Well first off the trip started out late since we were waiting for a certain bro to get to my house. I didn't even want to go, but there was this extra ticket so I did, thinking it might be eventful, and oh, little did I know what would be in store. We arrived in Satanville with cloudy brains and a confused sense of being. Stumbling around for a minute we realized, "Fuck we gotta get to this fucking show!" Once we got in we realized we missed 80% of Against Me!'s set. Judging by people's jovial bro-tude and my friend John's disappointed demeanor, I'd say we missed out big time. But at least we saw all of Alkaline Trio's set. During which I was somehow sucked into the coffin-style mosh-pit (picture mummy style arms, that was how it was) all of which was inspired and driven to insane lassitude by A3's unprecedented broverload. I was involuntarily bumping and grinding my way across the "pit" forced to rock out to songs I didn't know any words to. And if that isn't gay enough - I've never felt so many flaccid wieners pressed up against my backside before. I bet the dude in front of me was thinking the exact same thing . . . it was a creep out. Wow that is some amazing foreshadowing.

One amazing crowd sighting by Aaron was an ultra mosher dude who took turns between rocking hard and then immediately slobbering his sweaty lips on his girlfriend's mouth. I didn't see it but it sounding intriguing. Then I myself saw a strange and dangerous crowd shift that resulted in a few smaller folks getting thrown to the ground amid the concert hysteria. Luckily everyone made it out alive. I thought Alkaline Trio put on a pretty damn good show (It felt like eighteen songs) and I'm not even a fan. On the other hand John, who's much more familiar with their music,, said that all they played was newer shit and that it was woefully lacking in the older goods. He was bummed once again. It just wasn't John's night. Finally after spending extortionate amounts of money on beer we left that shithole and had walked back to the parking garage with visions of bigger dives dancing in our heads. After having a makeshift tail gate after-party in the garage and nearly getting into a serious beat down confrontation with a few bullet-bike bros, we walked over to the Double Down punk bar, about three blocks from our hotel (The San Tropez) and the Hard Rock, in the raging queer section of Vegas, in the shadow of the illustrious Hoffenbrauhaus hotel. Walking that three blocks was an interesting venture. We ran into another friend who was driving by and saw us. He stopped and we shot the shit for a bit in some parking lot (an inadvisable spot for straight dudes to just be chillin') as large numbers of sheepherders flooded the streets scampering toward the nearby clubs. Dusty (one of my married friends who never gets let out of the house and never gets to party) accepted the challenge to an intense one on one drinking contest against himself. The outcome is still under review.

In his drunken state he decided to ask a nice gay couple for more accurate directions to the bar. After getting the info, he returned to the group. About five minutes later the same couple returned and invited us all to the Rainbow Dust (I forgot the real name) to take some ecstasy, get down with some groovy techno, and help spread AIDS by jumping in a big Gomer Pile. We graciously declined and Aaron, Dusty and myself quickly moved to the bar, while John and Jared had decided to meet up with us later, opting to try their Utah pick up skills on a couple of "punk rock" chicks they met in the parking garage (sketchy? Yea Verily). Finally we got to the bar, smack dab in the middle of three gay clubs. Gays have got it good, man - all it would have taken to score at this place would have been a big paisley shirt with a floppy collar and the ability to hum half a bar of a Rufus Wainwright tune. "Got Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk?" Picking up chicks - that's a whole other ball game, requiring a host of complex and intricate skills, not unlike, hot-wiring the space shuttle. "Got Bank?" If you've ever been to the Double Down bar you know how burly the locals are there. We were greeted by a super fast and old school sounding punk band run by a bunch of young kids. Jared even said, "This shit is better than that fucking show we just paid twenty bucks for." Drinks in hand - it was now time to lurk and during this lurk-a-thon we noticed a midget running around without a shirt on. Who could it be? None other than Wee-Man! He hopped on the bar and started flashing his ridiculously wee man-hood to all the onlookers with a "Hey I'm Wee-Man from Jackass bitches!" look in his eyes. As random as that sounds it's true. Not only was Wee-Man there but the dumb-fuck of the century, Steve-O was also in attendance. And if that isn't enough to scream, "MTV!" Chris Pontius was in the corner looking around for a wild animal to fondle. Rumor has it Steve-O even screwed some chick in the bathroom. What's so courageous about that? Maybe it just looked like a chick and was really one of those wild horny Scandinavian beasts . . . starts with a G? not a Giselle - Aaa, it's on the tip of my thumb - oh yeah a Gyllenhaal.