I arrived to the show late because my toilet backed up from eating three burritos. I should not blame the wonderful burritos. I would have eaten a fourth if I had the opportunity. Instead, I blame the toilet. It was unfortunately installed without an overflow prevention mechanism. I will have to look for a software upgrade on the internet at some point.

Because of the latrine problems I can’t comment on the first three bands. As it turned out I wish there had been more shit to clean up because the fourth band, The Project, was no more enjoyable to watch than it was to mop up crap water. I could go on about them and say they are no different than what any other college campus has to offer. I could even describe them as being the illegitimate child of Rob Thomas if Rob had the ability to have sex with himself and the only genes that were passed onto the eventual aborted child were body odor and a propensity to eat celery. Anyway, The Project was in love with themselves and played two encores even though it was only three of their friends calling them back.

The night finally became memorable when two sweater vests walked on stage. They were known as Isthmus and the Lisps. I’m guessing Isthmus was some kind of joint name for the two sweater vests and ‘the lisps’ were the other three members in the band that weren’t wearing sweater vests. Granted the drummer had on some kind of safari hat and the backup female vocalist had an eye patch, all of which worked well to complement the two sweater vests. The only oddity in the group was the cello player who was just wearing a blue t-shirt.

The two sweater vests, big red sweater and little red sweater, began playing their first song the same way I would prod, poke, and question the existence of a fine French Prostitute if I found her in my room paid in full. Each plucked string seemed to ask, “Are you real?”

This did two things. One, it cleansed the stench from the previous mess up on stage. Two, it helped suggest to those who had only come to see The Project to that it was time to leave.

By the time the second song began the place was breathable again.

At the start of the third song, Big red sweater vest said, “This is a true story.”

I was hoping he was going to tell about the time in third grade when he had been nothing more than Pippy, the-boy’s-small-yellow-cardigan. Instead, he sang, “You said my mom was a bitch and she never loved you.”

The little red sweater vest sang the fourth song. At first I wanted to say he sounded like a tiny choir boy, but about midway through the song he changed his tempo to more of the former choir boy who comes forward after twenty years of silence to reveal that he had peaked at his Christmas presents every year of his childhood.

The fifth or sixth song, I can’t remember, my mind wandered. I became fascinated with this girl in front of me. There wasn’t anything special about her except her boots. She had on knee high cowboy boots. I couldn’t help but think of pushing her over and stealing them. I would go down the block and throw one through the back windshield of a caravan. And then I would be gone into the night.

I couldn’t steal them though because some marble head came up to me and began telling me about how his band was playing the next night and that I should come back to “check it out.”

“Are there going to be any sweater vests?”

“No.”

“You can leave.”

This was a hypothetical set of questions I made up in my head. Anyway, finally the guy left and I dropped his flyer on the ground. When I looked back to the girl with the boots she was taping both of them to her knees. My opportunity was lost. My perverted intentions must have been more known than I had originally thought.

At that point the big red sweater vest was telling me to “Look him in the fucking eye.” So I did and he looked at me. My chapped lips begged me not to blow kisses and so I held in my urges and just maintained my stare. He blinked first and I was delighted. I could take his soul and put it in my back pocket.

And that’s when someone broke a glass. This is also when I began wondering if I would ever grow a mustache, hug a panda bear, sniff dirt from below the equator, or remember when my mother’s birthday is.

review by Mark Baumer