delayed

I wake up. The girl lying next to me is not the one that was there when I fell asleep. This is not to hint at a prolific pace of sexual activity but more to hint at the nature of the weekend, an inflow of girls/guys/substance and an outflow of overflowing ashtrays/empties. Yeah, I’m twenty and we still wait for the parents to leave.

The girl and I rehash the previous nights occurrences; the hook ups, the blowups, the cleanups. She mentions she has some passes to the Vancouver incarnation of the Virgin Festival. I mention I have a car.

We’re driving now, her in the front seat and her friend in the back. Her is Julian and her friend is Elisa. Conversing with these two sober is new but enjoyable. I’m tired from the weekend’s exploits and am trying not to think about digging holes in less than 20 hours.

Julian’s younger than me and she’s taking charge like I never could at her age. Apparently we are supposed to be on some sort of guest list, there’s a mix up though. Cell phones pressed to ears, stressed stammers and then a golf cart appears. Mix up two: more phones and the golf cart again. Mix up three: a gap toothed outsourced rent a cop playing by the book and more phones. Golf cart again. Golf cart is frustrated but takes us in.

We realize that Julian’s persistent shot calling may have inadvertently garnered us more wristband privileges than we were supposed to have. I know “Future Shop presents the V Festival Louder Lounge” is going to be as lame as it sounds but I’m curious. Laughing at the suckers qued up for the beer garden- oh wait, jokes on me, the Budweiser still costs six bucks. And I have to bear the obscene antics of some wrap around shade wearing bartender named “jayman”. He looks and acts like he has probably attempted to start his own reality porn site on more than one occasion.

The Louder Lounge has two upsides; free mash potatoes and a grassy knoll on which to sit and view the social experiment that is the Virgin Festival. Everyone is here: legions of lost souls who can’t get a seat in the cafeteria for AFI, Granville street frequenters at the Bacardi B-Live tent, local scensters for You Say Party! We Say Die!, Kappa Sigma boys for the chicks and everyone in between for the Killers.

We’ve arrived late in the day, AFI is just starting and the Killers headline next. I’m not too moved by bad haircuts or canned strings so I busy myself with people watching. I spot a group of teens whose parents should probably watch this and tune in. “OMG Chris u r so NOT EMO” is the first thing I hear. Some kid volunteered to have girls apply eyeliner on him. Pussy. If he wanted more emo points he would’ve totally let them cut him.

The Killers play a set that seemed practiced to tee. They’ve got a new album, which means they no longer have to rely on an awkward intermission and a shitty “Moonage Daydream” cover like the last time I saw them. It’s a pretty great set though, hitting all the right new wave riff highs and melodramatic lows. Brandon Flowers and his Wizard of Oz ruby red slippers are pushing the Americana thing a bit too much. It’s one of Elisa and Julians first concerts and they seem to be having a blast. The show ends predictably with an “All These Things That I’ve Done” sing a long.

Driving home through the endowment lands the lights from West 4th pave a path into night’s abyss and I realize that I complain way too much for someone so lucky. Whoa, real introspective.