Marc

I think we found a new home for Thursday nights. We made a trip all the way to Bloomington, over a mile away, and fell in love once we realized it was $1 pitchers. And there was a terrible band playing, which was just great. They were a cover band, through and through. Not one original song. We got to stand there and listen to them hack great songs like "Glory Days" by the Boss, "Summer of 69" by Bryan Adams, and "Your Mama Don't Dance (and your Daddy Don't Rock N Roll)" by Poison. Seriously, the drummer was the worst thing I'd ever seen. Just call him sixteenth-note boy, cause that was all that he was doing. Tap on the hi-hat, hit a cymbal, tap on the ride, hit a cymbal, and so on, and so forth. The bass player was retarded, I think, mainly because he had one of those Pro Gear something or other. For my money its either Fender basses, or Ernie Ball Sting Rays, or nothing at all. Those Ibanez basses ... fucking boo. They sound like shit, and they look fucking ridiculous.

The only thing this band had going for it was the fact that their guitar player was fucking spot on. He seriously didn't miss a fucking note the entire night. So, I took the luxury of introducing myself after their final song and telling him something along the lines of, "Dude, seriously, fucking ditch that band of yours. It pisses me off to see someone with such talent wasting it in a cover band. I know, I know. That may sound a little harsh, but come on, man. I know tons of people that play guitar, and you're better than like 90% of 'em. Serious. You ever write your own shit? (pause) Well, fucking a! Go for it man. Do that shit. I know you're probably making money doing this shit, but seriously, get out on your own. Make your own music. Alright, I just spilled a beer all over my leg. I'm out. Good luck, bra."

I wish I was kidding. Dollar pitchers. Mmm...