Last night after I got home from the Rochester I sat around in my new
room and set everything up: bed, table (I have no recollection of how
the fuck I got that thing together), wardrobe, chest of drawers.
Everything is set up now, and I'm feeling good about this. Next up on
my list of purchases is a small bar fridge that I can put at the end
of me bed and store perishables in. I reckon if I had stuff for
sandwiches sitting in my room right under my nose I wouldn't be able
to ignore it and let the ingredients go off. Now THAT'S
thinking.
But last night though, at The Rochester... holy fuck. So at around 6pm Luka got a call from an agent from Token who introduced herself as Frank Woodley's agent. She was asking if it'd be okay if Frank came down and did a drop in spot tonight... fucking YES!?!?! So at the end of the first bracket – about 9pm – with the front bar absolutely packed out with people standing right out to the door, Frank Woodley took the stage with two Nerf guns and got two volunteers from the crowd to tape targets to their heads and fire at each other while he played a drum to simulate a medieval duel. Simulate? Well whatever, it was fucking great, and as the tension built almost to the point where we were wondering whether it would be best to just give up, one of the bullets stuck to its target, and the crowd, to use a cliché, 'lost it's shit'.
I'm still blown away that our room was the room recommended by whoever did the recommending as the Tuesday night room that Woodley should go down to to try out his new bit. The guess of the night was that it was Karl Chandler and Steele Saunders, the guys that run Spleen – Steele MCd our room a few months ago and came back to do a spot just before we made the move to the front bar. I can't think of anyone else, but I also can't think of a situation where they would have said “go to the Rochy”. I don't know, I guess I don't really know how this kind of shit works. Whoever it was, thankyou so much.
I got super drunk after the show, as I had said I would (I AM A MAN OF MY WORD), and probably embarrassed myself but that's just what has to happen sometimes isn't it.
When I got home after we drove past Maccas, I called Troggy – the go-to tenant at Station 59 – to let me in. He opened the door, and I waved to him, but we stayed sat in the car to finish our food, and as we ate someone came out from the door and walked off down the street. They locked the door behind them. “FUCK! GET FUCKED!” went through my head, but I called Troggy again and he came down again and again he let me in. Good on ya Troggy, finding mundanity in a potential situation. Good.
Peace, Taco.
But last night though, at The Rochester... holy fuck. So at around 6pm Luka got a call from an agent from Token who introduced herself as Frank Woodley's agent. She was asking if it'd be okay if Frank came down and did a drop in spot tonight... fucking YES!?!?! So at the end of the first bracket – about 9pm – with the front bar absolutely packed out with people standing right out to the door, Frank Woodley took the stage with two Nerf guns and got two volunteers from the crowd to tape targets to their heads and fire at each other while he played a drum to simulate a medieval duel. Simulate? Well whatever, it was fucking great, and as the tension built almost to the point where we were wondering whether it would be best to just give up, one of the bullets stuck to its target, and the crowd, to use a cliché, 'lost it's shit'.
I'm still blown away that our room was the room recommended by whoever did the recommending as the Tuesday night room that Woodley should go down to to try out his new bit. The guess of the night was that it was Karl Chandler and Steele Saunders, the guys that run Spleen – Steele MCd our room a few months ago and came back to do a spot just before we made the move to the front bar. I can't think of anyone else, but I also can't think of a situation where they would have said “go to the Rochy”. I don't know, I guess I don't really know how this kind of shit works. Whoever it was, thankyou so much.
I got super drunk after the show, as I had said I would (I AM A MAN OF MY WORD), and probably embarrassed myself but that's just what has to happen sometimes isn't it.
When I got home after we drove past Maccas, I called Troggy – the go-to tenant at Station 59 – to let me in. He opened the door, and I waved to him, but we stayed sat in the car to finish our food, and as we ate someone came out from the door and walked off down the street. They locked the door behind them. “FUCK! GET FUCKED!” went through my head, but I called Troggy again and he came down again and again he let me in. Good on ya Troggy, finding mundanity in a potential situation. Good.
Peace, Taco.
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