You’re gonna roll that back?

The divorce rate is fucking high.  That’s sacred?

Two people who love each other cannot get married if they have the same genitalia?

Fuck you.  It’s a simple as that.  FUCK YOU.

Okay, if McCain is such a maverick why is he not independent?

Why does CNN have what is essentially an unrelated stat running along the bottom of the screen?

Last night I finally got to see “Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds” live.  Fourteen years ago, I discovered them paging through this guide to alternative music my friend had which we treated like the bible.  There wasn’t a Wikipedia, Napster, BitTorrent or any way to find out about anything that wasn’t “Brooks and Dunn” or “Metallica” in the cold Midwest, so we had to read about and then pretty much buy an album in order to listen to it.  It was a gamble, but a gamble my job slinging burgers could support. 

I had read about this band called “Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds” and it sounded interesting.  Bluesy, savage rock with a lead singer who not only wrote lyrics but was an skilled storyteller.  Being a fan of film and theatrics, I bought “Let Love In”.  From then on, it was an avalanche.  I picked up anything I could by them and researched more.  This lead to “The Birthday Party”, “Magazine”, “Visage”, “Einstruzende Neubauten” (how the hell do you make on umlaut in HTML again?), “The Dirty Three”, Mick Harvey’s solo work, and countless films, soundtracks, and books.  To this day, a page I tore out of a Rolling Stone is hanging on my bedroom wall back home of an Anton Corbjin photograph of Cave.

When I heard they were playing the Showbox, I ran to the computer to get tickets but they were almost instantly sold out.  Fuck.  Then another show was announced but sold out too quick for me to snag a ticket. Fuck.  A few weeks later my friend Michel sends me an e-mail asking if I want to go to see “Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds” because she has an extra ticket.  FUCK YES!

September 24th, 2008 arrived.  Michel and I met at Hooverville, which I could dedicate an entire other entry to, and then walked over to the Showbox.  Since Michel is short she likes to be up front,  I have no problem with this so as the doors open we rushed to the rail.  The opening band “Earth” did their droning stoner-rock thing deftly then took their leave.   Before I knew it out walks Conway Savage, Jim Sclavunos, Martyn Casey, Thomas Wydler, Warren Ellis, and Mick Harvey each setting up at their stations.  They begin. “Night of the Lotus Eaters”. Out stomps Cave, thrashing and kicking. A visual analog of the music.

I’d describe each song, but I’ll leave that to someone else.  Pretty much every song I really wanted to hear, Cave and the Seeds supplied.  I was hoping for “The Curse of Millhaven” but what I got instead I will remember until I’m dead and hopefully after.

They began “Papa Won’t Leave You, Henry” and Cave began strutting at the edge of the stage.  He came over near where Michel and I were standing.  Suddenly, I feel like I’ve missed the last 5 or 10 seconds of my life and Nick Cave is towering over me jutting the microphone into my mug.  It might as well have been his dick cause I had no idea what to do with it.  Michel said I just stood there, slack-jawed, eyes gaped.  I later realized I was starstruck for the first time in my entire life. 

Cave just stared a hole in me, drew back the mic.  With a look that said, ”Lemme show you how it’s done boy…” 

He grunted an animalistic, “Uhhh!” and quickly stabbed the mic back into my face. 

I let out a weak, “Uhh…” 

He withdrew the mic and again, with but with more emphasis, “UHHH!”

I let out a stronger, “UHHH!”

He pulled back, “UHHHHHHHH!”

I belted, “AHHHHH!”

Cave smiled a small smile and went back to Henry.

I never expected anything like that to happen.  Instead of picking one of the numerous attractive ladies in the front row (some of which I found would sooner use me as some kind of watchtower to see this pelvic thrusting Australian rock god) he gave the paunchy, nerd a chance.

The female half of the couple to my left, tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Great job!” 

It was kind of her to lie.

So now I’ve sang (or at least grunted) with Nick Cave and made Patton Oswalt laugh.

If I marry (or at least awkwardly make out with) Sarah Silverman, I can pretty much die fulfilled.