Rode my bike into the city last night around 7, later than I usually would. When I hit the end of the bridge and turned right on Clinton, it started to rain, lightly at first, but then it became full-fledged annoying (thought not a downpour, thankfully) and I got wet, my vest, my sweatshirt, my legs, my hair. I felt good when I got to where I was going, all tough, yea, I biked in the rain, and I was smiling and breathless as I locked up my bike in front of the line of people at Irving Plaza. But the I realized I now had to stand in the rain for another ten minutes and I didn't feel so tough, only damp.

I saw three hard rocking bands, two of whom I hadn't heard of before, and the third being The Melvins. The second band, Mondo Generator, had the bassist from Queens of the Stone Age singing lead vocals, shirtless, screaming, and generally working his shit out. He was pretty great. Also they had a chick guitar player dressed sort of like a naughty nurse. I'm surprised there weren't guys creaming in their pants in the front row.

I have always liked that phrase - "creaming in my pants" - it makes me think of Porky's, which makes me think of staying up late in junior high schol and watching things I shouldn't on cable.

The Melvins were great. I had VIP passes courtesy of my date, Danny Boy, the British rock critic, and we got there early enough to actually exploit the VIP section and get seats right on the edge of the balcony. If you don't get those seats the VIP section is totally useless, you can't see a goddamn thing, you just don't have to deal with the riffraff, unless, of course, you remember you are riffraff yourself in the first place, and you go downstairs with the rest of the people who want to see the band.

Anyway. I had this great view and I was mesmerized by all the boys moshing around, and the one girl who joined them, a little spitfire with bleach blond hair who pounded her chest at one point and howled. Once again, there were some people working their shit out. That's what these shows are mainly about, I think. A couple of shirts came off. The crowd was swaying. I saw a girl in the front, shielded by the arms of her boyfriend, safe as a kitten. I saw one guy in a stranglehold with a smile on his face. It was pretty exhilarating, though I was glad I was watching and not participating.

I didn't stay for Tomahawk, though I was made to fully understand I was about to miss a great show. No matter, I was tired. Three bands is a lot for me these days. This is why I don't go to things like Field Day. I'm useless after a few bands and just want to go home. Which I did.

Outside I chatted with Rae for a minute, a sprightly chain-smoking industry chick who wanted to talk about my bike. I had seen her up in the VIP area so she took a shine to me.

"I want to bike," she said. "But I never learned how. And I'm 37 years old and I'm not going to start now."

"How is that possible?" I asked. "Did you grow up in the city?"

"Yea uptown. My mom was a textile designer, she didn't do things like that. And my dad wasn't around much. My sister and I, we were girlie girls, always sewing stuff and making things with glitter. We just never learned."

"Ah it's great," I said. "So empowering."

I've become so fucking annoying in the past month.

And then I took off to the subway, which makes me laugh everytime I try it with my bike. There is no grace in walking that bike up the stairs or down the stairs, at least not until I get a little bit more uppper body strength. By the end the bike is everywhere, I can't hold it in that straight line, and I've come precariously close to wiping out several of my fellow straphangers on the stairs several times now.

A few kisses and whistles from gypsy cab drivers later, I was home again. On the stairs outside my apartment building sat my female neighbor, in tears, being comforted by another woman. I heard the woman say, "I'm sure Tim doesn't want you to move out, really, and I know Mike definitely doesn't want you to. As soon as Tim sobers up, he'll change his mind."

Now that's not good, I thought. Picking on the female roommate is bad.

Still I could maybe see where Tim was coming from, though I know little of what's going on next door to me, except that there is an endless supply of people coming in and out of the apartment. When I asked him once how many people were living there he said, "Well, there's these people from Boston, they've been here for like a month. Those people from Boston, man, they just won't leave." The female roommate, of course, moved in straight from Boston. Also she never picks up her mail, has like, stacks of it sitting in the mailbox (along with the mail for the people who have long since moved and never bothered to submit an address change card to the post office), which leads me to believe that she's not home much, even if her friends from Boston are. Which could be really annoying.

Still I couldn't help but feel sorry for her, when I think of the bastard I lived with in Seattle, Joel, the former army guy, who loved to pick on me. One day when we were fighting, he yelled and sneered at me, alternately calling me "cunt" and "princess," until I was in hysterics. No one had ever called me "cunt" before, except maybe as a joke, and even then they apologized immediately. It's the "c-word," and it always sounds awful to me.

Cunt, cunt, cunt.

Yea, it doesn't ever sound any better.

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