(photo courtesy of Trapper Tom)
Good thing Friday went so well, because NOTHING could compare to the horrors of the following night, Saturday. We drove to Olean, New York-- home of St. Bonaventure University and very little else. We rolled into town blasting Van Halen’s “Right Now,” getting ourselves pumped for what we thought would be an awesome show.
The Maxipads were on the bill for a University Media Fest (or something.) We ended up playing at 7pm, stone cold sober, to a crowd of teenage straight-edge kids who had no idea what to make of us. It was the most uncomfortable I’ve ever been during a show. I felt weird in my own skin—the feeling actually reminded me of being in junior high. Ugh. But what can you do? Everyone plays bad shows.
So we went to the gas station across the street from the all-ages, drug-and-alcohol-free venue and bought a bunch of Sparks, and then pounded them in the back of the van belonging to our friends from Cleveland, Kill the Fall. Then we went to the apartment we were supposed to be crashing in.
As soon as I walked into the place, I got really, really anxious. Like, digging-my-nails-into-the-palms-of-my-hands anxious. I chalked this up to drinking too many Sparks and tried to chill out. I leaned back to listen to the conversations of small town people. And let me tell you, that phrase “small town, small mind” is not just a cliché.
The boyfriend of the girl that lived in the apartment apparently had very bad social anxiety disorder—duh, such a good reason to invite a band of people that you don’t know to stay with you. He also owned a big sword, which he was happy to take out of its sheath and point at us. Okay. Unstable, drunk people should not own lethal weapons. He was horribly offended when Kacyn asked him to please, please put the sword away.
After the sword incident, things went from bad to worse. Crazy Sword Guy (from here on, referred to as CSG) was talking loudly about how he hated, and I quote, “everything that’s ever been played on the radio, ever.” I asked, “What about Green Day’s Dookie?” because I think it’s the ultimate in radio-friendly albums. It’s a “just press play” record. Anyway. CSG looked at me angrily. “I HATE IT,” he said. “I’m talking about good records, like Weezer’s Blue Album.”
“But wait,” I said, “Buddy Holly was a huge radio hit, and a few other songs were too.” CSG just glared and me for a second and stomped off to the kitchen. I was confused, but a little too drunk to worry. About a half hour later, he came stomping back into the living room, yelling at me and Kacyn about how “if we didn’t want to be there, we should just leave.” Confused, I got up and followed him to the kitchen, trying to apologize for whatever we’d done. Because, I mean, if you have to sleep on the floor of someone’s home, the last thing you want is to piss off the crazy guy wielding a sword.
CSG accused me of having “a god complex,” which baffled me enough that I could barely respond. All I could manage to stutter out was, “What are you talking about??”
“If you don’t want to be here,” he screamed, “get out!”
Smelling the crazy in the water, I decided that, no—I did NOT want to be there. I grabbed my stuff and went out to sleep in the van. Apparently after I left, CSG lost it and smashed some glass all over his own kitchen. At that point, Joe got directions to the nearest motel.
Called Motel DeSoto and costing us a whopping $67 for the night, there was what appeared to be blood in the shape of a smiley face on the ceiling.
And that, my friends is why you should never go to Olean, New York.
It is also why I really, really wish we didn’t have another show booked there in a mere five weeks.
We drove out of Olean on Sunday morning blasting Iron Maiden’s “Run To The Hills.” It just seemed appropriate.
The Maxipads are so much fun.
And I am such an ugly-looking drunk.
(with the famous Trapper Tom.)
