Arctic Monkeys @ Spaceland

(Originally written after the show in November... )

Some bitch walked in on me tonight when I was doing coke in one of the bathroom stalls. Spaceland, ground zero of hipster hell. I knew I shouldn't have brought the stuff in the first place; my adored Arctic Monkeys' were making their LA debut and I was missing it because I couldn't stop going to the bathroom. I need to have my trusty baggie at shows, and I hate myself a little for it. I often miss my favorite songs, but I can't imagine a concert without coke. It's my security blanket, my goodtime insurance, even if the music sucks. Which it never does.

I go to a lot of concerts, at least 3 or 4 a month, but I haven't seen a bad show in the past two years. For me, it's simple - I won't go to a venue bigger than the Wiltern (other than Coachella, but festivals don't count) and will only see bands I already know and like. I cannot abide seeing some random band I've never heard just to "check them out." For this reason, I loathe opening bands, as do most people in LA. I do feel for the plight of the unknown band playing their hearts out to an apathetic and occasionally rude crowd and they might even be relatively good, but I'm always just waiting for them to be over. As I've explained, I'm discerning about my concertgoing, and only want to see the band I came for. I also want to be high.

I'd been looking forward to tonight's show for months and I was extra anxious to do my business in the bathroom as quickly as possible. During concerts, I usually try to take my bathroom trips on my lesser-liked songs, but that wasn't an option tonight. I am hooked hopelessly on these 19 years olds from Sheffield, and there is no song of theirs I don't love. They hadn't yet played my favorite on my last bathroom trip and in my haste to get back out, I somehow neglected to lock the door securely.

I know the girl saw what I was doing when she walked in. I shoved the door back at her and heard her laughing with her friends. How fucking embarassing, although I suppose it was fitting, really - I was the exact cliche from the Arctic Monkeys song, the pathetic "weekend rockstar in the toilet." Adding to my embarassment was the fact that I had also been peeing as I was snorting. (In the girl's bathroom, multitasking is a matter of courtesy.) You can't get much lower than crouching over a dirty toilet with a straw shoved up your nose. I didn't want to come out and face her but she didn't seem to be in a hurry to leave. (The stupid bitch probably didn't even know the Arctic Monkeys and only came because she heard they were the latest cool band to see.) I couldn't even soothe my ego with a nice fat bump; my bag had been nearly empty and the shock of her invasion had caused me to dump its remnants all over myself. My pubic hair was dusted in a layer of white, like dandruff. I tried to salvage what I could, licking the precious powder from my bare legs with my finger.

I left the stall and tried to smile at her, as if I were laughing at myself and we'd shared a funny secret. She didn't acknowledge me at all.