As we originally envisioned the Crystal Sphere to be something more than just another music repository occupying space on the internet (not that we've got anything against said sites, mind), it's important to indoctrinate the uninitiated into the lifestyle. But before you get your panties all up in a bunch, this is in no way a post advocating cocaine usage... in fact far from it. We here at the Sphere highly advise against usage of said drug for a variety of reasons, mainly having to do with the inordinate cost of procuring it and the adverse health effects that seem to accompany its usage.
That being said, coke (or "Delilah", or "yola", or "white girl" or whatever the kids are calling it these days) is ubiquitous here in Oakland. It's truly boggling how the myriad of unemployed and under-employed hipsters that pervade the underground scene here are able to procure so much of it-- especially when they seem to already be dropping all their money at the bars on a near nightly basis. Meanwhile your intrepid leader works a 40 hour a week wage gig and maybe has money left over for a case of PBR if he plays his cards right. Yes, strangely it seems that it is the jobless of all people that are enjoying the good life amongst us here in post-Bush/ Cheney America. That isn't any kind of political statement, just an observation based on what I see around me all the time.
But I'm not bitter. Really. Bored as hell, but not bitter. Sure it sucks to be staying home on a nice Wednesday night in an area where there's a hundred different parties going on within a short driving distance of where you live. But when you have to wake up at 7 am every day, you learn to sacrifice for the greater good. You sock money away when you feel like you ought to be blowing through it. You subsist on frozen burritos when your brain is screaming for margaritas and fresh sturgeon. You manage.
But sometimes, maybe you look in the mirror and ask yourself exactly what the fuck happened? You can't burn down a bank when you're chained to a desk 8 hours a day, and you can't kick out the windows of a squad car when you're at home blogging. And it's usually at one of these crucial moments that a random thought enters your mind... Something you haven't considered for possibly even a year or so.
Yes, that is the only answer that will do. A one-way ticket to reckless behavior and wild times. Oh sure, you may start out innocently enough by shotgunning a couple of beers out on the porch and sucking down some Parliament Lights with your friends, BUT WE CAN'T HAVE A GOOD TIME HERE SO LET'S GO TO THE BAR AND GET SHITFACED.
Oh how many thousands of dollars have magically disappeared from my bank account due to this one isolated notion; one random stray neuron in my otherwise organized mind. We're talking money that could have been better served by investing in such precious, interest-accruing commodities as OBSCURO PSYCH AND GARAGE 45s AND ELL-PEES!
No sir, we're on the way to the bar and we're getting hammered. That much is certain. But hey, before we go, let's suck down some Whip-Its. You know, take the edge off.
BAR TIME: Jagermeister on tap and Pinkerton on the jukebox. Life is good, but... Wait! What's this? Which one of these emo looking assholes is harshing my buzz? DEPECHE FUCKING MODE?!?! Man, to hell with this "Blasphemous Romours" crap. I need to RAWK right now, fucker. Thin Lizzy. "Jailbreak". Done.
The memories are fleeting... drunken pool and missed shots; "Who wants a Scorpion Bowl?"; more war stories than can be found in the entire six-season run of Hogan's Heroes; "I'm cool to drive..."; digits exchanged with several strangers you know even now you're never going to call; "Fuck this place, let's go see some bands..."
(AN ASIDE: The Crystal Sphere accepts, nay, actively condones the controlled usage of psychedelic and mind altering drugs when used in pursuit of higher states of consciousness or being. This is clearly not what we're talking about here though.)
"Patrick just gave me a Percoset."
"No shit, does he have any more?!"
By now we're driving to the late night underground club, located on the absolute shadiest part of San Pablo. Park at your own peril. And when the homeless guy comes up to the car asking for change, simply greet him with an earful of Blink-182 sing-screaming "I FELL IN LOVE WITH THE GIRL AT THE ROCK SHOW" at top volume. You're just that kind of asshole right now.
Stumbling towards the club, you recognize the cat working the door right away. Same dude you see riding his bike all over town with his scraggly beard and keychain hanging off his belt. You know, like every other fucking hipster wannabe in the 510 region. You maybe said "what's up" to him at Peet's that one time.
Inside, the deejay is spinning garage and psych. He's playing some shit you've never heard before. Freakbeat? Definitely sounds like a UK band. You stumble over and harang him with some half-formed drunken rant about this or that band you think will trigger his interest. Instead he politely ignores you and goes back to spinning his music as the band on stage continues to set up. It's taking them a while because they have 13 members and are having a hard time tuning the singer's guitar to the other guy's harmonium. You wish that kick ass garage band from the other week was here instead, but they were on their way up to Portland and you never did get their CD.
You look around and realize all your friends you came with are out of your line of sight, and you're too drunk to even begin to try to work your way through the crowd. Nevertheless, you somehow manage to make eye contact with the guy working the door who meets your gaze in turn and gently taps his right nostril twice while raising his eyebrows ever so slightly.