Wherein Christopher Dances To Architecture

So. Devin and Arlen dragged me to the Aggressive Tendencies show tonight, because I am a new father who deserves a night of metal (at least that's what they said...) and therefore must drink and be bombarded by so many power riffs that my underwear hates me and lemme tell ya a little something about metal.

Metal isn't just good music. Metal, when performed correctly, is a sound that wraps itself around your head, bullies its way down your spine, inflates your lungs past their recommended PSI, causes your stomach and bowels to churn and boil, and then pins your legs to the ground using vibrations that reach to the very core of the earth, which we all know houses a hibernating race of Thunder Lizards that await the coming of Ragnarok so that they might rise again and wreak a terrible fury upon the world whilst throwing up many devil-horns to the tune of Black Sabbath's "Supernaut".

(Granted, this is quite similar to the feeling I get when my five-month-old wakes up in the morning and actually starts singing to me, only instead of Thunder Lizards, the hollowed earth is filled with polar bears, and they're making waffles for me. Still, um, metal rulz.)

I shit you not. A good metal show changes you. You wonder why most metalheads and bangers communicate through a series of grunts, shrugs, furrowed brows and flying cross-body-blocks? It is because metal, as a sound, is so innately awesome that it robs them of the very power of speech, sometimes even causing individuals to regress down the evolutionary ladder. I've seen it happen, folks; I'm not saying it's pretty, but it is a spectacle to behold, and last night was one of the better shows I've seen in a long time.

Here is my attempt to describe the damage that was done to my brain:
First up: Bison, a band I've been hearing about all summer, who I'm certain drive around in one of those old-school vans that has fur-bikini-clad valkyries painted on the side and a soiled mattress in the back; their sound is the equivalent of being kidnapped and waterboarded by large swarthy men in Pamplona who then let you loose during the Running Of The Bulls. It's scary, but only in that way that makes you want to experience it again immediately (kinda like getting tattooed, or having really good rough sex, y'know?).

Genghis Tron followed, and while they certainly tried, they just paled in comparison to Bison; I'll give them this, though - they've got potential. Give 'em about two or three years, and they'll sound like a band that Rutger Hauer's character from Blade Runner would've started, had Harrison Ford not run his replicant ass into the ground.

And then there was Baroness.

Let me say right off the bat: these guys look like scumbags in the best possible way. Greasy, disheveled, dressed in ripped jeans and sleeveless black shirts, these were the guys that you always saw huffing gas behind the 7-11 moments before they'd retire to a garage where they'd attempt to play Cliff Burton-era Metallica note for note while penning songs about their latest D&D adventure. This is not a bad thing at all, and it seems to have paid off for Baroness, who played their entire set without taking one breath. Seriously: John Dyer Baizley bellowed for a full hour, and at some point I swear I saw war-elephants stampeding out of his gaping maw.

(What's more: this was billed as an all-ages show, yet there was nary an angst-ridden teenager to be found. The closest that fit that bill was a kid with close-cropped blonde hair who sat at one of the booths during Baroness' set, swaying somewhat dangerously to the feedback; when a bouncer shook his shoulder to see if he was doing okay, the kid stood straight up and spewed something akin to vomit (I hesitate to actually deem it such, as it was strangely clear and non-viscous) a full two feet in the air, all the while maintaining his less-than-graceful footing. Well done, sir; well done, indeed.)

So yeah: Bison, Baroness, Genghis Tron (to a lesser extent), Devin, Arlen, Jordan and Charis - these are all things and/or people who rock. Of course, they pale in comparison to The Ladyfriend, without whose permission I would never have been allowed to go out and play with my friends. Hopefully she lets me do it again.

Insert Mad Cackle Here.

You can talk until you're blue in the face about approval ratings and electoral colleges and whatnot; all I know is that every time I see a picture of this woman, I feel like I should be hiding my daughter, because this woman ALWAYS looks like she's just about to devour a small child.

And that's my political analysis for the day.

Okay yes I am back.

We went to that Columbia full of British people for a whole week and now we are back, but I am tired from teaching my child how to drown people with gallons of her own drool, and I promise to have pictures and anecdotes in the next couple of days so until then y'all get this.

I mean, honestly: isn't it enough?

Attention: B.C. Drivers.

It's called a shoulder-check. Friggin' use it. Thank you.

HOLY CRAP IT HAS BEEN AN ENTIRE MONTH I AM AN AWFUL INTERNETTER.

I was gonna post a long update/apology for not posting in so long/list of things that are cool that y'all should check out, and then explain that the Ladyfriend and I are taking the Little Miss on another roadtrip (despite the fact that I neglected to regale y'all with anecdotes from our last one, "Losing Our Shit In Smalltown, B.C."...), but then I found out that David Foster Wallace killed himself yesterday.

Well, shit. I can't even make a joke about that one.

Wallace, to those who don't abuse themselves by reading frustrating fiction, is the author of such works as Broom Of The System, Girl With Curious Hair, Brief Interviews With Hideous Men and more. (He also wrote Infinite Jest, but I'm convinced that no one aside from myself and a few others have actually read it, that most people who claim to have read it actually gave up at around page 100 and are just fibbing about finishing the monstrous thing, as most people are smart enough to stop beating their heads against brick walls after the first few times they try it. Seriously: the thing is over 1000 pages, and most of that is one paragraph about tennis players getting high.)

Finding new work by Wallace in the bookstores was always exciting, because the man never repeated himself, and rarely disappointed. It's sad to see a contemporary artist who's truly deserving of the label 'genius' end this way.

So there ya go: this is me being sad.

And now this is me saying: I'm gone for a week. Me and my little family unit are gonna go make fun of British Columbians and then hopefully make them cry. Don't touch my stuff while I'm gone, or I'll punch you.

(No, really - Infinite Jest? Put it down and walk away. Just walk away. Go read the new Harry Potter instead. I hear he even has sex this time.)