FUNKY IN THE MIDDLE OF CHAOS

ANAHEIM, CALIFORNIA. June 5, 2013.  near the corner of Lincoln & Euclid.  

Four biers on the 5 North, a pack of grits, and a couple of red bulls. Take me down to the purple palace to set the mood - the smooth peaceful sounds in exact tension with the world we are about to walk into.  The live shows eek similar grunts from dark places.  We stood there, waiting with a crowd of boys, girls, men, women...ripped, torn, inked, pierced, plugged, plastered.  Swaying, arms crossed, screeches of the first guitar rumble through us, pushing us towards the stage as if it was known all along that is what would happen.  Elbows thrown thrown proudly in the air as CEREMONY begins, "Pack your fists full of hate and take a swing at the world!"  The electric crowd is hit with water, lightning strikes, blasts of violent camaraderie   explode on the floor.  The stage is ambushed, divers throw themselves head first off of it - happy to land anywhere, on anyone. You must keep your wits about you, or your fate will surely be secured with a foot to the chin (worse things have happened).   

"I have a chip on my shoulder...i'm on a losing STREAK!" There goes D.L. Fibbs, the famed poet, flying through the air, swallowed by the eager crowd. They pull him to the ground and stomp on his limbs, then, as if he were their brother, they help him up and hug him. The music doesn't stop for anyone or anything.  Bloody ears, suckered lips, black eyes and swimming pools of unruly sweat soak the toasted freaks of the night.  There, in the middle of chaos, Humphrey Orlando dances with a funky glaze in his eyes. His body moves jerks and jolts, the funkiest parts are in his knees, his hips. D.L. Fibbs, in the center of Head Trauma City, stage left, knows the funk all too well and joins Orlando.  They hold their elbows even higher and swim against the current of the pit. The masses do their best to turn their momentum around but the funk of the music has taken over, and as the lead singer vibrates spastically like a possessed Johnny B. Goode the creepiness of the music only intensifies.  Shakin', rattlin', rollin'....gettin funky in the middle of CHAOS.   

Best show Humphrey and D.L. Fibbs have ever been to.  Broken down feelings of hope for our generation are cleansed and burnt with hot water, but as they all unite in their sick doldrums, they're liberated from the grasps of a mojito for a girl with a navel piercing.  

In other news, Syrian Army regains control of Quasyr and Turkey riots in the streets as its police shows the first ugly scars of militarization.  I'm sick.  Sick of drying up in the sun. Sick of this island. Sick of fun. Sick of going sober. Sick of starting over. Sick of Black Flag. Sick of Cro-Mags. Sick of living. Sick of people dying. Sick of trying. Sick of television. Sick of telephones. Sick of homophobes. Sick of condos. I'm sick.  Sick of the GOP. Sick of Liberals. Sick of me. Sick of Obama. Sick of head trauma. So very tired of being sick. I'm sick. Sick of living in America. Sick of mass hysteria. Sick of realism. Sick of Buddhism. Sick of long boards. Sick of hardcore. Sick of Catholics. Sick of atheists. Sick of police. Sick of yuppies. Sick of paying rent. Sick of being bent. Sick of hearing lies. Sick of mankind.  I'm sick.