Weekend in review.

FRIDAY

This last Friday, Ryan, Dave, Mina, and I went to place called Winstons (I think) in San Diego to catch a West Indian Girl show. The first band up was a group called Pocket. They were the whitest funk band on the planet. The best description of them I could give is that they seemed like a "weekend steak house band." Their bassist made constipated sex faces and did his best to give the impression that he was rocking out and working seriously hard while he played the same two notes over and over.

Second up was a band that West Indian Girl tours with frequently. They were a sort of new wave-y kind of outfit called Roman Numerals. They were really good. Both Ryan and I bought the cd. Mariqueen came onstage and sang a song with them, and it was really pretty.

Finally came West Indian Girl. I've been a big fan of them since I first heard their music years ago, back when Ryan introduced me to them. Their cd does them absolutely no justice. The show was phenomenal. The energy of it was really just vibrating the entire damn house. I don't know if I'll be able to listen to the cd again. They were that good. Melty psychadelic waves of sound, crashing on us like surf. It was beautiful.

(skip if you don't want to hear me try and use odd analogies to put you at the show)
Mariqueen, as it turns out, has the voice of an angel, and snaked onstage like a bellydancer. She alternately belted out to the rafters, cooed through a bullhorn, shook her tambourine while writhing like a gypsy, and clutched at her hair and body like some kind of seductive Fury. She even briefly channeled the Supremes as she shook a maraca and pointed out across the crowd, shoulder dipping in time with the beat. She's definitely perfected the art of making each person in the room feel like she's singing directly at them.

Every person in the band brought something interesting to the table. Mariqueen with her witchiness, Francis with his intense, pin-you-down stare and crispy guitars, and Mark looking for all the world like the Wild Man of Borneo, all mane and wild percussion. The thought entered my mind that he was chained in the corner with the drums in order to keep him from screeching to the moon and going on a Yeti-like rampage in the middle of the set. Nathan manned the left soundboard. His thin frame, long fingers, and odd lighting giving him the appearance of some kind of Ziggy Stardust-like alien, completely uninterested in the chaos around him, all his focus on the arcane adjustments of his myriad dials. Soundboard right was peopled by Amy, who looked like what would happen if a Rainbow Brite doll grew up around the Addams Family. She plucked and warped her various keys in a darkened corner, shyly leaning forward to add to the chorus from time to time. Behind and amongst all of this stood Rob, tall and thin with his red hair cascading out from under his low-pulled hat, frenetically building the wall of music with his beautiful guitar work.
(end of describey/review part)

Here are a few pictures I took with my camera phone. I was still getting used to it, so they suck, but I think Ryan has some more he could probably put up. I wish I'd taken more, but oh well.

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Evening Crib Notes
-There was also a guy who looked sort of like Dr. House from the tv show House. He was really sweaty and was doing some kind of weird recumbent tai chi dance thing. We were pretty sure he was on ecstasy.

-I went up to the merch booth and said "Alright, what's the best thing you got?" By thinking like a winner, I was rewarded with the last limited edition black and silver tour shirt they had. It fits like a dream and is six kinds of sweet. Ray Smuckles would be proud.

-Pocket sucked.

-Roman Numerals were great.

-West Indian Girl was super great.

After the show, we meandered out back to hang out with Mariqueen. We chatted about this and that, she gracefully deflected the advances of a very drunk and very amorous vagrant, and we all made tentative plans to see 300 at the Spectrum IMAX.

SATURDAY

Dave and Mina picked me up from my house, whereafter we met up with Ryan and ate like not-very-classy kings at Souplantation. Ryan decided his menstrual pains were too severe, so he opted out of our next activity and literally went home to garden. I know.

The group that all had huge dicks and balls (Dave, Mina, and I) headed over to the On Target shooting range. It was Mina's first time firing a gun, so we started with a .22 pistol. It was barely a step up from pellet gun. Still, Mina took to shooting remarkably well. She planted almost all of her rounds in the face, sternum, and throat of her paper target. Dave as well proved himself a capable zombie-slayer, with most of his bullets passing through the paper victim's cranium. I didn't do too shabby myself, but I've been here a lot more recently and frequently, so it wasn't really anything new enough to report on.

After we used up all our ammo, we stepped up to a .380 Berreta. Apparently the 9m was currently on the workbench, so we went with a reasonable approximation. Mina did well again, and actually liked firing the larger caliber better. We all agreed it felt less like you were pelting cans with an air rifle. When we finished with that one, we went back for what Dave and I had been anticipating and slightly dreading the whole day. The Smith and Wesson .44 Magnum Revolver.



This gun weighs as much as a large cast iron skillet. It is bigger than both of my hands put together, and one of my hands is bigger than both of your hands put together. Even if it had no bullets, you could very effectively beat someone to death with it. Mina flat out refused to go near it. My manhood was obviously at stake, so I had first run with it. Here's how that went.

The guy in the lane next to us, a middle aged gent whose name escapes me because I was wearing ear protection and guns were going off while he told me, asked us what we were firing. We showed him the Smith and Wesson .44 Magnum Revolver resting deceptively calmly on the counter. He just backed up a few feet and said "I'll wait." Dave and I looked at each other with growing alarm, realizing that if this longtime gun enthusiast was taking a step back and he wasn't even firing it, there was probably a bit more we ought to know before throwing this gun's brass down the range (By the way, the bullets for this gun are literally larger than some people's penises).

I turned to the guy and asked "Umm... I've never actually fired a revolver before. Or a gun this big. Do you have any advice?" He told us that the reason he was going to wait was because he was practicing for accuracy, and the concussion from that gun is so massive that it would actually throw off his aim. He ended up being very kind, patient, and informative. By the end of our run, Dave and I both had the form and function pretty much down. We just needed, obviously, a lot more practice. One of the things he told us to do is to neither expect nor fear the oncoming shot. It's going to happen. Don't try to control it, don't try to make it happen, and don't try to help it. A gun that big is going to fire itself. You just make sure your form is good, you're calm, and your focused.

Mina called it "The Fireball Gun," because the thundering kaboom is coupled with a giant spike of flame that spews from the barrel. The best way I can convey the feeling of shooting this gun is that, unlike most other guns, where there's a bang and a flash that makes you flinch, this gun actually steals a second of your life. You pull the trigger. All of a sudden, you're confused. You're reasonably certain there was a cacophonously loud explosion and immense wave of concussive force, as well as a blinding flash of light. You're dazed. Nervous. Unsure of where you are. Is everyone okay? Somebody call my mother. Oh, wait, that's right. You're at the shooting range. You just fired the .44 Magnum. Whew, okay. Time for the next shot. Bang. Flash. What happened!? My mother. Somebody call my mother.

After we'd ejaculated enough symbolic spermatozoa from the various phallic representations of man's mortality, we went back to Dave's, played Soul Caliber 3 (I made a Jenn character to go with all the rest of the us-themed fighters), and ate pizza. Ryan showed up, we played some MarioKart, then saw TMNT. It was quite surprisingly awesome. I was not disappointed for a single moment. I plan on seeing it again.

SUNDAY

Today I went to the Huntington Library with my mom, sister, cousin Lindsey, and friend Angi. It was sort of a belated mom-birthday thing. Morgan and Lindsey were late, so the three of us that were there spent some time in the gift shop. I bought a leather bookmark, a book on symbolism in art, and a hardbound copy of the United States Constitution. Once the girls arrived, we walked over and saw our favorite: the yearly bonsai exhibit. Angi's eagle eyes spotted an itty bitty baby praying mantis on the leaves of one of the trees. I can not express how tiny this bug was. It was perfectly proportioned to be on that tree. There were also some similarly miniscule spiders on another tree. All in all, very cool.

We ambled around, making our way to the cafeteria and then to the Japanese Garden. We got some cool photos, and Lindsey, Morgan, and I snuck off the beaten path to find a really cool area with a cave, a bunch of small statues, and a beatiful grove like where a girl in a Francesca Lia Block novel would sleep away her cares. Most of the pictures are on Lindsey's camera, so I'll put them up when she gets them to me.










The three of us then dashed through some bamboo to the lily ponds, as the grounds were closing in minutes. A few adorably curious turtles swam up to the bank and investigated us. Morgan fed one a clover flower. I wanted to take him home. He was so cute. I should get a turtle.









Anyway, after a bit more bamboo, we made it to the front, met up with Angi and mom, and departed.

There was a bit more here and there throughout the weekend, but those were the major points. I'm quite pleased. I really got a lot of awesome stuff in this weekend. I hope that becomes a thing.