moon
Darol Anger - Barbara Higbie ‎– Tideline
Scott Cossu - Wind Dance
George Cromarty - Wind In The Heather
Alex de Grassi - Southern Exposure
Steven Halpern - Georgia Kelly - Ancient Echoes
Steven Halpern - Prelude
Mannheim Steamroller - Fresh Aire III
Billy Oskay And Mīcheāl Ō Domhnaill ‎– Nightnoise
Shadowfax ‎– The Dreams Of Children
Synergy ‎– Audion
Vangelis - Opera Sauvage
Vangelis - Albedo 0.39
Various - Soul Of The Machine -- The Windham Hill Sampler Of New Electronic Music
Andreas Vollenweider ‎– ... Behind The Gardens - Behind The Wall - Under The Tree ...
Paul Winter ‎– Canyon
Hawaiian/Pacific
Alfred Apaka - Aloha Apaka
The Hilo Hawaiians ‎– Honeymoon In Hawaii
Bill Kaiwa - Paniolo Country Western
Soundtracks
Beauty and The Beast / Of Love and Hope (Music and Poetry)
The Blue Lagoon
Buck Rogers In The 25th Century (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
The Color Purple
Dirty Dancing In Concert
Earthquake
Electra Glide In Blue
Fame
Jesus Christ Superstar
Light Of Day
Lisztomania
The Man From Snowy River
The Music Of Cosmos
The Natural (Randy Newman)
Pippin
The Razor’s Edge
The Rocky Horror Show: Original Australian Cast Album
Shock Treatment Cast ‎– Shock Treatment / Overture
Silent Running
Stand By Me
Superman (Cover VG-)
Times Square
To Sir, With Love
The London Symphony Orchestra And Chambre Choir ‎– Tommy / As Performed By The London Symphony Orchestra And Chambre Choir With Guest Soloists Boxset
Urban Cowboy
Various ‎– Fonzie Favorites
Comedy/Spoken Word
The Firesign Theatre - I Think We're All Bozos On This Bus
The Firesign Theatre - Waiting For The Electrician..
The Firesign Theatre - The Giant Rat Of Sumatra
Dick Gregory - At Kent State 2LP
Tom Lehrer - Songs By Tom Lehrer
The Monty Python Instant Record Collection
Monty Python - Live At City Center
National Lampoon - White Album
Orson Welles - The Begatting Of The President
Children's
Maurice Evans Reads A. A. Milne ‎– Winnie-The-Pooh
Maurice Evans Reads A. A. Milne ‎– More Winnie-The-Pooh
Pete's Dragon - Disney
The Rescuers (Disney)
Miscellaneous
Boniface Bonnie ‎– Night & Daylight Yeibichei (Native American)
Bonzo Dog Band ‎– Beast Of The Bonzos
Los Indios Tabajaras - Maria Elena
Vasant Rai - Spring Flowers
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2020.10.15 07:31 danielsper0 Concert voyeur pee

My older sister grew up worshipping the band Def Leppard during the eighties… but it was now November of 1992. Once the grunge scene exploded in 1991 all those 80’s hair bands died on the vine. That type of music was no longer relevant.
But don’t try to tell my sister that by 1992 Def Leppard was irrelevant. They were the greatest single influence of her young life aside from the movie Dirty Dancing, and neither Baby nor Johnny Castle were coming to the Roanoke Civic Center, but Def Leppard was. She pleaded with my parents to let her go and they said, fine, but you have to take your brother with you. Not only did I not want to see Def Leppard, I didn’t want to be seen at a Def Leppard concert. Regardless, one week after my torrid love affair at the Kiss concert, I was crestfallen to have to accompany my dorky older sister to the Def Leppard show.
Now because the show was a general admission show my sister wanted to leave right after school, so she started in on me.
“Come on, I want to be sure we can get close to the stage.”
“No way Nicole, schools out at 2:30 and it’s only a 45 minute drive to Roanoke. I don’t want to have to sit there for 5 hours.”
“Come on! This is my all-time favorite band!”
“Let’s just wait a little while. We can leave at 6. I’ll get you close to the stage, I promise.”
“Come on Daniel, don’t be selfish. This is for me and I want to leave right after school. I want to get there as early as possible.”
Now having already been to the Roanoke Civic Center for a few concerts I happened to know that there was a McDonald’s right across the street.
“Alright, I’ll make you a deal. We can leave right after school, as long as you get me whatever I want at McDonald’s. We’re talking super-sized combo of my choice, plus my choice of either apple pie or ice cream cone for dessert.”
“Super-sized?”
“And nothing less.”
“Fine.”
After school we drove straight to the Roanoke Civic Center, me in my grunge garb, my sister decked out in her Def Leppard gear – Def Leppard t-shirt, Def Leppard wrist bands, Aqua Net poofed up hair – she was ready for this.
We got to the civic center at quarter after three in the afternoon. It was so early there wasn’t even an attendant in the toll booth to charge for parking. We drove into the lot, parked, and my sister immediately bolted for the front door of the civic center with me chasing after her yelling, “Wait! What about my McDonald’s! You promised!”
We got into the lobby and there was just one old lady sitting at a booth. In her best southern drawl she said, “Hello there, how can I help you?”
My sister squealed at her, “We’re here for the Def Leppard concert!”
The lady looked at her and said, “Oh, well you’re a bit early for that. Why don’t ya’ll go home and come back in a few hours. We’re sellin’ hockey tickets until 5, and then the doors’ll close until 7 when they open back up for the concert, so I’m afraid ya’ll’ll have to wait outside until then, ok hun.” All that was missing was for her to fan herself and say, “I do declare.”
It was good that we wound up back outside. In my sisters spastic B-line freak-out for the civic center doors she failed to take the car keys out of the door of the car. So retrieving those was probably a good idea. For it was then, and only then, that I got my McDonald’s. Combo number 4: Double quarter pounder with cheese, extra cheese and pickles, super-sized fries and a Spite to drink; apple pie for dessert.
When we finished eating we walked back over to the parking lot and sat on the steps in front of the main entrance. It was 4 o’clock and I had ass-searing Mcfarts. You know, the kind that just sort of seep out quietly, but heated, the type to really pollute the olfactory. There’d be 4 more hours of this until show time. Someone had to pay for the wait, for the horrendousness of Def Leppard, and it was going to be my sister.
Another hour went by when my sister jumped up and started screeching. She ran like hell so I got up and ran after her, brown cloud of backside emission following me like a dirty contrail. She was running alongside a tour bus screaming her head off as I caught up to her. Suddenly the curtains in the windows of the tour bus sweep aside and the heads of the Def Leppard members appeared. I stopped running. My sister meanwhile yelled at the top of her lungs and sexually assaulted the side of the bus as it drove into the back of the civic center. The Def Leppard guys looked back and forth, from her to me, laughing. Five years earlier there would’ve been thousands of screaming girls waiting for a Def Leppard tour bus. Today, one – my sister.
That broke up the monotony, but we still had three hours to wait, and this was 1992. There was no internet or smart phones, no tablets or laptops back then. We just sat there, me farting. We’re talking turbo-charged sulphurous cupcakes. By the time the doors opened for the show a total of 6 people had shown up for the concert. Six! And for some reason the whole entryway smelled of shit.
When the doors opened my sister ran frantically in, screaming and barreling toward the stage as me and the other six people strolled in casually. As we passed from lobby into the arena, there was my sister, at the partition in front of the stage, jumping and screaming at the empty risers.
Now Def Leppard in their heyday had a stage that was setup in the center of the arena floor. You know, for most bands the stage is setup at one end of the arena, but for Def Leppard the stage was right in the middle, and it would rotate so they could face fans in every direction.
Well, as show time neared, there was no one there. No one. The place was empty. There might have been a couple hundred people in the Roanoke Civic Center, which has a capacity of 10,500 people. 10,500 seats and only a few hundred people showed up. So before the show the civic center staff closed off every section around that floor-centered stage except the one by the main entrance. We could have arrived 5 minutes before show time and walked right up to the stage, but instead we spent almost 5 hours in the civic center parking lot, heated by the setting sun and a chorus of my best air dumps. There were a couple of backside bugle calls where I thought I might have laid a bacon strip in the skivvies. Delete thought I might have.
At eight Def Leppard took the stage and did their thing. My sister freaked out, shaking the partition and jumping up and down. She screamed at the band and carried on. Meanwhile, the other couple hundred people just watched, maybe bobbing their heads. This should have been a moment of great shame for Def Leppard. They were one of the biggest bands of the last decade, selling out stadiums around the world, and here they were in Roanoke Virginia, their revolving stage taking them around the empty arena, only the one section with a few hundred mildly interested spectators, except for one clearly deranged teenage girl.
As the show went on the members of Def Leppard were obviously watching my sister freak out, but they also picked up how disinterested and embarrassed I was. They watched me trying to calm my sister down, or shaking my head, or burying my face in my hands. So they focused on us. Joe Elliot and Phil Collins (not that Phil Collins), they kept coming over and gyrating in front of us, but not so much to my sister, now they were focusing on me. They were taking the piss out of me, as those limey imperialists would say. With every Joe Elliot hip thrust that I flinched at, he and his bandmates laughed, and all the while my sister kept screaming. I got mocked, but to her, she was getting a personalized show.
After a while Def Leppard began to more openly taunt me, like trying to give me high-fives, which I refused, or Joe Elliot announcing me as their new number 1 fan. At one point I told my sister I was going to go to the lobby to pee. As I walked out Def Leppard stopped playing.
Joe Elliot said, “Hey mate, where are you going? I thought we were just starting to rocket, yeah!”
I shook my head and said, “I’m going to the toilet.”
He responded, “We’ll wait.”
Then they and their 200 pathetic fans laughed at me. Me! This really farty grunge solider stuck at the mortifying Def Leppard show with his sister. I was ridiculed by Def Leppard. The fucking one armed drummer laughed at me! The one-armed drummer! What should have been a day of great shame for Def Leppard became my day of shame! God damn you Def Leppard. Oh wait, you’re Def Leppard. Keep it up God.
Now, in a place like Roanoke, when a concert or event comes to town they send the network affiliates local news team out to cover it. So once the concert was over I was pulling on the sleeve of my sister’s Def Leppard t-shirt, saying, “Come on, let’s go home.” But as we headed out of the exit the local news reporters asked if they could talk to me for a minute. The cameras were on me. I hid my face and told them to leave me alone – I can’t be seen at a Def Leppard concert, not after what happened, not after the shame of being lampooned by those cheesy British tossers. I felt your pain that day Steve Bartman. Where’s my 30 for 30 for the Def Leppard concert ESPN? Instead of an interview, I ran for the car, butt barks still emitting heat from the tail pipe.
We got in the car and drove home… with the windows down for obvious reasons. When we got in my parents asked, ‘how was the concert’? My sister talked about how it was the greatest night of her life while I claimed it was the worst concert I’d ever seen. Well, since it was about eleven they went ahead and switched on the local news. The news went through one or two stories and then the anchor said, “At the civic center this evening a poorly attended Def Leppard concert wound up being bliss for one young fan and a nightmare for another.” And there it was, Joe Elliot in front of my sister and I, whirling his hips around, my sister freaking out and screaming, like reaching for his crotch, and me beside her, beating my head against the partition. The news anchors, the weatherman, the fucking sportscaster, they all had a good laugh at my expense that evening. Fuck you Def Leppard and your one-armed drummer!

An excerpt from A Life in Concert by Daniel Spero - now available on Amazon & Kindle
submitted by danielsper0 to defleppard [link] [comments]


2020.10.09 19:13 zoink001100 Concert pee voyeur

Eyes open. It was bright. There was no water. It was early. My day off.
Turn over. Try to sleep. Can't. Water.
Throw off the blankets and go to the kitchen. It was bright. Head ached. Shaky. Passed by beer I forgot about. Look over to the computer and see the beer I got when I couldn't find the beer I had just found.
Water.
Gulp, gulp, gulp.
Oh, a shot glass...
Vodka.
Put beers in fridge to cool off. Pee. Look at self in mirror. Actually don't mind the person reflected.
Oh, hey, another shot happens.
Go to computer. David Lynch tells me to have a great day. 'I might', I think.
Look down. The floors are dirty.
Day off. That's when we clean things. So I set about cleaning the floors.
First, sweep away the refuse. Sweep, sweep, sweep. Into little piles. That's how you do it. Sweep the refuse into little piles section by section. Before the balcony, little pile. By the computer, little pile. Around the couch, little pile. Dinning area, little pile. Kitchen, little pile. Entryway, little pile. Little piles of random debris everywhere.
Get's swept away. Up and away and into the trash it goes.
But it's not done yet. No, we have to scrub the floors. That's what you do after you sweep it all up. What you do after you sweep it all up is you scrub. You get down on your knees and you push your hands over what you swept up. You get a bar towel you stole from work and some cleaning solution and you scrub. You push that bar towel and scrub the solution into the floor.
Section by section. Because you gotta break problems down into sections otherwise they will seem overwhelming and you won't attack them like you should. Section by section.
Finished. Congrats, Zoinky! You earned another shot and a cigarette.
On the balcony of my place which needs it's own scrubbing down. Henry, the unknown but tall plant to my left, and Livia Drusilla, the petunia to my right, I looked out unto the world. From the twenty-third floor. Out unto the wide world. The north of Seattle. A lazy, grey, day. The clouds that cover the sky don't want to do anything and the tall, green trees are just fine with that. A slight breeze meanders along in a mischievous fashion.
I breath smoke. A lazy dragon now. In my keep. My keep that has been kept.
In the vast space before me a leaf, a single leaf, was swept up to the twenty-third floor by the mischievous wind. It hung in the air in concert with my gaze for but a moment and looked at me as much as an inanimate object could look. As if to ask: "What the hell is going on?"
And then it got whisked away by the silly wind. Playfully, the leaf was whisked upwards and downwards. It's own dimensions and lack of weight made it's flight path the whim of the mindless wind which was only just passing through.
It, the leaf, tossed and turned and as I smoked my cigarette I thought it might be marooned in a tree or on the fence of the park that sits across from my building. Or perhaps on a telephone pole or the line that the telephone pole held up. It, the leaf, fluttered and skirted around. It, the leaf, was not a master of its own destiny.
The leaf was brought over the street where it hovered for a moment and then a sudden gust slapped it straight onto the windshield of a car. Left, on the driver's side. Right at where the diver would be looking.
It was the most beautiful thing I believe I have ever seen.
I stubbed out my smoke. I retrieved my beer. Took another shot. Made this post. And now will clean my bathroom.
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2020.10.08 05:37 VegasMomofTres Pee voyeur concert

Today I reached the 4 year milestone. I never thought I would make it this far. To be honest, every day passed 24 hours is a day I didn’t think I could be sober. I’m super proud I’ve endured this pandemic sober. I was sad when I was near the 1 year mark. I kept looking at my story and I didn’t have the things that people talk about in meetings within the year. I didn’t have a 6 figure job, I didn’t have my credit cards paid off, we are still renting our home. I was really feeling sad. And I took the day to clean out my otherwise filthy mini van and try and collect my thoughts. That night I was lying in bed reading the news and I started getting new breaks that there was a shooting in on the Strip. I immediately got out of bed. I was simultaneously getting dressed, going pee, and connecting with strangers on the internet. My husband said “what are you doing?” Me: “I don’t know but I’ve got to help.” A woman posted on Facebook that she had 6 friends stuck near the airport who were at the concert and there were no cabs or a way for them to safely get out of there. I had the space for them and I had listened to my intuition and cleaned my car. I’ve lived here my whole life and I don’t live far from the airport. I was able to navigate surface streets (sometimes going the wrong way) to get to where they were at. The day 1 took my 1 year token I had taken donations and food to a hospital where the victims families where at. None of those things I could have done if I were drinking. I was able to be of service because I was sober. Today, I did my grandma’s grocery shopping since she is in an assisted living home and can’t leave because of Covid. My blessing of sobriety may not be monetary. But I’m here and I’m doing what I can for other people. I’m here for my family and my kids. Every day I get is one more than I ever thought was possible and I’m so so grateful for it.
submitted by VegasMomofTres to alcoholicsanonymous [link] [comments]


2020.10.08 02:03 Ghostlyshado Concert pee voyeur

I was a “tomboy” who thought of “herself” as a boy. I hated going into girls’ bathrooms. When I was in 1st grade, I kept trying to pee standing up making the predictable mess. I stopped after several spankings for the mess.
I played with boys’ toys and wanted clothes from the boys; department. Damn, I hated skirts/ dresses. I almost dropped out of band because the dress for concerts was black skirt and white shirt if you were a “girl.” I finally thought of it as a “kilt” I was so happy to get into highschool and wear a band uniform.
I felt so lost, ugly, angry, gross in adolescence. Why did my body betray me?
I always wondered why any “boy” would want to be a “girl.” Being a “girl” was horrible. It took into my 20s to understand that transwomen felt the same way about their “male” gender as I did about being “female.”
Did anyone else do this, or was I just dumb?
(I’m using him/her initially as how society understood gender identity)
submitted by Ghostlyshado to ask_transgender [link] [comments]


2020.10.06 22:12 bearboblund Concert pee voyeur

A story about my first time seeing Phish (Wrigley Field, 6/24/2016).
TLDR; See Phish, crap pants, laugh, cry, faint, fall in love, disappoint parents, repeat.
- - - - -
In the summer of 2016, my then girlfriend and I saw the band, Phish, for the first time. As for firsts and where this inaugural event ranks, what I don’t remember I cannot assert, but from what I can recall, quite vividly in manic, cross-cut sections of Wrigley Field blossoming into a technicolor wave pool, is a first without rival. A first that compelled her and I to see the band twenty more times in the next three years, each show delivering an unparalleled experience, but nothing quite like the first. I wish someone would’ve told me before the show began that years from now, this show, top to bottom, will still rank as my favorite Phish setlist. Of course, my response then would’ve been something like, “Hootie beggar blowfish?”
My only conclusion is this: thank god and goddammit I didn’t find them earlier.
I might never have if it wasn’t for her.
We met on a Sunday in June at a music festival in Nashville. Standing in the middle of a crowd watching Bob Weir, I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“Do you have any weed?”
I said the first thing that came to mind:
“Back at my place?”
She laughed, like a grown-up would at a stammering toddler. Of the thousands gathered on that knobby, dirt patch, I was probably the only other person who wasn’t holding. Out of desperation and hollow nobility, I vowed to help her find some. She needed no help attaining fest weed, a freely circulating public good as available in that space as reflections on the Dead’s greatest year. But she didn’t seem to mind the idea of company, and so with a nod of her head, I became her company.
At a time in my life where I was only beginning to understand how little I knew about myself, about who I was, and thus a period of marked insecurity and self-deception, she seemed to know exactly who she was and where she was going. Los Angeles-born and bred with no plans to return. College years spent in Wisconsin, which she wore like a merit badge, an honorary Midwesterner. Dad, a former heart surgeon, Mom, a former model. To make matters worse, she didn’t care to talk about herself; she wanted to know my story. I’d made it habit at that point to reveal as little about myself as possible to maintain an air of mystery, but her ability to engage encouraged reciprocation; she was intense, intimate, attentive.
She loved Janis, preferred the blues, disliked indie, wanted her rock to rock her. Her tastes were freewheeling and straight from the heart. “The Rolling Stones are the greatest band of all time,” is not an original or outrageous claim nor is it correct, and I told her so, but she defended her point, anyway, and without a hint of self-righteousness, without regurgitating esoteric liner notes or referencing the band’s forebears. Her mission was pure: she simply wanted to convert each and every non-believer encountered.
She was a gunner, type-A, but without the arrogance. Smart, but not self-serious. Soft, kind, flirtatious but not forward. Focused, but reflexively free-spirited, which seemed her strongest innate quality, one of the original ingredients that, though shuffled in and diluted with the inevitable responsibility age brings, nevertheless persisted and always would. She didn’t meddle. She had a career in politics. I’d vote for her. I told her so.
She was leaving in ten days, heading to Chicago for the next chapter of her life. Three years in the same small city, many nights surely spent in the same corner of the bar, and here we were, meeting at call time. Bob Dylan, the poet laureate of bittersweet moments and inevitable ends, was the night’s final act and provided a beautiful, if not melancholic send-off. The lights came on. We said goodbye, and that could’ve been it.
But it wasn’t. We saw each other two years later.
Six months after that, I quit my job, packed my shit, drove up to Chicago, and moved in. Almost three years after first meeting, our first night together as roommates happened to be our thirty-fifth night together in total. To say we didn’t know what we were doing is both true and mostly true. Through years of text and phone conversations, we knew plenty of intimate details about one another: favorite movies, foods, political affiliations, fragrances, dreams, fears. On the other hand, if distance makes the heart grow fonder, closeness allows the brain, your neglected ally, to remind you that the leading cause of death is the heart.
Luckily, on trying days when our differences felt insurmountable, we had music. It's where we started. We chased concerts, bars, and dance clubs five nights a week in the relentless pursuit of making up for lost time. It was the period of “yes,” to excess and otherwise, no matter the night or idea.
And yet, following a friend’s recommendation to see Phish play Wrigley, I was an unequivocal “no.” Why? Because it was Phish. This position of ignorance is a popular one and exactly the type of prejudice the band has perennially inspired. Of course I’d never seen Phish, but what I knew about them had been gleaned from a former roommate, an obsessive who listened to entire tour runs from his room. When I tried to talk Phish with him, he struggled, admittedly, to find the right words to describe their sound, and importantly, the experience of their shows. “They’re like the Dead, right?” I offered, thinking a reference point provided an inroad to unraveling the topic. The question had the exact opposite effect, and my response was to leave Phish in the manila folder marked ‘IDK’ in the back of my musical index. She was receptive to the idea because, why not? On Thursday night, we checked StubHub and tickets were reasonably priced. Who was I to say no?
Spurred by the warm weather and lack of adventurous ‘trips’ taken together, we each ingested almost a full eighth between drinks in our kitchen, which doubled as our dinner, and left the apartment with heads full of spirits and mouths full of shards. In an effort to soothe any creeping mushroom reflux, we decided to walk a few blocks before ordering an Uber. It was 6:30, thirty minutes to doors, hour to show time, and we had plans to meet our friend in Shakedown prior to entering the stadium.
Only after escaping the heat and settling into the car's backseat did I sense the first, very strong signal that the mushrooms were on the move. Though I wasn’t overly warm, I was sweating intensely from abnormal areas. Not my palms, but the backs of my hands were covered in sweat. A line of sweat beads ran from the temples down either side of my head, pooling under my chin. Both knee pits were sopping. I felt like a can of cream soup that had been pin punctured at random.
Even under cover of aviators, there was no mistaking Lilly's expression, eyebrows hovering over the top of the lenses, for anything other than “we’re fucked.” I grabbed her hand and squeezed, a gesture of reassurance that we were OK, but considering the forced half-smile it was attached to, likely succeeded only in reinforcing her belief. She laughed loudly before abruptly suffocating it like a sneeze she hadn’t felt coming. I kept mouthing, “OK”, to her over and over, nodding my head up and down like a defeated football coach absorbing the reality of a massive halftime deficit. She, however, appeared almost excited. Her rosy red cheeks and shit-eating grin produced this cartoonish expression like she was in on the joke, whether this was all in good fun or the way it all ended. On cue, “Werewolves of London” issued forth from the radio, each “Aaaooooo!” louder and more hair-raising than the last as we rolled toward Wrigley.
The driver pulled over at the southeast corner of Racine and Addison. We whispered, “thank you” as we exited the vehicle, and he yelled, “Good luck!” from the open passenger window as he pulled a “U” and drove off. We laughed like hyenas before taking a couple deep breaths, wiping the tears from our eyes. The open air was like a splash of cool water as the mushroom limbo balance tipped from fear to fun.
Wrigleyville was overrun, its blue hat population replaced by a frenzied community of unknown origin whose presence, by sheer numbers, established a new law and order, free of law and simple in order. People sold, bought and traded items on the street, smoked, drank, and huffed on the sidewalk, shook hands, slapped fives, hugged, danced. The police presence was minimal, most officers posted at the zone’s periphery, serving as guardrails, preventative agents to keep the outside from the inside crowds and vice versa. I watched as a guy trying, but ultimately failing, to catch himself from stumble falling was wrapped up in a bear hug by an officer, who brought him back to his feet and sent him on his way.
We zig-zagged through the lot, arms strung around each other in supportive, clumsy embrace, communicating strictly in awestruck toddler-level finger pointing, and quickly found ourselves at the Clark-Addison entrance gate.
Located down the first base line, just past the visitor’s dugout in the shallow right field stands, our seats offered an almost direct view of the center field stage. They also offered zero protection from the in-no-rush-to-be-setting sun. With no breeze, the air was stifling, our metal seats scalding hot, and the stadium was nearly empty and unnervingly quiet.
“We’re a little early, I guess,” I said.
“What time is it?”
“Five after seven.”
“Why are we here?” she asked, slumped down in her seat.
“I don’t know."
Acknowledged in the Uber, then completely forgotten during our lot walk, what had felt like stomach jitters now urgently required a bathroom trip.
“Oh no…”
“Why, oh no?” Lilly said.
“I gotta go.”
“Oh no,” she whispered through gritted teeth.
Inside the tunnels, everyone moved at incredible speeds and in unpredictable patterns. I walked in circles for a few minutes before finding a men’s restroom, located almost directly in front of the ramp I entered the tunnel from.
As soon as I sat down in the stall, the urge to shit vanished. Thinking it was a trick, I decided to wait for its return. I pulled out my phone and padded the pulsing, wobbling numbers on the screen, watching them bob up and down like lily pads in stream. My trance was interrupted by a gigantic fart in the stall next door, which prompted a chorus of thunderous laughter on the other side of the stall door. The fart. It wasn’t me, but that didn’t matter. The idea of being assigned blame for the fart by a mob of strangers rattled me. Sweating like a beast, I took a deep breath, pushed open the door and sprinted out of the bathroom, the assumed to be fleeing farter.
“Oh my god! What has been happening?” she asked with a crazed grin. I wanted to tell her about the fart, but based on her expression assumed she had somehow already heard.
“So much” is all I could offer.
Expanding in scale, the stadium now resembled something closer to a coliseum, the half-ring of upper deck towering above us, our section sunken to arena-level. The sun hovered next to the left field upper deck, and cast warm, gold-flecked shades of purple, orange and red across the grounds. Streams of people filled every aisle way, fed from every entrance. The upper deck looked overrun with ants, thousands spreading across its sections. The general attendance crowd flooded across the white tile surface laid over the field, some angling toward the pit in front of the stage, others twirling in back near the stand-to-field entrances.
Lilly grabbed my arm.
“Let’s go down there!”
I laughed.
“But we don’t have tickets.”
“But it’s right there!”
We WOW-ed to each other every 30 seconds or so, fixed in our seats like we were in the front row at the movie theater, turning to describe some unbelievable sight just seen or emotion deeply felt, only to blurt out, “WOW…did you…I just…WOW.”
Never had we experienced such a palpable sense of build to a show. Pre-show excitement is of course one of the best parts of any concert-going experience; the chatter of setlist debates, downing of drinks, racing to grab one more before show start, rows of heads nodding to the beat of whatever song plays as the techs complete instrument check. No, this was something above and far out beyond the normal behavior of fans waiting for a band’s walk-on. It looked like a preparation for departure. Most people were sitting, slowly sipping at beers, checking placement of keys, wallets, hugging, holding hands. Normal enough, but not when juxtaposed with everything packed into the “before.” In context, it now felt like we were in the low-pressure wake moments before natural disaster. It was like everyone was preparing to lose themselves completely to the happening that was moments away.
The four members of Phish strolled onto the stage. The crowd went apeshit, a jarring reminder for Lilly and I that we were here for a purpose beyond shape shifting through the ether. A silence settled over the crowd, every set of lungs expanding as Trey adjusted his strap, tapped his pedalboard, Mike bum-bum-bum-bumped a few notes from his bass, Fish ta-ting-ting-ting before RaWrRwrrRArrr, Trey’s first strum, the long-awaited signal that it was finally time to go.
The crowd leapt into full Harry Carey “Cubs Win!” celebration mode, and I’ve never seen or been part of something more joyous in my life. For the entirety of the first song, if not the first set, all Lilly or I could do was observe in awestruck wonder as the spectacle before us redefined our understanding of what constitutes a good or memorable or worthy live music experience, communicating by way of pointing, gesturing, and screaming like the fucking Beatles had taken the stage. The opening song provided a perfect entry to not only the band, but this night in particular because it sounded familiar, like a rock song you’ve heard before, one with a natural, building progression and catchy pop hook that brought you up and back down without completely untucking your shirt.
The second song took care of that. On the heels of the first song came a raunchy, hard-charging guitar lead, converged on by a glissando and rapid-fire drum beat that cranked the stadium’s heart rate into a downhill sprint. There’s no doubt in my mind that the structural integrity of Wrigley was challenged over the next three to four minutes as the suddenly larger than life titans of rock whipped thousands into a lunatic dance frenzy. This was the shit overbearing parents warned their kids about “rock and roll,” but now, surrounded by those same parents, I knew why: they wanted it all for themselves.
The second song offered a first glance of, and participation in, the Phish dance, a style and form all its own. Have you ever danced like no one is watching? At home in your room, door closed with a favorite guilty pleasure track playing on repeat? Now imagine doing that with 40,000 people, each feeding off of the high energy, free form dance of the person in front of them as if it’s some sort of competition, but it’s not, there’s no judgment committee, no yes-no, right-wrong, and so what you have is a huge group of receptive individuals free of the notion of preening, free of self-consciousness, being fed this hyper-contagious strain of cathartic dance created for you, specifically for you, by a rock n’ roll band of world class musicians who have mastered the art of live performance, who embody music’s deeply-rooted connection to humanity, joy, release and are as serious about the music as they aren’t about themselves.
Before our feet reached the ground, an animatronic voice from above objected:
“You have been selected as the first astronaut to explore the planet Mars. The countdown is progressing, and your spaceship is about to blast off on its voyage of discovery.”
To Mars we went on a ship fueled by extraterrestrial funk and the collective energy of 40,000 space junkies. Based on experience, I’d come to believe that all concerts follow the same general arc: the band comes out with a lot of energy and gives you something hard and fast, like a new single, right out of the block. A few songs later, the band slows it down, providing a needed breather, release of tension. The build then begins again, there’s maybe one more dip, and the finale packs all the fuck to your face they can muster. We were only three songs in, but exactly none of those rules were being followed here. If anything, we started low and then went up. Phish only went up. There we were, shell shocked, nearly in tears, hands on top of our shaking heads, expressions of disbelief on our sweaty faces as the band punched home the last note of the finale. For the next few seconds, we stood in silent awe, slowly acclimating to the sensory overload of the last seventy-some minutes as patrons dispersed for set break.
Wrapping her arms around my neck, Lilly smiled, leaned back, and slowly rocked back and forth. This is her, I realized. Beaming like a nuclear disco ball, bursting at the seams with childlike serenity, this is who Lilly is. She’s intelligent, ambitious, driven, and will accomplish everything she sets her mind to in her professional life, but her definition of success, her fulfillment is simple: to love and be loved and do things we love.
When the epiphany settled, I realized how badly I needed to piss. Within the stadium tunnels, the mood was light, energetic, celebratory, but more focused than pre-show. Everyone needed to drain and replenish with bathrooms and provisions, food, beer, and water, simple enough tasks but on a deadline, which added a collective sense of urgency. We walked against the flow of traffic, heading out near the gate we’d entered for a quick breather. Instead of heading back toward home plate direction, we walked underneath the right of home plate upper deck section and wound up at a porta-potty encampment that felt like the Eden of toilet banks. Short lines, friendly, blissed-out faces abound, a Purell station, and a row of vendor carts nearby.
After the head, I grabbed two beers and walked over to Lilly who was hammer thumbing her phone.
“Here you go,” I said, handing her a beer.
“We’re going on the infield!” she screamed, and before I had a chance to question it, she grabbed the beer and started power walking in the direction of right field. As it turns out, this portable oasis we’d stumbled upon was near the tunnel that led to the general admission field entry. The friend we meant to meet up with prior to the show had a GA pass, represented by a silver wristband applied at stadium entrance that permitted free passage through the pearly field access gates. Unbeknownst to us, it was well-known that security at Wrigley was notoriously lax when it came to checking wristband wearers.
“We’re just going to wait until there’s a big rush of people,” Lilly explained. Peeking out from behind a vertical column twenty yards from the gate, we watched people presenting their wrists and walking through the 10-foot wide entry, flanked by four security guards in bright yellow ‘SECURITY’ shirts.
“And then we’re going to wiggle our way into the middle of the group, hold our right hands in the air just like everyone else, and stare straight ahead until we’re in,” she said. I simply nodded, fully confident in the plan and the fateful trajectory of our night.
As bodies started to clog the bottleneck, we made our move. With two guards on the left edge, one on the right, and one situated in the center of the stream of people, the squeeze created the momentary chaos necessary for sneaking in. I looked up as Lilly, perfectly timed, slipped right by the center guard who had just turned his head in my direction. As his scan swung back to the right, with one long stride, I slid through the gap between two people in front of me, past the center guard, and Jesus, take the wheel, I’m a free -
Caught. Looking up, I could see only the tips of my fingers flailing above an Andre the Giant-sized hand where my wrist had been.
“Nope,” the guard yelled over the bodies passing under his outstretched arm. I scanned the open area past the gates. She’d seen the whole thing. Hands cupped over her mouth, softly shaking her head “no,” Lilly watched as I was led out of the stream of passing bodies by the mighty hand of the law.
“Where’s your wrist band?” he asked.
“My wife has it, she just walked in.”
In my mind, “wife” conveyed legitimacy, much more so than “girlfriend” as I was the aloof husband, not the high as shit boyfriend. The guard responded by laughing in an unfriendly way, in a very cop way, before sharply nodding in the opposite direction.
“Get outta here.”
Confused and embarrassed, I started walking up the ramp like a kicked dog. I pulled out my phone and turned to see if I could find Lilly again. Before I did, she called.
“What happened?” she asked. I saw her now, pacing back and forth, hand on her forehand.
“I got caught, baby,” I said, laughing. “Listen, stay on the field. I’ll just go back to our seats. It’s totally fine. They’re probably going to start again soon.”
“No fuckin way,” she screamed. “I’m getting you in here!” And with that, she hung up.
I headed back to the porta-park. The adrenaline injection tied to the security run-in had momentarily dampened my high. For the first time in hours, I felt capable of coherent speech.
“How about that first set, huh?” I said to the guy next to me in the porta line.
He shot me an incredulous “are you kidding me?” look.
“Duuuude, Torture, Monster, Sand, with a Wedge thrown in, capped with a Free to Blaze close, all in the first? Fuckin heat, man. Hot hot heat. Heaaaaaaater right outta the block!”
I nodded enthusiastically, without the slightest clue what any of that meant. Nevermind, I thought. I remain capable of nothing. Inside my blue plastic pod, I started laughing at the thought of trying to get back to our seats. While accepting the evening’s twist of fate and a second set spent wandering aimlessly, trying to figure out what the fuck that guy just said, though not in the least distressed by this notion, I felt my phone buzzing in my pocket.
“Come back to the field entrance!” Lilly screamed.
“Huh?”
“Come back to where you just were!”
“There’s no way I’m getting past that guy now. He’s got a line on me.”
“We have a wristband for you!”
Lilly had found our friends on the infield. Our friend, Jen, was going to meet me on my side of the gate with an extra wristband. I waited behind the same vertical column, carefully watching the gate and my assailant, who I knew was anticipating my return. I saw Jen approaching the gate field-side. Walking up the ramp, she handed me a wristband that I slipped on and a ticket that I put in my pocket, and we U-turned to head back to the gate.
I kept my focus on the field. Passed the guard in the center of the walkway. Felt the same splash of the sweet open air of the infield on my face.
Caught. Same place. Same vice-like grip.
“You again?!”
His confident, almost amused expression belied his incredulous tone.
“I’ve got my wristband,” I said, pointing up at it like a seven-year old.
“Let me see your ticket.”
I pulled the ticket out of my pocket and handed it to him. Disappointed, he looked it over before pulling a hole puncher out of his back pocket and emphatically piercing my ticket.
“All tickets need to be punched!” he yelled to no one in particular as he handed me back my ticket.
I put the ticket back in my pocket, took a few steps forward and raised my hands over my head like Rocky. Fifty yards ahead, Lilly, standing with a group of our friends, shot her hands in the air and burst out laughing.
“See!” she said, holding my face in her hands before spreading her arms wide and twirling in a circle. “We have to be down here.”
She was right. Having already experienced something truly outstanding with set one, we could’ve left the stadium right then, scarfed an order of greasy Chinese food, and gone to bed knowing live music would never be the same again. Our definition of what is and isn’t a valuable live show, and why, had been blown to smithereens. But walking toward the stage on the infield, sensing the exotic energy of the pit, the thought of being “in it” like never before, what we’d just witnessed already felt behind us, fading in the background of the rearview mirror.
By the time we found a clearing, stage right, twenty rows back, to post up for the second set, night had fallen, and the stage, framed by the stark black surroundings, pulsed in swirling red-yellow orbits. When the band reappeared, they walked on in the same unassuming manner of the first set, like four guys walking to the beer line. The roar of the crowd shook my bones and drowned out the wary, doubting voice in my head. Comfortably acclimated, Lilly appeared ready to be led into war as she yelled into the night with what I can only describe as a metal show intensity. The crowd quieted as the members assembled themselves on stage.
I could barely hear the sounds being played over the speakers when the crowd went berserk. It first sounded like swirling wind or the hissing squeal of gas escaping a high-pressure chamber. Then, it turned darker, swampier before BAWMP-BAWMP. I turned to the guy on my right.
“What is this?” I screamed into his ear.
“DOWN WITH THE DISEASE,” he yelled back, as Trey fired three electric missiles directly into the receptive, joyous faces of an army of possessed souls. The second set picked up right where the first left off except now we were in the trenches, which unsurprisingly enhanced the everything-ness of the show and sounds by an IMAX magnitude. From twenty rows back, the wall of sound was like a Bob Marley-coined, doesn’t-hurt-when-it-hits tidal wave. For the first thirty seconds of the second set opener, I didn’t move; just stood paralyzed as my brain tried to figure out what the fuck was going on.
A solo piano rhythm slowed things down at the start of the second song, but not for long. As the other instruments joined, the song achieved this big, theatrical, rock opera-y sound before cutting out completely at the first verse, leaving Trey and Mike to quietly sing the lyrics and the crowd to lean in a little closer, get a little tighter. At the last few words, a drum lead fired up the start of another ladder climb crescendo, restarting the frenzy the soft-spoken lyrics momentarily calmed. Then, at the end of the second verse, the lyrics trailed off, creating the quietest moment of the night before –
OOOOH OOO OOOOOH OOO OHHHH OOOH!
At the first “OOOOH!”, thousands of glow sticks were launched into the air from every corner of the stadium, then picked up and sent sailing again. Smiling like an idiot, I turned in a circle and watched glow stick spouts erupt sporadically across the stands and upper deck, and thought, “how have I spent so much time missing this?”
I thought about all the shows I’d been to, and how, in retrospect, regardless of venue size, nothing compared to this. Memories from my favorite shows now seemed in need of revision.
The guy on my right turned to me and screamed, “TWIST!”, as the next song started. I appreciated that he knew I must be new to the band and continued to keep me informed. He proceeded to dance like “Twist” was his favorite song. His style was a form of barely controlled chaos; his moves looked like a gang of hornets had been released in his pants and shirt and his only hope was to dance them out. Of course, when I looked at his face, it looked like maybe these particular hornets were armed with ticklers instead of stingers.
For us, the second set was a victory lap. Lilly wiggled and writhed like a happily possessed flower child and I slowly regained the ability to speak in words. My friend continued to educate, shouting the titles as new songs started.
“Twenty Years Later!”
“Waste!”
“Alsoshrrackzarusta!”
“What?” I yelled back. I couldn’t tell if whatever he’d just shouted was gibberish because he was so excited that the words ran together or because it wasn’t English. But as I listened on, something totally unexpected happened.
“Holy shit, I think I know this one!” I screamed at Lilly. It was a cover of the entrance song of none other than the greatest professional wrestler of all time, Ric Flair; also the opening theme song from Stanley Kubrick’s 2001. Of course, what Phish did with the song was funky and absurd, glorious and downright dirty, long periods of jazzy deep-space improv separated by massive peaks, each peak starting with a bat-signal-like sky shot from Trey’s guitar before turning into full, stadium-rattling orchestral finales. With each one, Lilly and I flung our arms in the air like the aliens in Toy Story hoping to be picked up and taken away by the claw.
In riding out the lofty, rollercoaster high of the Ric Flair theme song cranked on moon-rock cocaine, it took me a minute to realize Lilly was no longer bouncing in and out of my immediate periphery. She was standing still, holding the inside of her right hip.
“Hey, you OK?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just my tummy.”
I narrowed my eyes. She leaned in and put her arm around me.
“Really, I’m OK.”
I put my hand around her and we swayed back and forth in time with the next song, a rhythmic, light, much needed break from the previous onslaught. Her hand dropped from my side, again grabbing the right side of her stomach.
“Lil, what’s the matter?”
She inhaled deeply through her nose, bending over slightly between each breath. She looked up.
“I need some air.”
She nodded in the direction of the boundary fencing to our right. I grabbed her hand and put my right arm out in front to direct our passage, shouting “excuse me” to part the bodies ahead. When I reached the fence, I turned and pulled her toward me. She stumbled, causing her to fall into the fence. I grabbed her by the waist as she pulled herself up, but as soon as she stood, her legs buckled and she fell forward, knocking both of us to the ground. The crowd opened in a circle around us. She slipped off onto the ground, face up, eyes closed. I knelt over her, both hands on her face, trying to wake her.
“LILLY! LILLY! HELP! HELP!”
Her body was rigid, jaw clenched. I searched the surrounding faces, screaming, pleading for someone to call for security.
She opened her eyes wide, blinking several times.
“Lilly! Are you OK? Can you stand?”
She nodded. I helped her to a seated position.
“Did you just have a seizure?” I asked, wiping the sweat from her forehead.
“I don’t know.”
“Can you stand?”
“Not yet.”
Someone shouted “hey!” from above. A guy crouched down, smiling, bottle of water in hand.
“Everyone OK?”
“Yeah, I think so,” Lilly responded.
He nodded toward the water. “Here, see,” he pointed toward the cap’s intact seal. “Unopened.” His manner was deliberate; his motions smooth, calming.
“Thank you,” we both said. Lilly grabbed the water, twisted the cap off and took a drink.
It was quiet. Our backs to the stage, the band sounded faint, far away. We looked up at the half circle of concerned faces focused on us. At least a dozen people extended bottles of water, each showing us the sealed cap.
“Wanna try to stand up?” the guy asked.
Lilly nodded. We helped her to her feet.
“There we go. All good?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you,” Lilly said. “I’m so sorry about -
Before she could finish, he grabbed her left hand, my right hand and hoisted our arms in the air.
“WE’RE ALL GOOD!” he screamed to the crowd. Everyone around us, as far back as we could see, threw their hands up in celebration, screaming, patting us on the back, sending us thumbs up and holding until the signal was reciprocated. In that moment, I believe their energy could’ve raised the dead. We had disrupted their show with what could’ve been easily perceived as an overdose or at the very least, inexperienced users overdoing it, and instead of dismissing or jeering, they responded with an outpouring of love and community that I still can’t get over to this day.
That was it. I got it.
Phish had “something” no other band had and no other show offered, but the “something” wasn’t one thing; it was everything. As much as it was the band, the music, the production, it was just as much the other side. I’d never been to a show that involved the fans taking such an active participatory role, an almost equal role, in contributing to a show’s creation. It’s of course law that musicians and bands thank their fans throughout a show. With Phish, the act wasn’t even necessary. This was a symbiotic partnership hell-bent on reaching for something higher than just a good showing. Both sides had a job, and the only way to reach peak concert performance was if both sides executed to the best of their abilities. The only way everyone left the stadium satisfied that night was if performance and gratitude levels matched start to finish. A gathering of friends, not one of them willing to let down the other.
Lilly and I were grabbed by security guards and assisted out of the fray. Once we reached an open area, the guard holding my arm stopped and directed me to face him.
“What happened?” he asked sternly. We were eye level and uncomfortably close. I assumed he had already made his own conclusions as to what happened, and this wouldn’t be a friendly conversation. Until then, I hadn’t realized how hard my hands were trembling. I shook them a few times, took a breath, and started stammering through my story.
“And then once she got to the fence, her legs gave out, she fell on top of me, and I think she had a seizure.”
“What did you give her?”
“Nothing, promise. We haven’t taken anything.” I could see Lilly talking to two guards.
“Hey, tell me what you gave her.”
“I didn’t give her anything.”
“Sit down,” he instructed, then walked over to Lilly and his two colleagues. Their positions semi-obstructed my view of Lilly, so I couldn’t get a read on the tone of their conversation and the likelihood of my arrest. Fortunately, the three guards walked away a few seconds later, leaving Lilly, diminished but smiling through it all. She walked over and sat down next to me.
“That’s happened to me before,” she said.
“What? The seizure?”
“No, I’ve fainted before. I could feel it coming.”
We held each other, silent except for the intermittent, “I love you” and “are you OK?”
“Let’s get out of here,” I said, getting to my feet.
I bent down and placed my hands under hers, and gently pulled her up. We walked slowly, matching our steps. It was only after we walked through the GA field entrance area that I heard the opening piano of “Loving Cup,” one of Lilly’s favorite songs from her favorite band, being played by her new favorite band. On a night that felt bottomless until we crashed, only to be saved and raised by a swarm of pie-eyed angels, Trey and the gang gave us a fitting send-off, a song for the wary and beat, but not beaten souls.
When we got home, Lilly walked into the first-floor bathroom. I heard water running from the faucet as I ran downstairs to change clothes. When I walked in, she was lying naked in the tub with arms folded over her stomach, legs bent at the knee and feet on the floor. She’d been crying.
I knelt down, resting my knees on the tile.
“Feeling better?”
“I think something’s wrong with me,” she said.
“Why do you think that? Are you in pain?”
She shook her head.
“That was fucking scary, but we're OK now,” I said.
“I don’t think I can pee.”
“What?”
“I need you to tell me if I’m peeing,” she said. “It feels like I am, but I don’t know if I am.”
I shifted to my left and tilted my head down close to the tub’s edge where I could see under her left knee. A yellow stream appeared.
“You’re peeing!” I screamed. “We’re OK!”
“Does it look right?”
“Yes, it looks like right as pee could be.”
“I don’t feel right. I’ve fainted before, but this is different. Something’s wrong with my head.”
“Listen, we took big doses on empty stomachs, barely drank any water and danced off like ten thousand calories in the process. I don’t think it’s that crazy that you fainted.”
“You said I had a seizure.”
“It looked like a seizure, but maybe it wasn’t.”
“What if I have a brain tumor? I think we should go to the hospital.”
“You don’t have a brain tumor.”
“But I had a seizure. I’ve never had a seizure.”
“I mean, I think it was a seizure.”
“What do you mean, you think?!”
“I don’t know! It looked like a seizure, but I don’t know if it was a seizure!”
We called one of our friends, a doctor, and explained what happened.
“I mean, if you had a seizure, you should probably go to the hospital.”
So, it was settled. Before leaving, I ran our puppy out. I took a longer route around the neighborhood. I needed it. The night had been one, long extended episode of blunt force wonderful trauma. Except, I was still completely shell-shocked, I couldn’t really even begin to process the night, so I just kind of stumbled around giggling while my pup sniffed around.
I opened our apartment door to find Lilly sitting on the couch in her robe, eyes still heavy with tears, on the phone with someone. She pulled the phone from her ear and hit the speaker button.
“Wait, he just walked in. Evan, tell my Dad what happened.”
Lilly’s Dad, who I hadn’t met in person, who went to Yale when he was 15, where along with acing his coursework, swam on the school’s swim team and nearly qualified as an alternative on the ’64 Olympic team. Lilly’s Dad, the certified genius and human calculator, who chose Stanford for medical school before becoming a heart surgeon and later, an author. Lilly wanted me…to explain…to him…what happened.
Blitzkrieg alarm bells rang in my head, my brain firing signals to my legs to jump through the window, but it was too late. I could only watch in wide-eyed horror as Lilly extended the phone toward me, the phone carrying the voice of the man whose daughter I was supposed to support and protect and not, specifically not, allow drug-induced seizures to happen to.
“Uhh, hi, hello, Joe –“
“Yeah, hi, Evan,” he said, politely, if not unimpressed.
“Hi, so we were at the concert, and Lilly’s stomach hurt, and we tried to exit the crowd, but then she passed out, and we fell down, and her jaw locked up, and her body turned stiff, and so it looked like a seizure, and that’s what happened.”
“How long was she out for?”
“Not long. Maybe five seconds.”
“Lilly,” he said flatly.
“Yeah?” Lilly responded.
“Did you break out in sweat right away?”
“Yeah.”
“And you felt fine right after, right?”
“Yeah.”
“You had a vasovagal response.”
“Oh.”
I said nothing, praying he wouldn’t test my understanding of vasovagal responses.
“Yeah. You’ve had those before.”
“Yeah, I know,” Lilly said, receding into the couch.
“Lilly, what are you doing taking mushrooms? Your sister’s the druggie, you’re not the druggie! You have a puppy.”
There were a million things I wanted to say, mostly pleas to forget this interaction, to resist the temptation to write me off forever, to forgive me for strangling his daughter once we got off the phone. Lilly ended the call quickly, thanking him for calming her down as I did the same in the background. We stared at each other in silence. She apologized. I was too exhausted to be upset, thinking an aneurysm in my sleep would be easier. We went downstairs, climbed in bed, and drifted off to sleep.
When I woke up the next morning, Lilly was already up and on her phone.
“Good morning.”
“Hey,” she said, smiling sheepishly.
I yawned and stretched before sitting up on my elbow.
“What are you doin?” I nodded toward her phone. “Jen ever ask what happened to us last night?
“I’m looking for tickets for tonight.”
“You're kidding.”
She turned her screen so I could see.
“Look, floors!”
submitted by bearboblund to phish [link] [comments]


2020.10.02 16:07 _lillia Concert pee voyeur

Hello, IMAMers! I received my first order from Poesie the other day, and thought I'd sit down to pen some reviews. Let me start off by saying that I am really surprised so far--the scents I thought I'd hate I've ended up loving, and the scents I expected to love did not really work out for me at all!
I got a batch of 6 samples, but because of post text limits on reddit I am going to break this review into two parts. Stay tuned for part two in the next few days!
So let's get into it :)
{{{ Medusa — cold snakeskin, dragon’s blood resin, red patchouli, cracked stone }}}
Method: I rested this for about 24 hours. I only slightly dabbed the applicator thingy on my wrists and collarbone, but I've been able to smell myself pretty well throughout the day.
Throw: Medium. I can smell it on my hand and collarbone as I type, even though I applied a very small amount.
Longevity: 9 hours. I could still kind of smell this on myself at the end of the day when I was working out! I'm impressed!!
How does it smell to me? (I literally groaned when I saw my one random freebie sample was one of the only Poesie scents with patchouli in it. After some bad experiences with Alkemia's patchouli, I thought it was a death note for me. But!! For the sake of science, I was gonna give Medusa a try anyway.) This scent smells cool, wet, and slightly green. It smells very much like stone in the vial, but warms up once I put it on my skin. Despite my patchouli-phobia, I really like this (maybe I actually hate incense, not patchouli??? Hmm... need to review my notes!). Medusa has an underlying coolness (probs the stone), but also has some mysterious spice to it that warms up and becomes more noticeable on the skin. It's really well-blended, and I have trouble picking out the notes individually. They all work well together, and I can't stop smelling myself. I think this is a great "darker" fall fragrance for people who don't like B&BW-type gourmand scents!
How does this make me feel? (aka Vibe Check TM): Medusa reminds me of being outside on the foggy, chilly days where fall is turning into winter, and the cold is seeping into your bones; you can smell the rain in the air and on the pavement. Medusa is like your goth friend who seemed really intimidating when you first met her but now you've learned that you totally misjudged her and she's actually a really sweet and approachable person, and even though she wears knee high studded boots and a leather trench coat you feel like you could never pull off, she's chill af and just wants to hang out in the cemetery and read poetry on foggy days. And when you join her, you feel a little bit like a badass by association. That's how Medusa makes me feel. Like my cool goth friend is taking me under her wing.
Song this reminds me of: "Seven Devils" by Florence and the Machine
Overall rating: ★★★★☆. I'm probably going to full-size this!!

{{{ Versailles — golden cake, intoxicating orange blossom, fluffy vanilla citrus icing, blood orange }}}
Method: I rested this for about 48 hours (I test one scent a day). I slightly dabbed the applicator thingy on my wrists and collarbone
Throw: Low-Medium. I can barely smell it on my hand and collarbones.
Longevity: 4 hours
How does it smell to me? It smells fruity and floral at the same time, with a hint of sweet. It's a fizzy, powdery scent. I get cake in the vial, but as soon as I put it on my skin, it disappears.
How does this make me feel? (aka Vibe Check TM): It makes me feel sweet, benign, mild. Like the girl who lends her pens to anyone in the office, never expecting to get them back. Or maybe I'm pining after someone I've loved for a long time, but I'm too shy to say anything about it. Not my vibe though.
Song this reminds me of: "Wildest Dreams" by Taylor Swift
Overall rating: ★★★☆☆. Probably will not FS.

{{{ Secret Boyfriend — a mountain of light fluffy marshmallows, your secret boyfriend’s leather jacket, pine and cedar, a wisp of smoke }}}
Method: I rested this for about 3 days (I test one scent a day). I dabbed the applicator thingy on my wrists and collarbone several times. It took more application than the previous two, I was afraid I was anosmic to this.
Throw: Low-Medium. I can barely smell it on my hand and collarbones.
Longevity: 4 hours
How does it smell to me? Like hemp and smoke, with the barest hint of sweetness. All boyfriend, no secret. (Maybe the secret boyfriend works on a farm, or grows hydroponic weed [WHY does everything smell like weed to me?? I HATE the scent]?) I was so sad about this one, because I expected to love it, but this was a total flop for me :(
How does this make me feel? (aka Vibe Check TM): I'm dancing next to a slightly unhinged (but handsome) boy at a concert. Someone in the crowd near me is smoking a joint, and I'm close enough to the stage to smell the fog machine.
Song this reminds me of: "Tee Pees 1-12" by Father John Misty
Overall rating: ★★☆☆☆. It's a no from me, dawg.
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2020.09.24 00:45 Bungle024 A Face in the Hallway

My wife and I used to live in a small apartment on the shadier side of the complex. There was a large picture window in the living room, a glass slider in the bedroom and a small window above the shower. The apartment was fairly dark with so few windows. At night the security lights from the nearby grocery store would shine through the back slider, but the bright, yet thin light only made for a creepy atmosphere.
My wife swore the place was haunted, but I never got any weird feelings and always said it couldn’t be. I had worked at a concert venue that was most definitely haunted and I didn’t get any weird feelings there, so I dismissed her admonition. I was wrong.
My wife had a habit of getting up to pee in the night, but she started running back to bed. When I finally asked her why, she said she could see a face looking at her in the hallway and she had to run back to bed because it scared the shit out of her that she might have to walk through it. I again dismissed this, saying it was a trick of the grocery store lights. She was vehement, but we didn’t argue too much about it.
A few weeks later we were talking about it. I was sitting in the “office,” an open area next to the kitchen where I had stuffed a desk, and she was at the sink washing dishes. I was a little more open minded during the daylight hours and was willing to see her side and go with her story, but I was still a little skeptical. As she washed the dishes I looked up from my work to say something to her and saw something that completely changed my mind about the face she saw in the hallway. The belt loop on her jeans opened up as if an invisible finger had hooked it. I actually let out a scream at the same time she screamed and I watched her jeans pull away from her back as she was violently yanked backwards away from the sink.
We both looked at each other as tears welled up in her eyes. I couldn’t say anything. We sat there looking at each other, not knowing what to do or say. I believed her after that. We had the apartment cleansed shortly thereafter, but the place never felt safe and we ended up moving within a few months.
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2020.09.15 03:09 valbuquerque Concert pee voyeur

First of all, I hope this is the right community. I don't post to reddit much. Please direct me to the right place if this isn't right!
So, a few months ago my coworker (F, 50’s) offered me (F, 24) a room in her house to rent while I was looking for apartments in the Carmel, Indiana area. My apartment lease ended in mid-July and I spent a few weeks visiting my family in New Jersey before moving into this woman’s house.
I spent $400 on this room, so naturally I was expecting, you know, a blank room. My own space. I was dead wrong. I walk into my $400 room to find a twin bed piled to the brim with princess and unicorn pillows, a floor full of shoes and dirty clothes, two dressers filled with clothes, and a closet also filled with stuff. The room belonged to the woman’s ten-year-old daughter, who also lived there but slept with her mother.
That wasn’t the only weird thing, however. The family had a Saint Bernard, which are notoriously very large. Now, don’t get me wrong—I love dogs. But this dog was so ill-behaved that I wanted nothing to do with it. It would jump on me, slobber wet food all over my legs, pee ALL over the floor—essentially it was a nightmare. I did not trust this dog around me, let alone my things. Also, the dog lived (as in, was locked into every night) the bathroom that was supposed to be mine. The only other bathroom was through the woman’s bedroom and contained no hand soap and had some unknown non-water liquids on the floor. Okay, yikes.
The woman offered me her bedroom, which would entail I 1. sleep in some strange woman’s bedroom while she comes into it through the night to use the bathroom and 2. sleep in some strange woman’s bedroom. No thanks.
The first evening I was there, despite the awful setup, was nice. She cooked me a nice dinner and we had a nice conversation. She always seemed like a nice person, helping me with moving and buying me food at work and other thoughtful things. So I tried to just deal with the weird living conditions and look for an apartment right away.
But the first night I slept there was simply awful. The bed smelled strongly of pee, and even had uncomfortable plastic pee covers under the sheets. I’d never felt so disgusted in my life. After finally falling asleep around 2am, the dog woke me up at 5am from the bathroom whimpering and barking and scratching. After an hour of this, I finally gave up and left the house and went to my storage unit.
That day, I worked, and then afterwards, I went to my friend’s apartment and the woman started texting me to ask where I was, when I’d be coming home, as if I was her daughter. It was weird. I slept at my friend’s apartment that night.
The next day, I went to the house and, of course, I couldn’t get in using the garage code, and the woman never made a spare key. At this point, I was incredibly frustrated. I knew I would not be happy there. When the ten-year-old daughter opened the door for me eventually, I was crying. So she asked what was wrong and I didn’t really intend on telling a small child that her mom ripped me off and I’m extremely unhappy, so I just told her some generic about how I was just sad.
I went to work that day and thought about everything I’d say to the woman that night. I knew to be calm and mature about it, simply telling her why I was dissatisfied in the living arrangements. So, that night, I did exactly that. And she went super on the defensive, saying things like “we’ve been nothing but nice you” and “this is a beautiful house” and “you’re obviously upset about something else.” She wouldn’t hear anything I was saying, so I said “I can’t live here. Sorry, but I’m leaving” and I grabbed my things and became homeless.
Now, I was fortunate enough to have friends who took me in, and eventually a good friend’s parents who let me stay in their spare room (with my own bathroom!) for a few weeks for free. During that time, I worked and went through my storage unit to donate things and prepared to move back to New Jersey (because, with a situation like that, who wouldn’t go back to the comfort of family/familiarity?).
Before I moved back, I asked the woman a few times for my money back. She either ignored me or changed the subject every time. I even tried to just request it on Venmo, but she ignored that too.
After I moved back to NJ, she texted me out of the blue one night telling me that she would pay in $25 increments. She also wrote a long text wishing me the best but also saying she was always nice to me and that I put her in a bad situation by “flaking out on her.” So I just told her all the honest things I said to her that one night about why I wasn’t fond of the situation. Nothing mean or angry, just honest. And she comes back with a text about how I must be mentally ill, ungrateful, and how I am “not a nice person” and how she was “completely taken advantage of.” I was perplexed at this sudden outburst, especially when she started to text things that were even more wildly untrue, like how I told her other daughter I wanted to have a “lesbian affair” with her (did not happen) or how I had temper tantrums on the floor in the work breakroom (I believe once I cried while sitting on a chair). I really had no idea how to respond to any of this. How could I respond? It was all so, so strange.
Eventually, the women told me I can forget about getting my money back and then went on a long rant about how she never did anything wrong to me and always helped me, until I told her to stop texting me because I was trying to enjoy a nice outdoor concert with my mother and didn’t have time to block her. She texted, “blocked” and that was the end of it.
Now, my question is this: what in the hell just happened. My next question is this: should I let it be and take the loss, or should I try to open a civil court case (or something of the like) and try to do something about it? I don’t really want this to happen to anyone else who falls into the same trap with this woman.
TL;DR: coworker charged me $400 for a month of rent at her house, living conditions were awful so I only lived there one night, she won’t pay me my money back because she thinks I’m mentally unstable and took advantage of her.
submitted by valbuquerque to badroommates [link] [comments]


2020.09.05 05:22 boobear6391 Almost Attacked in Atlanta

Let me start this off by saying I definitely learned from this experience because even though this story could’ve been way worse, it was downright traumatizing. So it was my boyfriend’s birthday and we were headed to Atlanta for a Sleeping W/ Sirens concert. One thing you should know is I genuinely have the smallest bladder in the entire world. It’s a problem. So imagine my excitement when we arrived six hours early in the freezing cold with the closest bathroom being two streets away at an old rundown Japanese restaurant. Yay. After dragging my boyfriend away a handful of times and begging people to save our spot in line, it was 30 minutes before the concert hall opened and I decided I should pee one last time before we got forced into a crowd of hundreds of people until the end of the concert. But just in case the line started moving, I convinced my boyfriend to let me walk alone. Trust me he was very against it but I practically ran off before he could tell me no. I was walking for literally two minutes before I noticed two guys walking behind me. I kept subtly glancing behind me and putting on my best “I’m a bad bitch don’t fuck with me” face. I was beginning to worry because I’m very paranoid all the time and Atlanta is extremely dangerous but there was a homeless guy that started walking with me and when I turned to look again, the two men seemed to have left. I made it to the crappy restaurant and shamefully asked the man at the register yet again for his bathroom key. I was trying to get into the bathroom when a very large man approached me. As I said I’m a pretty paranoid person but convinced myself he was waiting to use the bathroom when all of a sudden he grabbed my hand and started asking me my name and if I wanted any drugs. I limply shook his hand before laughing nervously and told him I was just across the street at a concert and that I should be getting back to my boyfriend. He was eyeing me up and licking his lips and telling me things like “fuck your boyfriend” and “I’ll take care of you now” and “if you run with me I can make you feel so good”. He was also offering me money and trying to convince me to “be with him instead”. At this point my heart was racing but I was frozen in my spot. I have really bad anxiety and I’m horrible at confrontation but it got so much worse when his friend came walking up behind him. I knew I was in a lot of trouble and finally turned to unlock the bathroom door just to find out someone was already in there. At this point I was pretty much backed against the wall while him and his friend complimented my body and called me things like “pretty thang”. I don’t even know how it happened but before I realized it I had ducked between them and was racing toward the guy at the register. I think he could notice something was wrong and I just kept muttering that there were two guys and that I was scared. I turned just in time to see them race out of the restaurant and down the street. I think that’s when my adrenaline gave out because my body was shaking and I just started crying. There was a nice couple eating and when the girlfriend asked what happened and I told her, her boyfriend tried to chase the guys down. I stopped him and asked if I could just sit with them until my boyfriend got there and they obviously agreed. I’m pretty sure I was already on the phone with my boyfriend but just trying to tell everyone everything at one time. He was there within minutes and stayed on the phone with me the whole time. I was pretty shaken up but we still enjoyed the concert. I want to thank whatever God was looking out for me because it was days later that I realized if there hadn’t already been someone in the bathroom, they could’ve followed me in and things could’ve gone very different. Ladies (and men) please be careful. Please don’t walk alone even if it’s just around the block. Something very bad could’ve happened to me because I convinced myself those things only happen to other people. I convinced myself it would never be me in that situation. I hope this story makes it into a video or that she at least reads it because I love Courtney and I downloaded reddit just to post here. I also hope someone takes something from this and to the guys who almost attacked me in Atlanta, let’s do meet again because I have a taser now and I WILL put you down.
submitted by boobear6391 to spoopycjades [link] [comments]


2020.09.04 16:57 welcometosouthapp Pee voyeur concert

Friday, September 4th, 2020
I can’t believe Winston’s making me do this on my birthday!
It was sunrise on Gigi’s 19th birthday. She dragged a gas-powered chainsaw across the North Campus quad. An hour earlier, Winston had woken Gigi up with a phone call. “Fetch my chainsaw from under the bed and meet me at the library.Click. Not even a “Happy birthday.”
So, she’d rolled out of bed in a white tank top and baby-blue yoga pants. Call it morbid curiosity. Only Winston could come up with such demands, after all.
Gigi was streaked in oil and sweat. She hobbled to the library entrance and let the hunk of metal fall to the ground. North Campus was a vast expanse of willow trees and solitude at sunrise. But something was very…off.
Suddenly, Winston popped out of the bushes and pointed a pistol at Gigi’s forehead. “You’re alone on campus on a day like today,” he rattled off. “Out of the blue, some hooligan hops out of the bushes and tells you to wring your pockets. But you’re wearing a sundress, so you don’t have any pockets. So instead, he-”
“YEET!” Gigi screamed, kicking Winston’s crotch. He crumbled to the ground, hitting a falsetto.
“Oh...shit! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”
“Shiiiet, it’s all right,” Winston moaned, rolling over on his back. Gigi’s frowning, pale face eclipsed the rising sun. “Happy birthday. It’s a Smith and Wesson Bodyguard. Too small for me. Be mindful of the trigger-pull and recoil. But I reckon it’s compact enough for your frou-frou jeans.”
“Oh! I...thank you! But why?” The warm gun fit in her small hand like a glove.
Winston stood up. “Hell, you’ve had my back since I got here. I reckon I oughta return the favor. I ain’t the brightest slice of pie in the knife drawer. But as long as you’re the brains, I may as well make due and be the brawn.”
I stole your other gun and our friends stole your fake IDs! is what Gigi wanted to say. “You...make me feel really safe, Winston!” is what she actually said, slipping the gun in her purse.
Winston lifted the chainsaw. “Welp, it’s time to cut some ties. We’ve got a rat in the frat. Some Alpha Beta Kappa brother pretendin’ to be one of us. See that tree down yonder? That’s their secret meet-up spot. And it’s gotta come down.”
ABK, or “All Big Kocks", started as a frat that met in an off-campus apartment. Then, Clyde (son of Dean Dale Crenshaw) took over. Overnight, the funding skyrocketed. This Honors Music Fraternity was BDE’s greatest rival. Live shows every Friday night, a 3.8 GPA entrance criteria, and co-ed. “Why go to any other frat parties?” Clyde would always argue. “When the women are already here?
“So, about this rat,” Gigi mused, following Winston to the tree. “You asked him nicely to leave?”
“Well, let’s just say he’s branded for life. Name was Taggart, and we actually rushed together. Poor bastard.”
The lumberjack revved the chainsaw. His large pecs and biceps bulged under his shirt as he put that smoking-hot metal to work. He’d easily replaced 20 pounds of fat with muscle. And as that hundreds-year-old tree crashed to the ground, Gigi reminded herself to stay on his good side.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here!” Winston yelled, taking off. “They’ll arrest you too! Hell, you’re the one with the filed-off serial number.”
“W-what?!” Gigi’s voice cracked as she sprinted past him.
“Fuckin’ with ya, Gigi.”
Gigi rode shotgun in Winston’s truck. She kicked off her flats and began massaging her sore feet.
“Um...I definitely stink,” Gigi laughed nervously, slipping her shoe back on. That was Winston’s cue to roll the window back up. She reached into her purse and pulled out the huge charcoal bath bomb that she stole from Sarah. “Dear Chadwick Hughes’ spirit: all I want for my birthday is a bath!”
“Hmm.” Winston drove past Firewater Hall toward Greek Row. “You’re a wanted woman,” he reminded her. “If we go to the house, you’re gonna have to sneak in. If Ryan finds ya, he’ll put your head on a pike.”
Ah, Gigi thought. Because we snuck in, punched him out, and blew up his father’s ashes. Seems...fair.
They pulled up to the BDE house and saw Ryan’s white BMW in the driveway. Winston shut off his Roush engine and instinctively pulled Gigi’s head into his lap, hiding her from plain view.
“Here’s the plan, birthday gal. I’ll go upstairs and grab a shower in the guest bathroom. I’ll save ya some hot water. Wait here, and I’ll text ya when everything’s ready.”
Winston slipped inside. Gigi lay across the passenger and driver’s seat. She thought about bailing and driving to Denny’s for free birthday pancakes. But Winston had the keys. And as her sweating, greased-up body melted in that god-awful hot truck, she decided that she really wanted that bath.
Gigi drifted off to sleep. In her dreams, she sat at a kitchen table in a massive Beverly Hills mansion. In front of Winston were a birthday cake and a huge gift bag. “Happy birthday, Winston!” she exclaimed. Winston reached into the bag and pulled out his lost Colt Single Action Army. “Ta-da! It’s your gun!” Then, he pulled out his lost BDE binder. “Ta-da! It’s your fake IDs!” Finally, he reached into the bag and pulled out a pair of yellow and white striped panties with a lacy bow. “Ta-da! It’s my virginity!
Gigi bolted awake to her phone vibrating. A text from Winston. Ready. Use the ladder. She sat up from her puddle of sweat and made her way around the side of the house.
At the top of the raggedy fire escape ladder, Gigi reached the second-story open window. Tea candles lined the shelf of an elegant clawfoot bathtub, filled to the brim with steaming water. Beside the tub was a shower caddy containing a bottle of merlot, a bag of chocolate-covered almonds, several high-end soaps and face masks, and a note.
To my partner in crime: I reckon we managed to evade the law quite a few times since we moved here. Truth is, ain’t no bathtubs in jail. Now, enjoy all this bougie shit that I found in Claire’s room. Happy birthday - Winston.
“He writes just like he speaks,” Gigi whispered, holding the letter to her chest.
Gigi stripped down to her underwear and neatly folded her clothes in a pile. On the floor was Winston’s t-shirt and blue jeans from earlier. I’m sure he’ll wear that again! She slipped off her yellow panties. After some thought, or no thought at all, she stuffed them into the back pocket of his jeans.
Gigi lowered herself into her first college bath. Even the water felt softer and silkier than in the dorm, whose water flowed from lead-flavored pipes. She picked her brain for every get-rich-quick scheme in the book, aspiring to live in such comfort full-time.
I could blackmail Sarah and Tai about that binder, she thought, submerging her head under water. Maybe I can convince them to give me a cut of their profits! So that a poor student like me can buy clothes that aren’t secondhand! But that would mean keeping the fake IDs a secret from Winston and betraying his trust...
Gigi shot up from the water, gasping for breath. She rubbed her eyes and slicked back her jet-black hair. Then, she unwrapped the bath bomb. It fizzled as a milky grey mist clouded her entire bath.
Winston, would you forgive me? Gigi lifted her hand out of the water and read her nearly-faded tattoo. And if I take a cut of their earnings, I’ll buy the cutest outfits to wear for you. I’m-
She lowered her tattooed hand into the cloudy water, where it disappeared between her legs.
“I’m ready for you, Winston.”
***
“Look at this swole son of a bitch!” greeted Brother Twinston, as Winston entered the cozy living room after his shower. They and eight other pledges dressed in white button-downs and tan slacks, adorned with a BDE pin on the collar.
Winston grabbed Twinston in a playful headlock. “I reckon ain’t nobody gonna be able to tell us apart now.”
“I reckon you’re right, stunt double!” Twinston agreed. This young man was a spitting image of Winston in looks and spirit. They had met at a frat party after taking whiskey shots and reaching for the pickle jar at the same time. Bromance at first sight.
“Enough faggotry,” Ryan commanded, walking up the podium by the fireplace. As the de-facto alpha of the room, his pomade-style hair stood taller than everyone else’s. Seven AM on Friday was BDE’s weekly meeting, and brothers were expressly forbidden from taking Friday classes. Because as soon as this was over, the weekend pre-gaming would commence.
“Now, Winston!” Ryan began. “Looks like your sausage fingers got some dirt under your nails. I trust the deed was done?”
“As motherfuckin’ Shakespeare said: the tree fell, nobody was around, and it still made a fuckin’ sound. I reckon ABK’s hideout is being hauled off by a truck as we speak.”
“You’ve never had a way with words,” Ryan pointed out. “But I gotta admit: you get shit done. Now, if another rat wants to show their face, I got no problem burning down their momma’s house. Next on the list. We gotta talk about two of our…ex-members. Claire and Connor. She packed up the rest of her shit and slipped out of here last night. I’ll be posting an application for Social Chair on our Facebook page.”
Last week, after Winston had caught Claire cheating on him with Frank, she had officially stepped down from BDE.
“Hell, let’s break tradition and make it a man, for Christ’s sake!” Twinston piped up. Despite only being a sophomore, he had clout among the senior brothers.
“I’ll consider it,” Ryan said, shrugging. “You know women: always afraid of commitment. Bitch didn’t even give a reason for leaving. Although I’m not gonna lie: I’m gonna miss those tits during strip poker.”
Two muscular black brothers gave each other a crisp high-five.
“Now, onto Connor. Not only did this beta bitch get a DUI, but he had our motherfucking coke on him.” Ryan tossed a bag of red-and-white cocaine on the coffee table. “Now what the fuck did we say about taking coke out of the house?”
“Don’t go to the buyers - let the buyers come to you,” the brothers responded in unison.
“Final topic of conversation,” Ryan announced, holding up a saloon-style wanted poster. “I’d like to announce that I've delivered swift, painful justice to the bastards who stole my father’s ashes.” On that poster were security camera photos of Frank, Tweed, and Chad - their faces X’d out. Next to their images were lo-res pics of Gigi and Sarah. “I’m increasing the bounty to 2500 bucks for whoever brings me the other two cunts.”
This bounty was news to Winston. Nobody knew he was even related to Sarah, or that Gigi was currently bathing upstairs. While the brothers salivated over the reward money, Ryan swiped a fire poker cast with BDE at the tip. “We took those three bastards out to the quad and branded them for life! Sent their bitch-asses packing. But as for these two dumb sluts...I think they were the masterminds of the whole goddamn plan. I say we tie ‘em down and apply directly to the forehead!”
“Yeah, man, fuck these ho’s,” Winston played along. “They did your daddy wrong. But real talk, I say we track ‘em down and exile them from the fuckin’ campus for life. Ain’t no use in getting thrown in jail for assault. Hell, that’s where those bitches belong.”
“Winston, I’m disappointed in you, chief,” Ryan said condescendingly, slamming the poker on the fireplace with a loud clank. He walked over to Winston and stood eye-to-eye with him. Dead silence. Finally, Ryan cracked a douchey grin.
“All right, all right,” Ryan chuckled. “I’ll go easy on ‘em...that is, if they drop to their knees and suck every last drop from us until they fucking drown!”
The brothers roared like animals, chanting Ryan’s name as he ripped open the bag of red-and-white cocaine. Winston forced a painful smile as the nausea set in. Ryan leaned over the coffee table and proceeded to snort his usual Friday-morning line.
“WHO’S GOT MOTHERFUCKING BIG DICKS?” Ryan screamed psychotically.
“WE DO!” the brothers yelled, banging their chests.
“AND ON MY DEAD DAD’S GRAVE! IF ANYBODY CROSSES BETA DELTA EPSILON, WE’LL DISEMBOWEL THEM AND SHIT DOWN THEIR THROATS!”
Ryan flipped over the glass coffee table, shattering it into pieces.
***
The massive South Campus quad was speckled with students playing ultimate frisbee, strumming guitars, and pretending to study. It was Tai’s happy place. Ever since Jacky turned him loose, he and Sarah had been practicing Krav Maga during sunset. A zen-like hobby that helped him clear his mind and shrink his erection.
Tai landed a shaky roundhouse kick as he spotted a young lady in the corner of his eye.
“I’ve got your rematch, Sarah,” Tai jeered, landing a sloppy jump-spinning crescent kick. But as he stuck the landing, he witnessed Gigi in a traditional kimono and a chopstick bun.
“I accept your challenge in Sarah’s stead!” Gigi cheered, bowing deeply.
“Wait...huh? Where’s Sarah?”
“Ah, in celebration of my 6,939th day on Planet Earth, she elected to maintain a record of meeting notes in my dreadful Comparative Literature enrichment!”
A blank stare from Tai as he slowly shifted into a guarding stance.
“I mean...it’s my fucking birthday, so she went to class for me!” She kicked off her flats and crouched into a grappling stance. “Now, will you hand over a third of your fake ID profits? Or will I have to spill the Bush’s Bourbon and Brown Sugar baked beans to Winston?”
“W-what?! Who told you?”
“Hmmm...twas but a whisper in the wind - a grape from the vine!” Gigi inched toward Tai, who cautiously backed up.
“Okay, look...don’t, um, don’t do anything drastic! We’re gonna pay it back to him, I promise. If you think about it, we’re just doing the work for him. It’s just that...well, it’s been a tough week so we can’t really afford to give you that kind of money!”
“As you wish. I’ll have to beat it out of you instead!”
Tai threw a lunging side kick. But the swift Gigi virtually teleported behind him. She jammed her thumbs into the tender spot below his ears.
“Fool, a petite fighter such as myself must play defensively,” Gigi bragged, regrouping. “I’ve been watching you. Looks like those kicks have thrown you off balance, Mister Flat Foot!”
“You can kiss that ID money goodbye,” Tai scoffed, rubbing his pressure points.
“That’s perfectly fine, grasshopper! I don’t intend to ask for it.”
Tai side-stepped and tried for a sweep kick. Gigi raised her leg over her head like a Chinese gymnast. He fell forward from his own momentum, but Gigi pressed her foot against his face to stop the fall. She wiggled her toes, then gave him a firm roundhouse to the side of the head. Tai fell back onto the grass. As he lost his breath, she wrapped her arms and legs around him from behind. A rear-naked chokehold that Sarah would've been damn proud of.
“Jaleo gada, jaleo gada, jaleo gada,” Gigi cooed in Korean, squeezing his windpipe. And “go to sleep” he did.
Ten minutes later, Tai sat up with a start, drenched in sweat. A ring of students surrounded him.
“Break it up, dudes and dudettes!” Sarah exclaimed, forcing her way through the crowd. The students dispersed as she helped the oblivious Tai to his feet.
“Oh...fuck,” Tai groaned. He fumbled for his minimalist metal wallet. Six-hundred dollars in cash was gone.
“You got robbed, my guy?” Sarah asked, kigh as a hite.
“That’s not even the half of it. This is bad. I have a lot to explain to you.”
Tai recapped his encounter with Gigi, while he and Sarah sipped lattes on the library’s top floor.
“Holy mother of balls,” Sarah whispered after Tai explained Gigi’s blackmailing.
“Look, maybe we come clean. Do you think you can talk to Winston?”
“Not a chance in Woodstock,” Sarah replied, frantically shaking her dreadlocks. “My brother’s all about loyalty first. He’d cut my hair while I was asleep and he’d circumcise you while you were awake.”
Tai instinctively covered his crotch as they stopped at a bulletin board. “So...we’re Gigi’s bitches," said Tai. "If we owe her a cut every time we make a sale, we’ve gotta find a better market.” On cue, he swiped a flyer from the bulletin board. TONIGHT: Alpha Beta Kappa proudly presents the Housewarming Masquerade. $10 cover. All students welcome.
***
The good ole’ southern twins stood on the wrap-around porch, whiskey in hand.
“Look, brother,” Twinston started, patting Winston’s back. “I’ve known Ryan for a year. I know he can get a little...impulsive with his words. But that don’t mean he’s impulsive with his actions. You’re worried about them two girls, aren’t ya?”
Winston was one text message away from telling Gigi and Sarah to flee campus. During last month’s frat party, he had never thought to question why Frank and Gigi had shown up in the first place. It never occurred to him that they were there to blow Ryan’s father’s legacy to smithereens.
Ryan stumbled out in a bright red bathrobe that matched his stuffy, red nose. “Shit, I almost forgot to ask ya, Winston,” he slurred. “I meant to collect your fake ID money for this week.”
Winston was so close to coming clean. Some jack-off stole the binder! he wanted to say. But the punishment for having lost it would be swift and fierce. So, he reached into his wallet and pulled out 600 bucks, straight from his own student loan account.
“Geez, tough week again, huh?” Ryan jeered, snatching the cash. “Where have you been trying to sell them?”
“Oh, you know...the regular beats,” Winston lied. “I reckon I ain’t gonna hit the library on weekdays no more.”
“The library?” Twinston repeated, bewildered. “Shit, what’s it like in there? Ain’t never been.”
“Not your brightest moment, I’m not gonna lie,” Ryan chuckled at Winston. “But, at least you learned your lesson for next week.” Winston nodded, taking it on the chin. If he had to make another withdraw, there wouldn’t be a “next week.” Winston had to find that ID thief.
“Whoa, what the hell?” Twinston pointed at a fleet of U-Haul vans, led by a 2021 silver BMW. They watched as the vehicles pulled into the driveway of the empty frat house next door.
“Holy fucking shit,” Ryan gasped. “It’s motherfucking Alpha Beta Kappa.”
The bald driver opened the butterfly doors. Thick marijuana smoke trickled out of the car. The passenger doors sprang up, and out hopped a freckle-faced redhead with a pornstar body. She brought a wheelchair over to the driver’s side and helped the bald guy into the seat. Then, she marveled at the huge mansion and jumped up and down in her stilettos, her huge breasts bouncing in her tight corset. She rushed into the new house, pausing to give Winston a quick glance before she entered.
Another redhead, huh? Winston thought. My favorite flavor.
The bald guy rolled over to the BDE house in his wheelchair, a present in his lap. His large biceps and tattoos were on full display in his worn Guns N’ Roses sleeveless tee. His jeans were bleached and destroyed and his black Converse were spotless.
“What’s up, neighbors?” the paraplegic spoke in a loud, baritone voice. He handed the present to Ryan. “I’m Clyde, President of Alpha Beta Kappa. Looks like we’re gonna be seeing a whole lot of each other.”
“Uh...yeah, my name’s Ryan.” He extended a hand while using the other to dab his bloody nose. “So...I thought Tri-Delt leased the house next door.”
“I assume you know sororities almost as well as I do. Truth is: women are too damn afraid of commitment. You gonna open that present or what?”
Ryan slipped off the bow and tore the wrapping paper. It was a penis pump.
“Now, let me lay down some ground rules for you and your twins,” Clyde continued, straightening his posture in the chair. “There’s only room for one big dick on Greek Row. Now you may think you have a big dick. But there’s a gang of nine-inch fresh-cut cocks in town.”
Clyde whistled with his fingers. The U-Haul truck doors rolled up. And out came a cavalry of ABK brothers, hauling furniture toward the house as they chanted “All Big Kocks!” Like pallbearers, they each grabbed a corner of expensive sofas, desks, and beds. Posing on top of each piece of furniture was a topless ABK sister. The brothers escorted them like royalty into the soon-to-be furnished mansion.
Clyde unfolded a flyer from his back pocket and handed it to Ryan. “Bring your asses tonight. There are plenty more tits where those came from.” It was an invitation to the ABK Housewarming Masquerade. Clyde swiveled around and rolled back on over to his new house. “By the way!” Clyde called out. “I don’t condone Taggart for spying on y’all like he did! I don’t care who you work for: a rat is a rat!”
“That’s bullshit,” Ryan whispered. He knew good and well that Taggart’s spying was planned and coordinated by Clyde himself. “If they’re gonna spy on us, we’re gonna do the same fuckin’ thing to them.”
“Sit back and relax,” Winston finally broke his silence, standing tall next to his doppelganger. “My twin and I will crash this party and dig up as much dirt as possible.”
“And he and I are the only two who can be in two places at once,” Twinston added.
“Then we infiltrate tonight!” Ryan announced. “Because gentlemen, Greek Row is a pair of tight spandex trunks. And there’s only room for one big dick.”
***
Watching Tai work was amazing.
At the ABK Masquerade, the masked Sarah sat at the bar in the massive concert venue. Clyde’s 90’s cover band was onstage. Like clockwork, the masked Tai would sniff out gay clientele, grab a fake ID from the binder, approach him, make out with him on the dance floor, and come back with a fistful of dollars.
“I’m averaging one sale per song,” Tai panted, wiping somebody’s lipstick from his mouth. “Here, hit me with another ID!”
“You do know this is borderline prostitution, my dude?”
“I...yes.”
Prostitution or not, they racked up a thousand bucks in the first hour. And with Gigi taking a cut of their sales, they were going to need that extra money to keep this operation afloat.
“Take a break, will ya?” Sarah suggested, patting the barstool next to her.
The freckle-faced redhead from Clyde’s BMW was bartending. She wore bright blue fairy wings, a lacy corset, and a glittery half-mask. “Two lemon drops, my loves,” she cooed in a Scottish accent, setting the drinks on the bar. “Aw, I love how comfy you two look!”
Tai and Sarah were dressed down in South App hoodies and yoga pants: items that every female or gay student owned. The goal was to not stand out while selling fake IDs. And yet, they had failed to wear masks.
“I prefer to dress like I do around the house,” the fairy said with a smile, fluttering off to help the next patron.
Outside, Winston and Twinston - the twin spies - walked up the ABK steps in matching button-downs, slacks, and white opera masks. They psyched each other up. The “Who’s got big dicks? We’ve got big dicks!” standard affair. Suddenly, a pack of drunk girls stormed out the front door and spilled an entire glass of cranberry vodka on Winston’s khakis. “Suck it up, buttercup!” she slurred, stumbling off with her posse. Co-ed fraternity girls were a different breed.
“Shit,” Winston muttered, looking down at the mess.
“Better go change, brother,” Twinston suggested. “I’mma gather some intel until you get back.”
Winston retreated to the BDE house while Twinston entered the party alone. He stood at the entrance, absorbing the nostalgia of the 90’s rock set. Permanently-seated Clyde was on drums. A crowd of groupies sang along up front while everyone else gathered on the dance floor.
“Jack and Coke,” Twinston told the fairy bartender. “If you have time.”
From the dance floor, Tai and Sarah were casually mingling and making fake ID sales. They were also people-watching. “It’s fucking uncanny,” Tai began, pointing at Twinston from afar.
“I’m telling you, that’s not Winston,” Sarah argued. “If you want proof, ask him to drop his pants. My brother has a birthmark on his upper-left ass cheek.”
“W-what?!”
“That dude could fool almost anyone though. But a sister always knows.”
Suddenly, all eyes shot toward the front door. In walked a young South Korean student in a baby-blue evening dress. Trailing behind her was a long, ornate satin train. The side-splitting fabric exposed her white-laced garter belt that ran from her thighs to her matching open-toed high heels. Instantly, she won the room.
Clyde hit the final snare, ending his Jane’s Addiction cover. “Well, don’t just stand there, princess!” Clyde called out to the woman, beckoning her onstage with a drumstick. “Come on up and introduce yourself.”
Princess Gigi obliged, but not before giving Tai and Sarah a passing glance. “I hope you’re on your A-game with those sales,” she whispered with a devious grin. “Because I need money for a red dress just like this one!”
Sarah tugged on Tai’s sleeve. “Let’s get the fuck out of here!” she hissed. “Hey...uh bartender?”
“I’m Miri,” the Scottish redhead responded. “But I bid you call me Miri.”
“Miri, care to point us to the back door?”
Tai and Sarah slipped through the kitchen and out the back door. Miri kept pouring for thirsty patrons, all while eyeing this Korean bombshell on stage.
“Um...hi, everyone!” Gigi greeted, while the seated Clyde held the microphone to her mouth. “It’s my birthday today, and...I’m sober! Who wants to help me change that?”
Every man on the dance floor cheered like Quentin Tarantino with a glass slipper. Their girlfriends gave Gigi dirty looks, holding their men close. Clyde leaned into her ear. “Don’t let me catch you paying for a single drop tonight.” He turned around and rolled back to the drum set. He clicked his sticks and began a Chili Peppers cover. The party was back underway.
“Another Jack and Coke,” Twinston requested from Miri. “Make it a double-shot.” From the bar, he’d watched the entire spectacle. Now, Gigi was walking over to him.
“Please read,” Gigi said, plopping down next to Twinston. She slipped the thin fabric of her dress to the side, exposing a pale white thigh. Then, she reached under her garter belt for a letter. She slid it across the bar, showing off her baby-blue painted nails. Twinston peeled off the heart-shaped sticker and unfolded the letter. Written in cursive was the most kinky, depraved to-do list of sex acts he had ever seen. At the bottom was a signed statement: For my birthday I, Ji-hye “Gigi” Moon, hereby sign my virginity over to Winston Arnold Beavers.
Clearly, Gigi had the wrong man.
As soon as Miri returned with Twinston's drink, Gigi swiped it. She sipped her first taste of whiskey through a straw, her bedroom eyes growing wider and wider. She slammed the glass of ice on the bar. Then, she leaned into Twinston’s ear and passed an ice cube from her mouth to his.
“Hey, uh...bartender?” Twinston stammered, as Gigi ran her tongue across his fuzzy beard.
“Back door’s through the kitchen,” Miri laughed in a Scottish accent as she watched the flirtatious pair.
Twinston grabbed Gigi’s hand and jetted out of there. If Winston caught them, he’d impale them with his chainsaw and cut the engine on. So they cut across the back yard and entered Twinston’s first-floor bedroom through the window. She immediately slipped out of her dress, leaving on nothing but the heels and garter belt. And as the masked girl spread her legs, Twinston kept telling himself that this was consensual.
***
Winston entered the ABK house in a filthy pair of blue jeans from that morning. The crowd waved their lighters while Clyde’s band played Semisonic’s “Closing Time.” Seeing as it was last call, Winston made a bee-line for the bar. “I’ll have a Jack and Coke, Miss,” Winston said to Miri, tipping his hat. “If you have time.”
Miri cocked her head, her wings and eyebrows twitching. “Wait...what’s going on?” she asked, taken aback by Winston’s twin from five minutes earlier.
“Alcoholism, that’s what,” Winston chuckled. “Why, I reckon you’ve just seen a ghost. Wanna have a drink with me to calm the spirits?” He was here to gain ABK intel. But her freckled face, wavy red hair, and Scottish accent were definitely a bonus.
“Apparently so!” Miri laughed, her breasts bouncing up and down in that tight corset. “Tell you what: I’ll toast with ya.”
Miri poured Winston’s Jack and Coke and the umpteenth cranberry vodka of the night. But like the mystical fairy creature she was, she garnished her drink with a handful of blueberries, a splash of lemon juice, and a basil leaf.
“Seventy-nine,” Winston randomly said as they clinked glasses across the bar.
“Hmmm?”
“Seventy-nine. I reckon that’s how many freckles you have on your face.”
“Ah...well, let’s see. I've never counted before. But on my whole body? Well...we’re definitely in quadruple digits.” Miri leaned in close, the scent of gin and spearmint on her breath. “If you want to take me to my room and count them, I can do 150 an hour. That is, if you’re a fast counter.”
Winston chuckled, then slipped something into her henna-tattooed hand. “I mighty appreciate it. But I’d rather ya tell me a little bit about this place. Thinkin’ about pledging.” A lie, of course.
Without missing a beat, Miri slapped a bag of blue-and-white cocaine on the bar. “Tell ya what: you try ours and I’ll try yours.” Right in front of everyone, she opened the bag of red-and-what cocaine and split it into lines.
Winston’s jaw dropped. It was all coming together in his slow-churning mind. Taggart and ABK had been gathering intel to corner the entire fucking college cocaine market. While Miri dropped her head to do a line, Winston slipped his rival’s cocaine into his pocket. All right, I’ve got what I came for. No thanks to Twinston. Time to report back to Ryan.
“Yo, the concert’s over but the night has just fucking begun!” Clyde announced on the mic. “Ladies only: get your asses to the center of the dance floor. You know what time it is!”
Miri’s head shot up from her third line of cocaine. She released an orgasmic Scottish moan. Then, this mystical fairy pranced into the center of the room, spun on her heel, and gave a curtsey in her outfit.
What the hell is going on? Winston thought, sipping his whiskey. He reached into his back pocket for a napkin and felt something else instead. Slowly, he held Gigi’s lacy yellow panties in front of his face. Miri, how the hell did you put this in my pocket without me noticing? Hell, I reckon this bitch is a fairy after all.
“DJ, hit the music!” Clyde commanded. Fergie’s “London Bridge” blared through the speakers and rang across Greek Row. The tipsy Miri swayed her hips to the violent bass beat, shedding her wings. Applause erupted from the crowd.
“Now just what are we to do about this corset?” Miri cooed, puckering her lower lip.
“Take it off!” the brothers chanted. And she did. Winston instantly realized that her “1000-freckles” estimate was correct.
“Lose that skirt!” the crowd commanded.
Winston nervously tapped his foot. Not because he was afraid of seeing a naked woman. That road was heavily-traveled and full of potholes. But Miri was drunk, and nobody was doing a damn thing about it. She hooked her thumbs beneath her pink-and-blue skirt and pulled it down to her ankles. No underwear, and a hundred more freckles on Winston’s scoreboard.
“Make yourself decent, moron!” Winston called out, sling-shotting the yellow panties across the room to Miri. She reached up and caught them, red-eyed high and shit-faced drunk. “These…these aren’t mine. But they sure are cute!”
What?! Who the fuck do they belong to then? And why the fuck were they in my pocket?!
Regardless, Miri slipped into the tight panties. She gave a polite curtsy and fluttered away through the kitchen and out the back door.
“Yo, what the fuck man?” Clyde raged as he watched the action from his wheelchair. “You fuckin’ scared her off! DJ, cut the music!”
Fergie stopped singing and all eyes fell on Winston. He took a deep breath and boldly stepped into the center of the dance floor. “She was fucking wasted, partner. Are y’all really gonna make her do all that?”
“It doesn’t fucking matter,” Clyde seethed. “It’s Friday: we drink, and Miri strips. She’s a whore. And that’s what whores do. Who the fuck do you think you are anyway? S-s-somebody take off his mask!”
But Winston removed his own mask and tossed it on the floor. There he was: invading ABK just as the phony Mississippian Taggart had invaded BDE.
“Leave it to a Beta to look for pussy at an Alpha’s party!” Clyde jeered over the mic. “Can you all believe this white-knight faggot tried to stand up for a fuckin’ whore?”
Winston couldn’t resist a comeback. It was too easy. “At least I can actually stand, you fucking cretin.”
Every single hand covered a gasping mouth. Winston turned and walked into the kitchen, building up to a sprint out the back door. Rabid yells from behind as he cut across BDE’s back yard, dashing past rows of trees and street lights to the end of Greek Row. At the dimly-lit street sign, he collapsed into the grass.
Winston, ya done fucked up now.
“Yo, you okay, bro?” somebody called out.
Winston looked up and saw two douchey frat boys carrying acoustic guitars. Before he could get up, one of them had already hoisted him to his feet. He winced as he put pressure on a sprained ankle.
“You had way too much, my man!” Guitar Guy 1 said. “And it’s not even nine yet. Gotta pace yourself!”
“Yeah, man,” agreed Guitar Guy 2, brushing grass off Winston’s shoulder. “Hey, why don’t you come with us to Alpha Beta Kappa’s party? I hear our president’s band is fuckin’ killing it tonight.”
Winston felt his soul leave his body. Suddenly, Guitar Guy 1’s phone rang.
“Hello?” Guitar Guy 1 answered his phone. “Hey, what’s up, Clyde. Yeah, yeah, we’re almost there. We’ve got our guitars and...huh? Oh shit, you talking ‘bout the guy dressed like a cowboy? Yeah, man, he’s right here. Drunk as fuck, I’ll tell ya h’what. Wait, what? He said what to you? No, fuck that. FUCK. THAT! Yeah, man, we’re gonna take care of him right the fuck now!”
Winston slowly backed up to the street sign, a hot pain searing through his ankle. Running was out of the question.
“You so much as move, we aim for the head,” said Guitar Guy 2, shouldering his weapon.
Winston placed his back to the street sign and sank to a seated position. He looked up at the fretted assailants. Not with fear, but with acceptance. “I know all about your frat’s cocaine operation. And all I gotta say: I’m gonna run it into the motherfuckin’ ground.”
Guitar Guy 1 went for a cross slice, cracking the guitar against Winston’s head. He bled before he hit the grass in a fetal position. His body convulsed in a seizure.
“Yo, no face shots!” Guitar Guy 2 screamed, kicking Winston in the ribs to vent his frustration. He brought his ax above his head and hammered down on his gut. Winston released the death cry of a wounded gazelle. But instead of delivering that final blow, the Guitar Guys looked at one another and nodded. Then, they dropped their pastel board shorts and proceeded to piss on Winston’s wounds from head to toe.
“Look at the sign and tell me what the fuck it says, cuck!” Guitar Guy 1 yelled, stomping his face with his boat shoes one last time. They zipped up their shorts and ran off. A groaning Winston wiped his bloody, sopping-wet face and looked up at the sign. Crenshaw Ave. Just like his father’s legacy, Clyde was here to stay.
Winston blacked out.
***
It wasn’t rape. It was my choice. It wasn’t rape. It was my choice. It. Was. My choice.
Gigi stared at her reflection in the dorm room mirror. Tears and mascara flowed down her face, streaking her cleavage and her wrinkled gown. With fumbling hands, she unwrapped a Plan B Morning-After Pill and slipped it between her dry, chapped lips. She cupped some water into her hand and swallowed, gripping the edges of the sink as she looked back at the defiled girl in the mirror. Hours earlier, she had been pure. Now, she stank of sweat, Walmart-brand musk, and a stranger’s bodily fluids. It was only when Twinston had taken off his mask that she’d realized she had made love to a man she did not know.
Only minutes to midnight. Soon, the wrinkled evening gown would disappear, and Gigi would be reduced to dirty rags and cloths. “This...this is certainly the kind of dress I would want to die in,” she told her reflection, forcing a smile as she permitted tears to flow freely.
A fall from the seventh story would surely kill Gigi. She envisioned her mangled corpse on the gnarled roots below. Then, she feverishly latched onto something to keep her alive for one more day.
Froyo! Tomorrow was the grand opening of the local frozen yogurt joint. I’ll get to choose my favorite sugary toppings to pile on my watermelon sorbet. But tonight, I didn't choose to have sex with that man. It was not. My. Fault.
Gigi’s phone rang. It was Sarah. “Gigi, get your ass down to the third floor - quick!
Gigi flew down the stairs, tripping over a few drunk students in the process. She stood in the doorway of Room 309, where a bloodied cowboy lay his head in Sarah’s lap. Tai sat on the futon, handing Sarah gauze and rubbing alcohol from the first aid kit.
“Gigi,” Winston mumbled. He lifted his head, then set it back down as he erupted into a coughing fit. “You look...great. Not as sexy as my sister though. But I’m from the South, so it’s family first. Roll tide...”
Sarah and Gigi smiled weakly, seeing how Winston was slowly returning back to normal. But Gigi’s smile turned to shock as she got a closer look at his face. One eye was swollen shut and bleeding from the corner. A large knot on his head oozed pus, even as Sarah frequently dabbed it with a tissue. His twitching body hinted at the lacerations and bruises beneath his bloody t-shirt. And through Winston’s smile, he was missing a bottom tooth.
“Everybody fucking leave!” Gigi exploded, dropping to her knees and laying her head on Winston’s chest. He winced at first, but slowed his breathing as she held his hand. She sobbed her eyes out, soaking Winston’s shirt and beard.
“Gigi, look,” Tai said, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Winston needs all of us right now. Not just-”
Gigi fetched the 22-caliber pistol from her purse and slammed it on the tile floor. “I SAID GET THE FUCK OUT! OUT, OUT, OUT!”
Winston’s heart raced as Gigi squeezed his hand with all her might. “It’s all my fault,” she whispered, as if they were already alone. “If only I let you keep your gun, you could have defended yourself.”
“Buddy, that just ain’t plum-fuckin’ true. Ain’t nobody’s fault but mine. I talked shit and got hit.”
Sarah and Tai quietly slipped out the door, most likely to count their fake ID earnings.
Gigi positioned Winston’s head on her lap and ran her small hands through his messy brown hair. “This ain’t the first time you caught me covered in piss. Reckon it won’t be the last.”
Gigi giggled. “I’ll...I’ll be here all night to protect you.” She clutched the gun with one hand and ran her fingers through his hair with the other. “And we can wash your hair in the morning.”
“Thanks, buddy. I reckon I done gots me a few enemies now. So...ya ain’t gonna let the piss fairies sneak in and give me a golden shower...are ya?”
“I...I won’t let you down!” Gigi laughed, gripping the gun. “And if the pee bandits come around here, I’ll politely escort their hind keisters a third-of-a-dozen floors north, where their skin shall bubble under the 100 Kelvin internal temperature of our antiquated heating and cooling apparatus!”
“Shit,” Winston moaned, closing his eyes and drifting off to sleep. “If they don’t fix your AC sooner or later...you may have to move down here and live with me.”
While Winston rested, Gigi stood watch all night. She forgot all about what Twinston had done to her. Misery loved company. And while Gigi never wished for anything bad to happen to Winston, his timing couldn’t have been better.
submitted by welcometosouthapp to welcometosouthapp [link] [comments]


2020.09.04 03:52 dumb_user_name My hysterectomy experience

I relied on so many of y’all’s experience stories before my surgery, so I knew I’d post my own once I felt successfully healed enough. I would literally go through this sub reading every single one until I felt better, so I hope this is able to help someone just like everyone else helped me!
Disclaimer: I haven’t been cleared for intercourse yet but I feel pretty confident enough to post this and will update it once I am able to have sex again (since I know we’re all wondering what post-op sex will be like!)
I had my LAVH (uterus, cervix, & tubes removed but ovaries remained) at 7:30 in the morning. My husband and I arrived at 5 and even though he was allowed to be with me in a “holding room” where they drew blood for my labs and had me sign papers, he had to remain in a waiting room once they wheeled me out of that room and into the anesthesia room. Thanks, COVID. I was all by myself but the anesthesiologists started the process quickly and I probably only laid around for 10-15 min before I was wheeled into the OR. I went into the OR totally awake but they put the “gas mask” on me right away and that’s the last thing I remember!
Im gonna be real with yall: I woke up in extreme pain. Like, it felt like the WORST bladder pain of my life. You know when you hold your pee for SO long (I’m guilty of this at concerts or when seeing a movie in theaters) that it HURTS when you get up and you don’t think you’ll make it to the bathroom? That was me. It was that type of pain combined with like, the WORST period cramps ever. I have honestly never been in more pain before and it did NOT subside for the next 10 hours. My pain stayed constant and didn’t go away until 8 pm that night (I stayed overnight in the hospital) no matter what drugs they gave me. But once it was gone, it was gone. It just vanished and I felt fine. A little sore, like very mild period cramps, but otherwise fine.
HOWEVER, on a good note, I didn’t have many issues peeing a few hours after surgery (my catheter was removed before I woke up and I didn’t need another one. I was so freaked out about the catheter and it was a complete non-issue!) I found it easiest to pee when I leaned all the way forward and to the left for some reason. My nurse turned on the sink faucet and that helped too. I started with a small trickle of a stream and it increased each time I went.
By 12am that night I was walking around the hallways comfortably. I didn’t need much help, and I didn’t feel too bad. Maybe a little buzzed, but not bad. I definitely didn’t sleep much but also didn’t spend time reading, on my computer, or watching tv. I just kind of...existed. I didn’t really need anything I brought. I was way too nauseous/not hungry enough to eat the snacks I packed and didn’t feel like looking at a screen or anything. I’m honestly glad no one was with me because the nurses were great and I was able to just stay quiet and zone out the whole time.
I went home the next day at 3pm (I was ready to leave at 7am but per my Dr’s rules, he had to check on me twice and it just took him a while to get to me). I literally got up, changed into the cute PJs I packed, and did laps around the hospital wing. I felt fine and was so bored. I didn’t use any painkillers when I went home. I took some Advil because the gas pains kicked in, but I stopped it once they went away.
The gas pains started the evening I got home. It hurt to sit. It hurt to stand. It hurt to lay down. It hurt to breathe. It was bad. It was all in my ribs and was absolutely the worst part of recovery. It was just the worst “bloated” feeling ever. I suffer from food allergies and IBS so I’m used to this feeling, but that didn’t make it any more bearable. I was just glad it wasn’t in my surgical area though! The stabbing pain really was terrible but gas-x and charcoal pills helped. It got better the next day and was gone completely 2 days later.
I struggle with chronic constipation so I relied on my laxatives to help me have a BM. I finally passed gas at about noon the day after surgery and started burping tons (still didn’t help the gas pains but I’m glad my body was clearly trying to get rid of the excess). I had a BM 2 days after surgery and it wasn’t that bad. I really psyched myself out for how painful it would be, but it was okay. My only post-op complaint is that my intestines feel more sensitive. I can feel them working to move everything through right before I go to the bathroom, which is a weird feeling. It’s gotten better each week though. They just feel inflamed. However, I’ve been more regular now than I have in years. I’ve gone to the bathroom every single day, and before the surgery it was once a week IF I was lucky. Even if you don’t have constipation issues, DEFINITELY TAKE YOUR STOOL SOFTENERS/LAXATIVES!!!!!
This recovery has been a breeze for me. Before the surgery, my doctor said “if I was able to knock you out for a few days and take out your uterus, you’d never know anything happened when you woke up” and he was right. I would have loved to sleep through that initial pain and the gas pains, but other than some weird “sensations” (not pain, just random twinges of weirdness), it’s been fine. And I honestly wonder how many of those weird “sensations” were mental because I was constantly aware of any feelings in that area. I feel like I had nothing done.
I started back in the gym 4 weeks post-op with light upper body & core work, and I’m 7 weeks out now and have been cleared to resume all gym activities as normal. I’m a bodybuilder, but I don’t think that had anything to do with it—my doctor said he loves for all of his patients to get back to exercise regardless of what their preferred exercise looks like.
I need to wait 2 more weeks for intercourse but he said I’m healing really, really well. Just wants more stitches to dissolve. I played around with my husband though (no penetration) and had orgasms totally fine! No pain, just felt good like they should. And my 7 week post-op exam didn’t hurt at all, so I’m hopeful intercourse will be good!
I know this is long but I wanted to be thorough and hope this helps anyone who is freaking out and contemplating cancelling the whole thing. I literally almost cancelled the surgery multiple times because I had so much anxiety about it, but it’s been a breeze. I know we all have different experiences but I was absolutely convinced I would have a horrible experience and a horrible recovery and that couldn’t be further from the truth! The initial recovery sucked, but I’ve completely forgotten the pain and moved on. I’m so glad I did this and can’t wait for a lifetime of no periods, no pregnancy scares, and no gigantic fibroids!
Edit: totally forgot to add that I DID have discharge for a long time and that freaked me out. I needed a pad for 2 full weeks. I felt like I didn’t see a lot of that experience on this sub and wanted to mention it. The bloody discharge stopped after the 2nd week, but on the 4th week I had a day where it was randomly a heavy period’s amount of blood over about 6 hours. I freaked out, thinking I’d torn something or somehow ruined my entire surgery. It happened on a Friday so my doctor put me on bed rest until they could get me in on Tuesday. Turns out it was just a sac of trapped blood behind a stitch that was released when the stitch dissolved. He said that was common. No blood since then, and still only have slight discharge (similar to regular discharge that was present before the surgery) that they expect to clear up in the next 2 weeks.
submitted by dumb_user_name to hysterectomy [link] [comments]