I had a great time at the concert last weekend. The bill also included Life in a Blender (think Talking Heads lite) and Nellie McKay. All three acts featured enough humor in their music to keep me happy. The picture on the left is of course of Jesus H. Christ and the Four Hornsmen of The Apocalypse. It’s the best I could do with my cell phone as flash photography wasn’t allowed. The following day I sent a Facebook message to the lead singer to tell her how much I enjoyed the show and thank her for including me on her invitation list. She messaged back that she had planned to give me a shout out before beginning the song Vanity Surfin‘ (which mentions blogging) but got confused and forgot.
This weekend I’m in another state that may be worse than Connecticut. As soon as you cross the border from N.Y. you are immediately confronted by highway billboards advertising two things that are illegal in NY, but apparently perfectly acceptable here: fireworks and …ahem…Asian massages. For a state so backwoods redneck that a friend of mine refers to it as Pennsyltucky, it seems odd that they are so liberal about happy endings massages. And honestly I didn’t get what those Asian massage billboards were really advertising until a friend clued me in. And in case you’re wondering, if I was going to get one of those massages I wouldn’t be here writing about it. Ok, so in Pennsylvania it’s ok to blow shit up and pay an alleged masseuse for a happy ending, but you can’t go down to a convenience store or gas station and buy a six pack of beer? Yup, that’s right. There is no beer at the convenience stores. I’ve got a fridge in my hotel room, but if I want to buy beer it must be in large quantities. The only way to buy beer for consumption at home it must be in large quantities from a beer warehouse. I’m not opposed to beer warehouses mind you, but I’m pretty sure I won’t be drinking a case of beer over two nights. I’m terrified of what else I might find out is going on in this god forsaken state. Hopefully the villagers don’t discover that I’m magically contacting the ‘interweb‘ right through the air. They’d probably organize a mob with torches (or perhaps Roman candles) and pitchforks and storm my hotel room. If this is my last post ever you’ll know that’s what happened.