Navigate/Search

Archive for the 'Tempe Town Lake' Category

Elitism Continued

Monday, February 2nd, 2009

My friend Clint and I were walking down the brick sidewalks of Mill Avenue. An extra spring was in our steps as we were off to see Tim and Eric perform at the Marquee. That same night the band Smashmouth were scheduled to play in front of the stagnant pool of disgustingness known as Tempe Town Lake. This performance was a “celebration” to entertain those who had ran in PF Chang’s Rock and Roll Marathon.

As we were walking among the clean and well groomed citizens Clint and I saw people scalping tickets. We joked how it would be funny if these scalpers were selling Tim and Eric tickets. We speculated about who on earth would actually be seeking out Smashmouth. Just mere seconds after having wondered about this, we saw a man go up to a total stranger and ask him (appearingly without shame) “Hey do you know where Smashmouth is playing”. The stranger eagerly gave all the details this man needed. We continued our walk to the Marquee in amazement of the world we inhabited.

We went and saw Tim and Eric perform and it was like lemon meringue pie on your birthday.

On the way back we walked on the Tempe Town Lake Bridge. We could see on the shore that there was a stage set up with lights. We heard horrible music being played. Could it be?

It was Smashmouth.

It sounded like they were winding things down and it was their last song.

I told Clint that for their encore they would play their hit song, that one from the mentally challenged Ogre movie. This was guaranteed.

Moments later that familiarly horrible riff started up, and the singer in a voice worse then a frat boy’s who had just vomited up the contents of eight cans of Keystone started singing, “Somebody blah, blah, blurgh, black….etc, belck blucha…etc, hey now your an all star get your game on…”

A tear came to my eye.

It was the best night ever.

Arizona Culture

Wednesday, August 29th, 2007

Granted I try and avoid downtown Tempe at any cost, but every once in awhile I find myself making the slow drive down its depressing expanse. For awhile I have been telling my friends how Arizona is stuck in in the 90’s, not the 1890’s – as that would be totally fun with dudes walking around with cowboy hats and six shooters and horses and stuff, but the 1990’s. Mill Avenue in particular seems to be a time capsule of 1990’s culture. Here you will find teenage youths proudly wearing JNCO Jeans and chain wallets.

It took me awhile to figure out the cultural significance of this, then it dawned on me that these kids do not view what they are wearing as trash, but rather these are family heirlooms – undoubtedly passed on by an older brother or sister who had od’ed on Ecstacy and are now waving their glowsticks at the great rave in the sky.

Horses, Jah and Soda

Sunday, February 13th, 2005

Mike, the upstairs neighbor is raising miniature horses. I am convinced of this. He is training these little prissy horses, leading them back and forth across the small expanse of his apartment, envisioning a day when his little champs will win a goddamn blue ribbon. Tiny hooves, clip clopping all night long. Mitchell, the neghborhood homeless rastafarian has moved into the enclosed area outside of my window. The other morning I was awoken around 4am. I looked outside and saw Mitchell, wearing a shawl. He was moving a pile of clothing into a suitcase. When I left for work I saw the suitcase, with his shawl draped over it. I think Mitchell should contribute something towards our rent. Perhaps a couple Mickey’s 40’s that he is so fond of. This wasn’t the first time a homeless person had been wintering in the small enclosed area outside of my window. The last gentleman who had spent time there was named Soda. He was friends with my old upstairs neighbor, who said he was a “sweet” man. My introduction to Soda occurred one morning after hearing a disembodied, death rattle like cough for a few hours. I thought one of my roomates was sick, and drifted in and out of sleep, awakening every once in a while to hear this disgusting cough. When I finally awoke I looked out of my window, and saw the filthy back of a man’s head. With the imposing Clintron as my back up I told Soda that he had to leave. He was apologetic and left. I can only assume that he found a quiet grove of bushes to die in, and ascended into heaven with the help of some angels. Did I mention that I was moving out in March?