we have a date with the underground, chapter 17
by Turtle Jones
This is chapter 17 of the Underground series, but part 3 of 4 of this particular story.
In the last episode, we were left with....
WOW! That hurt. Sitting on a piece of shit bridge with my beer spilling out of the cup. A motorcycle had run dead into me and knocked me about five feet away. My cup was spilled and my knee was hurting. Which isn't that big of a deal. It hurts daily. But this one wasn't my fault. Or was it? In the last few years of my drinking, I have been told, that I purposely walked into motorcycles. I don't know if that is true or not. All I know is that there was a guy in a leather jacket yelling at me about how I scratched his motorcycle. Ok, hero. I'm the one spitting up blood here. Or was that beer? Where are my smokes? Shut up you Norwegian asshole and leave me alone.
I pulled myself up and walked closer to the gates, or maybe it was the beer garden. Wander to the base of the show. Not even going in yet. Yes. It was the beer garden. Or video game plaza. Or mannequin sex area. Yes, there were tons of mannequins. All over. Naked, plastic girls. All around. I have no idea why. But we took that oppurtunity to take some cool sex shots!!! I wish I still had them, but meh, you know how it goes.
I had a big buzz and we were going in. Crossing a river or a canal. Drunk Norwegians yelling at us. People throwing away their umbrellas. Me, bloody but moving. Ask Michele how much I bleed. She's seen my jackets. Push my way in. I have a bracelet. Fuck tickets here. I'm done with that shit. Walk in and buy a piece of pizza and head to the bathroom. Or portapotties. Or whateverthefuck they have here. Looking around I saw something. Oh christ. What is that?
What in god's name is this? Outdoor portapotties with the urine running down a hill? Causing everyone to slip and fall as the walk down the grass? Slip and fall in urine to get to the second stage? Oh, someone planned this out real well. This was like one of those shows you just step back and put your head in hands and ask "Why?" Anyone who went to use these things was pelted with rocks. Talk about stage fright. This was the King Stage Fright Master. I was hit with rocks as I prayed for something in my body to kick so I could piss. Jesus. Stop throwing rocks. Please.
Well, the night went on and the Kroners were spent. We threw rocks at the guys pissing in the urinals and just laughed the day away. There wasn't a whole lot to do but eat pizza and drink beer. Look at the rocks and dare each other to jump in the water. I climbed out on a rock and had a really cool pic taken, but it's gone. Meh. It happens. I jumped around from stage to stage till I got tired and wanted to go home. First night. Detoxing. I was tired. My friend came from backstage and told us he wanted to leave too. But, he had read the set list of the next band and wanted to hear this one song. Then we would leave. How deep in the set? The 15th song. Fuck. Who is it? David Bowie.
Fuck. I am tired. Climb up the big rocks and just kick back with a bunch of Norwegian punk rockers. My hands were bleeding from the climb. I just sat back. See, the thing with me is that most people can talk to me for about five minutes and know I am punk rock. No matter where I am at in the world. .These guys spent a couple of minutes with me and suddenly they started talking to me about the lies of the government and how Norway should stick together and not sell out to the Euro. David Bowie started playing. My head was spinning. They asked me to come back to their house.
The Protest House.
A Norwegian punk rock house. Filled with kids and beer. And really no drugs in sight. What's with these guys? Don't they get high? I grabbed a whateverthefuck beer they had and asked if anyone had any speed. I guess asking for speed in Norway is like asking someone for their political views and how much they hate America. Ok. I got it. We suck. Do you have any dope. Hey dude, that's the way I thought back then. No dope. No turtle. I'll listen to your ramblings about how bad I suck if you:
A: Fuck me
B: Feed me
C: Get me high
If not you can take the train to all fucking hell for all I care. I don't care about how you thought Teddy fucking Rosevelt fucked up our country. You gotta be fucking kidding me. Why don't you just tell me about how the Civil War fucked us up. Or maybe the Revolutionary War.
Didn't matter to me anyways. I packed my pockets full of beer and left. I can take that shit, but it starts to bother me when I get called English. That bugs me. If you want to insult someone from a different country there is one rule. GET THE COUNTRY RIGHT. Don't say something to me like "Prince Charle sucks!" Ok. Like that matters to me. If you want to get your ass kicked, all you have to do is ask, you Norwegian son of bitch. It's really not that hard to get me pissed off. But, please, try to get the country right, ok?
So I bailed. I do that. When a scene doesn't work for me, I leave. I walked down the road back into town and stared at the taxis. 4 in the morning. Counted my kroners and got in the queue. Lit a smoke and dreamed of the sleep of the dead. Looked at my watch again.
It was only Tuesday.
I had a date with Captain Sabertooth.
And the Zoo.
But that's another story for another day.
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