Bees Attack Stars!

I just finished sticking a bunch of shit to my walls.
With that tacky adhesive gear that may replace scotch tape one day if it gets its act together.
It's a long shot, though; the Scotts don't go down easily.
The French, on the other hand...
But we're not talking global issues right now.
The stuff on my walls is a mish mash of mementos and used condoms that I have kept over the years.
Because, when not mocking old people or inhaling inhalants, I too can be wistful.

So, I watched Hey Rosetta! play music last night.
They look more like a Nova Scotian band than one of ours.
These days.
The bass player lost his glasses.
Not literally. Cosmetically.
Turpin and I watched the band for a while before we grew bored.
Then we watched the bassist (him again) make his bass-player faces.
And equated them to his having sex.
Because he was making fuck faces. Onstage.
I wonder if anyone has told him yet.
Hopefully his mom reads my blog.
Stars came on afterwards.
What a bunch of florist jerkoffs they are.
Throwing roses to the crowds, and rose petals when breaking into choruses.
Don't get me wrong; I dig the band.
But sometimes the stage antics of a group can really sour the milk, y'know?
Ever watch Thursday live?
Exactly.

Side note for all of you 7-foot tall, well-endowed assholes.
If you're at a concert. Or a play. Or one of those deals where people have orgies onstage.
If you're at one of those. You can look around and say to yourself,
"I'm easily the tallest person here."
So why are you standing in front of me?
And when you put your lightweight girlfriend on your shoulders?
Even better.
Next time I hope you drop her.