Since I wasn’t lucky enough to be a teen in 1973,  I saw the closest thing to Led Zeppelin I will ever see, in the form of Wolfmother, an Austrailian psychadelic-esque classic rock-kinda rock band. I immediately probably contacted H1n1 because I squeezed the lime into my vodka soda *right* after I went to an ATM without washing my hands first. At least I’ll get to stay home from work and watch Jack Nicholson movies if I end up not dying from it.

Then we took our seats…I was also lucky enough to have some weird pass where I could go up into the balcony and sit in my own seat instead in the mass mob on the floor, filled with people coughing and sneezing and open wounds. The band came on and they played songs which I sang to and it was fun and they were good. I looked below and noticed everyone on the first floor was a boy, and the way boys dance without wanting people to think they are gay is called a mosh pit, or as I like to call it a ‘circle of air bourne disease’/ ‘ring of probably will get my arm broken’/ ‘sphere of murder sweat’. I happily drank my second vodka soda from up above, this time squeezing it with my teeth into the drink. Who was I kidding? The slob that cut the lime probably sneezed on it. I’m getting the swine flu no matter what.

Then we met the band and they were very nice. Then we went backstage and drank Coronas with the band. I chose not to eat any of the food they had incase it was laced with cocaine, ruffies, or something I don’t know I’m allergic to yet. It’s one thing to have an allergic reaction to a rare Brazilian tree nut and it’s another thing to have an allergic reaction to a rare Brazilian tree nut in front of Wolfmother. It was in the basement of the venue and was pretty crowded and if for some reason the place started on fire we would never escape. But that was the risk I was willing to take in order to hear an impromptu acoustic set of various John Lennon, Stevie Nicks, that other guy, songs. My arm started getting numb and it was either the way I was sitting or a heart attack or stroke so I figured it was probably time to leave. I told them all it was a great show and I told the teen girls that were there not to get raped on their way home and gave them some mace and I hopped in a cab to find my favorite person, who will still like me if I have an allergic reaction to a rare Brazillian tree nut in public.

Here is another music review I did. As you can see from my talent, I have an open invitation to write for Rolling Stone anytime I’d like.

the decision to put your life in the hands of a giant yellow machine that goes two hundred miles an hour, whips you upside down multiple times and is also called, “Iron Wolf” (or something similar) is a serious decision thousands of americans make every day when they visit popular theme parks.  I’d like to offer a safer alternative for hypochondriacs, the elderly, and scaredy-cats alike: the elevator chair. While it only goes .5 miles per hour and doesn’t make any sudden movements, it does get you safely to your destination (up the stairs/down the stairs), and offers minutes of enjoyment, especially when drinking. Do you see Bad Guy Model above? He is thrilled. And drunk.