Back in gorgeous Los Angeles. I never thought I’d develop any sort of affinity for this city, but go to Bakersfield. Any large metropolitan region suddenly becomes nirvana in comparison. Last night was indeed a fiasco. We played inside the boxing ring. Yes, within the ropes and turnbuckles. A bunch of kids hopped inside and went crazy. They crashed into each other, fell into us, did flips and acted out their bored, drunk teenage wrestling/boxing fantasies. It is something, to see children raised on backyard wrestling videos and pay-per view boxing matches attempt to become their icons in reality. We were the soundtrack to their melee. Here we are now, entertain us.
One poor soul made the mistake of leaping from Greg’s bass drum. Greg throws his sticks down mid-song, stands up slowly and surely, and hisses, pointing, “Don’t you ever jump off my fucking drum set!” It was an astounding moment, as if a god came down from on high to scold us mere mortals. Everyone responded by shutting up and SITTING DOWN. They cowered before the mighty Drudy. It wasn’t until I, of all people, said they could do whatever they wanted, as long as they laid off the drums, that the kids resumed their raucous behavior.
Afterwards a fight occurred outside. Racial slurs were thrown about. One kid ran after another with a plastic rooster. As we aimed our vans out of the dusty, pebble-strewn parking lot, the melee hindered our exit. Someone asked the heated boys ready to fight, “Hey, can we get through?” One responded, “Oh yeah, go ahead.” They quieted, let us drive past, and then continued shouting. We fled for the peace and serenity of L.A.