Getting off the bus in San Antonio on Friday the 13th, I probs looked like full-on world record levels of smashed asshole. With dirty hair, last night’s makeup, and the taste of frozen margarita still in my mouth, I clapped down the street in my leopard print flip flops, struggling to carry all twenty pounds of the Sunday best of ho-wear that I had drunkenly smashed into my duffle the night before.
For some reason, I had thought it would be a good idea to pregame my first ever Housecore Horrorfest with a few days of tearing it up in New Orleans. To my defense, there’s not much I have to look forward to in my I go to school and work three jobs-ass life, so I occasionally have to dip the fuck out of Shitsville, Maryland for a week or two to keep myself from losing it. But after getting groped by drunk chicks at the Agnostic Front show at Siberia, paying my respects to Marie Laveau in the subtropical heat, and accidentally getting too turnt at Juan’s Flying Burrito Mid-City followed by dropping condoms around Walgreen’s, I was starting to feel my soul leave my body.
But, a week in a Nawlins backpacker hostel only made the downtown hotel I splurged on feel that much doper, so I summoned up my inner metal MacGyver and got my shit together. With the assistance of four cups of coffee, I made use of a yard of double-stick tape, applied some contouring magic, laced up my platform booties and my new lingerie from the Hustler store on Bourbon Street, and unleashed my little ho-fo-sho ass on the streets of San Antonio.
Too excited to follow the green arrow on the Google map, I eventually just followed the pairs of thirty-something dudes in black t-shirts until I made it to the mainstage at the Aztec Theatre. Between having just turned twenty-one in October and my out of state ID, I got my first of many skeptical looks of the weekend from the wristband lady, but shook off the #haters to get my signature $15 Jameson and Diet and hobbled to the stage in my heels like a newborn giraffe. To my disappointment, I had spent so much time piecing myself back together that the front row was already filled up by a stronghold of three hundred pound King Diamond fans. I wasn’t about to fucks with that, so I settled for second, and let Child Bite and Warbeast build me up against the pull down of the whiskey, anxiously waiting for my favorite five – Eyehategod.
No matter how many times you see your be-all and end-all band, it always manages to feel like your first. Although it was kind of disorienting to see EHG outside the context of a seedy club, they sounded on fleek as fuck. Feeling like a piece of New Orleans had come with me, I worked it and twerked and whipped my three feet of hair back and forth, probs to the annoyance of my neighbors (sorry you squidbillies). Also, before I forget – does anybody know who those two ho-fo-sho mother goddesses in the sequin mini dresses standing side stage were? I felt like I was looking through a portal to myself in twenty years. Seriously, does anyone have their contact info? I really want to hear their wisdom.
After EHG is when things got blurry. Like really blurry. I dipped on Exodus to touch boys and drink their beer, walked around in circles for like ten times until I found the bathroom right in front of my face, somehow made it back into the pit for Superjoint, and was promptly swept back away for some Holiday Inn hijinks. Let’s just say it involved some nefarious balcony activity and smoking out of a piece of fruit for the first time since I was fifteen. It felt like I opened my eyes again and all of the sudden King Diamond was on stage in front of me. Some chick in a nightgown was prancing around in front of an elaborate set involving, ironically, a balcony.
I’m not really sure how in the dick I got back to my hotel that night. I woke up in a panic around 8:30 in the morning with my eyes pitch red from sleeping in my fake lashes and deep marks on my hips from the strings on my Hustler panties. A smashed asshole I was again, indeed. I grabbed my dying phone to check the time. Somehow in my malaise I remembered coming across EHG bassist Gary Mader while running back and forth between the Holiday Inn and the Aztec, who had filled me in on the band’s Saturday 1:30 signing. I threw my pounding head back on the bougie hotel pillow, wondering if five hours would even be enough time to get my shit together. A Cinderella Story was playing on the TV, and I could feel the judgment of childhood hero Hilary Duff being cast upon my limp, spray tanned body. I closed my eyes tight. Fuck you, Hilary.
Much like the day before, though, I somehow managed to turn this hot mess express into Dolly Parton meets Elvira. But as I began making my way out in my cut-offs, the nervous vom was starting to build in the back of my throat. You know how earlier I said seeing EHG play is always like the first time? Well, no matter how many times I talk to them, it’s the same deal – I default to my anxious fucking goober setting. The first time I met Mike IX at a Corrections House show I was shaking uncontrollably and moaning like Tina Belcher, and showed little improvement when I saw EHG in Sweden over the summer (at least until my fifth beer set in anyways).
But my panic only deepened when the Holiday Inn where all the singings were being held wasn’t located where my drunkbrain recorded it as being. Scared that I was going to miss the whole thing, I began pacing around the block, profusely sweating, and ignoring my catcallers. I made a frantic phone call to one of the dudes I had been running around with the night before, who attempted to describe the cross streets I had to find as I pivoted around on one of my heels like a fucking crazy person, all to realize the hotel had been right in front of my face the whole time. Something about these Southern boys gets me too damn neurotic. Needless to say I Ubered everywhere for the rest of the weekend.
Luckily, it took an extra half an hour for Mike to turn up, so my genius self didn’t miss a thing. After a big welcome hug from Jimmy Bower and a trip to the bar (that I had to pay for in quarters because I lost all my bills the night before, lol, fuck me), I got in line and waited anxiously waited to get to the front table, except, of course, this dingus came to a signing with nothing to actually sign thanks to my greater concern for regluing my eyelashes. Adapting as always, I handed the boys the Miller Lite in my hand to make use of, with Gary and his perpetual sweetness marveling how it was still cold.
Afterwards I bummed a light off Jimmy as we discussed the prospects of matching tramp stamps, and I left feeling pretty one hundred with my empty beer bottle stuffed in my purse for safe keeping. Unfortunately the moment was kind of killed by some stalker dude asking over and over again if he could take pictures of my ass, but luckily after telling him to fuck himself he scampered off like those cowards usually do. After eating for the first time since Juan’s in Nola, I chugged a twenty-five ounce thot juice, sprayed myself with “Baby Prostitute” by Victoria’s Secret, and road my ass to the Korova in the comfort of my Uber.
Welp, I made rookie mistake number one that night. Your girl opened a fucking tab. Shit very quickly turned into all kinds of anarchy, which was only exacerbated by the fact that I was flipping out over the fact that my favorite punk/hardcore band, Classhole, was playing. I am just thankful that they played early enough that I was soberish enough to remember them. Seriously. Go fucking listen to them. Now. Open up a new tab. Go to their fucking Bandcamp, sit down, shut the fuck up, and really fucking listen. Funny story, I ordered their self-titled album from vocalist Matt Russell, and to my millennial POS horror, it was an LP and not a CD. Fuck. But I digress.
While simultaneously buying dranks for everyone and their auntie, I got white girl wasted on Deep Eddy’s and Patron and definitely never even made it to the Aztec to see Corrosion of Conformity with Pep as I had fully intended. The trippy blur of Friday night had made a comeback as I made my way in and out of cars and exchanged lighters and kisses. I wish I could write more about what I do remember, but unfortunately there’s some information that I must save to disclose in my memoirs when I’m literally, like, ninety. But let’s just say it was one of the best nights of my life.
Like with most amazing nights, though, comes a terrible comedown the next day. It was Sunday, the last day of the festival, and the threat of having to go back to reality soon was looming. I was tired, lonely, and shaking all over in need of more booze. I knew the only responsible thing to do would be to take myself out of the equation for a little bit, so I looked to see what else was on and popping in San Antonio. Eventually I came across the motherfucking zoo and it was awesome. Ass and tities out, I rehydrated with my souvenir giraffe cup and waited for the capybara to move out from his shrub from behind the safety of my giant hangover sunglasses. Oh to be a capy, where your only expectations in life are eating and swimming in lemon baths.
After a long ordeal getting back to my hotel thanks to a very confused Uber driver, I could feel my mind starting to slip again. It was getting dark and my room was trashed like some sort of post-apocalyptic Victoria’s Secret/discount liquors explosion. I sank deep in my bed in the fetal position, texting boys with my eyes half open and waiting for death to take me. I was almost asleep when I decided to check my email and saw the festival’s guest tattooer Paul Booth had finally responded to my EHG tramp stamp inquiry. I jolted back awake and sat right up. Fuck. Apparently he had had an opening when I was dicking around the zoo, but with a fragile hope that maybe I could still catch up with him, I threw on my cowboy boots and booked it the fuck out to the Holiday Inn.
No time for an Uber, I ran around the streets for what I knew would be the last time of the weekend. Fed up with sidewalk creeps by this point, I was throwing up middle fingers and spitting in the direction of any man that tried to corner me. I had a tramp stamp to get – you may think this shit’s a game, but it’s fucking not. After bolting into the Holiday Inn and an awkward encounter with one of my gentleman callers, I made it to the seventh floor to find that the Booth booth had done packed up and gone.
Feeling dejected, I sat in the lobby on my phone in an attempt to find another shop in the city, but since it was Sunday everything was closing within the hour. The life was starting to drain from me once more when I heard a grumbly “HEY!”. I looked up to see no other than Jimmy approaching. I stood up, adjusted my boobs, and ran over to deliver an enthusiastic hug. Pouting about the tramp stamp drama, he suggested I go see Honky at the Korova to cheer myself up. After all, it was no time like the present to start drinking again. After defeating the challenge of finding the last ATM in San Antonio that still had money in it, I knocked back a few Lone Stars, feeling oddly at peace as I watched Texas’ finest ladies getting way too moist by the sight of Bobby Landgraf.
By the time Mountain of Wizard was wrapping up (fucking listen to these guys, too), I was quickly turning into the little girl from the “I take nap right here” Vine. Collapsing into bed with the Dominos I had ordered with my last bit of cash, I went to transfer more money into my depleted checking account so that I would be able to pay for my checked bag on my flight home. But to my horror I was locked out of my banking app and my life quickly flashed before my eyes, not understanding in my Lone Star stupor that United would probs just charge my account whenever I had enough money in it again. Fearful that I wouldn’t be able to carry on my signed Miller Lite (#priorities), I called the customer service number crying and telling my whole life story to the poor representative lady, who patiently waited until the end to assure me that everything would work out. Ma’am, if you are reading this, I am truly sorry.
Two hours of uneasy sleep later, I woke up covered in parmesan bites, ready to go home. At the airport I stared like a zombie into the self-service kiosk for so long, my eyes unable to focus, that a United rep had to come over and talk me through the whole process. I got felt up for the final time of my trip by the TSA and made my way to my gate in my remaining clean pair of short shorts, clearly in denial that it was only fifty degrees back in Baltimore.
Suddenly I heard someone call out my name. At first I thought I had reached the point of exhaustion-induced hallucination, or was maybe encountering some type of higher power finally calling me to the light. But no, it was just a bassist from an undisclosed mainstage band, who, I must say, made an excellent human pillow while I waited for boarding. “You wanna join the mile high club?” he whispered in my ear. As tempting as it sounded, I was shit out of adventure. “I don’t know daddy, I don’t wanna get in trouble,” I responded with a cute giggle. Maybe that’ll be my pregame next year.