the riyl revolution

the games we play by dory t
June 16, 2008, 2:51 am
Filed under: story | Tags: , , , ,

to love music is to love live shows. and to love live shows is to endure huge numbers of bro’d out tools, huge volumes of cigarette smoke, and several eternities of standing around awkwardly staring into space waiting for the band to start. so what’s a girl to do? there are only so may times i can go pee in an hour. solution: the venue olympics! a game of questions! a collective interview! a totally judgemental and cruel assesment of a room full of strangers!


game number one: who farted?
because someone always did. always. and the whole little venue starts to smell sort of sour, like smoke and fart and sweat, and the bodies are very close and even the most immaculately manicured hipsters have pit stains blaring through their athletic gray american apparel tshirts. so who the fuck farted? because no one is safe.
“the shitty looking guy in front of me” usually feels like the right answer… but what about when you are the shitty guy in front? what about the shitty guys in the VERY front? like that extremely tall one standing behind his extremely short girlfriend, and he’s got his fingers in her belt loops and he’s drumming on her hips along to the music, and she looks bored, and the whole situation makes you faintly ill. was it him? was it her? could he feel her fart against his leg?

game number two: where is the drummer’s penis?
it just gets worse and worse.
i’m sorry. but skinny boys in tight navy courderoys sitting on very tiny stools MUST have penises, but where ARE they? the problem with this game is that when i win, i feel gross, because it’s like this horrible outline bulging through their pants and then it’s all i can see, even though it’s the last thing i want to see, and i always feel bad like some straight guy who accidentally stares at a woman’s breasts even though he doesn’t really care at all about them, and then the lady gets upset and he feels like a cliche, because he is. so basically what i’m saying is that looking for the drummer’s dick can be a tricky one, because when you find it (and you will) you will wish you hadn’t.
also, lady drummers fucking rule.

game number three: who does this band wish they were?
this is a little obsessive, i’ll admit. but sometimes i just stand at shows at stare at the singer’s contorted face and think about who they sound like. like how calico just wants to be a country-western version of explosions in the sky. or how anathallo is just like the dirty projectors only it takes like eighteen million people for them to do exactly same thing.

when the band finally starts (or when you get super tired of the band and they finally stop), at least you know you’ve done something right. you’re supporting the artist, not the record company; the venue, not the man. and if it smells like farts and the music is old and everyone on stage is a little too real to be comfortable, at least you know you tried.

these are the sacrifices we make for the things we love.

x dory


2 Comments so far
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dory. i’m with ~15 other people in a small room at a workshop called The Graduate School Experience. i think my face looks like i’m getting sucked into a black hole because i’m trying so hard not to laugh. yr killing me

Comment by yujean

Amazing. You crack me up, and I’m totally going to do this now. One thing though–the drummer doesn’t have to have a penis! There’s actually lots of dude without penises. Don’t forget us trans folks, dude.

Comment by Eli

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