Mother And Her Lovers
Mother came to town. We all waited outside, wanting to get a piece of that musical Kit-Kat bar. Legends had built up around this band. People called Mother ‘the traveling Sodom and Gomorrah’ for the decadent deeds that took place in front of them. Among the better known acts were random acts of stripping, having hamster dances, exchanging clothing with the person next to you, and giant Jell-O fights.
Bill, Wyoming hadn’t been the same since Mother took over. They toured extensively. Why should Wyoming have all the fun, the former taxidermists thought? Classifications of Mother were for naught. No one had ever successfully classified what Mother was all about. Plenty of people heard them, yeah, that much is clear. Genres got thrown around, none of them stuck. ‘They are an ironic Chillwave Post-Bongo Shoegaze act with hints of jazz and modern classical’ one person said in front of me. Another, more adventurous blogger compared them with early Black Dice meets the Beach Boys meets Fennesz meets Steely Dan with a smidgeon of Cro-Magnon.
None of it made any sense. We were the elite, the crème de le crème of the Brooklyn blogging and bowling scene. Most bloggers bowl in their spare time, a little known fact. All of us waited, sweating profusely in the late July air. Clothes were sticking to us. Our hope was inside the air could be nice, perhaps air-conditioning or at a bare minimum some fans. That was our hope, our desire, and our need.
Inside that was not the case. Who would have thought an underground bunker in a Polyethylene plant would be so hot. A few bloggers noticed a lack of phone service in the area. Some needed to be calmed down, to be told that this time there would be no live blogging. They worried, fretted, one or two of them thought if they scrawled stuff on scraps of paper and captured some pigeons, the pigeons could fly to a friend, who would instantly tweet and/ or blog about the event. After their calculations they realized they would need over 800 pigeons, and they just didn’t want to deal with so many diseased birds.
‘Jason and his Magic Hand,’ a masturbatory opener if there ever was one, sucked. This was the worst group I’ve ever seen in my entire life. A one-man band, Jason masturbated in front of the entire audience. Then the sounds of him masturbating were put through 80 different distortion pedals. Besides the masturbation, Jason also did a number of drum solos. The drum solos were more masturbatory than the literal masturbation. The Gerogerigegege was Jason’s influence, but no one in the audience thought his wanking was as good as Juntaro Yamanouchi. Juntaro knew how to wank in front of a crowd. Compared to Juntaro, Jason was just a little prick.
Mother began to rock after it cleaned up the used tissues on stage. Boy did it rock. Volume became a transitory thing, the only thing lifting us into a transcendental state. We could barely hear the melodies or the eight drummers. Everything was felt, not heard. I felt my organ rumble inside my body, ready to explode at the sheer euphoric ebullition. Nothing made sense. Our clothes melted off our bodies.
Suddenly we became one. Everyone in the audience immediately grabbed the person next to them and began to grind in a style reminiscent of Sodom. Only Sodom had not been this foul, nor had such an amazing soundtrack. The sound was pure sex. We writhed like we had never writhed before, like a bunch of sexy, sexy snakes. All 500 male bloggers and 25 female bloggers truly enjoyed themselves, letting our minds and bodies melt into one. Eventually we transformed ourselves into a mosaic of pure musical geekdom, drooling and at a loss of how to describe what was happening. Even the blogger with the Thesaurus remained speechless.
At the end of the concert Mother threw apples at the audience. We ate the apples and realized our nakedness. Some of us saw naked people IRL for the first time. It was a magical experience. But all of us knew we could never tweet about it. You had to be there.
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“You know what sucks about getting older? Your friends have known you for way too long. They’ve got too much on you. “
So many wonderful songs seem to have fallen through the cracks and all but disappeared.
More important than your real-life first love is the fictional first love you experience via your television set.
Well I mean first of all, it’s never a good idea to approach a hot black girl with an opening line about how much you love chocolate!