we have a date with the underground, chapter 9
by Michele Christopher
This is the ninth in a series of true stories about an anonymous punk rock guy. This one was written by the turtle. I just took care of crossing the t's and shit.
Disneyland. Anaheim California. That is the town of Mighty Ducks, Del Taco and misinterpretations of "UNITY" tattoos. Somewhere you only go if you want to ride the Matterhorn and have visual sex with Minnie Mouse.
A place that was as flat as the desert and just as god damn boring.
This is where our recording time was. This is where we had to spend what seemed like a lifetime.
We spent all our days in bars with no money waiting for a transfer from the label. We walked from bar to bar. That's what we did. Find happy hours. Move around and not talk to each other. Waitress walks up, we walk away, shoving back the free chili dogs or whatever the fuck they had. Fuck, I think I was on a popcorn diet ‘til "Nacho Thursday" one week. We moved when they asked us what we wanted to drink. Water only can push you so far until they figure out you are a bunch of freeloaders and toss you out. That’s what we did. And I don't make any apologies or excuses. ‘Cause nachos rule, dude. Two words. "Free" and "Nachos." Hey dude, if this a dream don't fucking wake me up cause this is the best I ate in days.
We always did get thrown out. It was just a matter of time . Ticking away. Like a fucking time bomb. Shove that shit back like you are in the fucking Kentucky Derby. Get as much back cause the race is on and it only lasts a few minutes before the wreath is on the winner and you have to leave.
One day we had to wait around while the drummer decided how he wanted his set miced. We had nothing to do. had about a dollar in change so we decided to get a beer. At the liquor store. Fuck man, even dive bars were too upscale for us.
Oh yeah. We were slumming fucking hardcore, man.
The nearest store was one on the main drag of Anaheim. The same street that had Disneyland on it.
We had no cash. Nothing. Budweiser 16 ouncers and a studio with some asshole yelling "Gimmie snare again! One more time! Snare! Like you mean it this time! Snare!"
Fuck that, dude. Let's find something to do.
God dammit we are gonna get in. And it doesn't fucking matter how we do it cause if I have to be recording in a shit smelling recording studio for the rest of the week, I'm gonna be riding a fucking teacup by the end of this night. As god is my witness, I will be touching Tinkerbell’s ass by the time this place closes if I have to put up the crap back there for another week.
A idea was born. A plan formulated. Small fence. Fast runners. A diversion. A dumbass diversion.
It was decided that I would leap the fence. I would be the diversion.
The plan. I would rip of my shirt and throw it when I hit main street. Hell, I had another shirt underneath. I’d keep running till I hit the Haunted Mansion. My friends would follow after the Disney cops chased me. We would meet at the mansion in 20 minutes, have some fun, then go back to the studio.
I couldn't see any Disney cops. Not eating kinda makes you wonky after awhile. And I know nachos are good, they just just don't work as a meal. Things get....funny.
I unbutton my shirt. Wipe the sweat off my brow. Throw the smoke down and down the beer. Kids were coming out ‘cause it was getting late. The park was is in shutting down mode. The night was over for some, but just starting for us.
I ran. As hard as I could. I caught the glance of a kid as I was running full throtle at the fence. It was that confused look on his face. A mixture of "What the fuck?" and "Fuck yeah, dude!!!" Something that reminds you of seeing a Chinese contortionist stretching her legs around her back while being on her chest. Or maybe thats just me. I'm kinda kinky, ok?
I gave the kid a fast smile as I hit the fence. Got over it and started to run.
I was tackled by about three guards right when I hit my stride. Pulled down to the ground as my friends laughed at my ass on the ground and walked away. Disney cops.
Fucking Disney cops.
At least they didn't have guns.
Well maybe chocolate guns.
Minors around ya know.
Vandals - Pirate's Life