I'm cursed.

I have been my whole life.

It's not really my fault I suppose, my birthday falls on an interesting day and everyone ALWAYS remembers it. Alternately I am really forgetful and I try to live timelessly, so I usually don't know what day of the week it is let alone what the calendar number is. Basically, even if I can manage to remember what day someone's birthday is, chances are it'll be 10 days after the fact before I notice.

Case in point, my buddy Sharma, I've know him for about 10 years, we went to high school together and now we work at the same company. Very good friend, love him to death. Every year he gets me something for my birthday, it's always something cool, something appropriate, something clever, something I needed. Every year I'm left looking like a total moron on his birthday, because I've forgotten.

That's my curse, that I'm a complete and total jackass.

And this year is no exception, on my birthday Sharma once again came through and got me something cool, some anime for my DVD collection that I didn't have and some Warren Ellis graphic novels I'd never read.

And once again when his day came and went I had squat for him.

HOWEVER... despite how it appeared, this year WOULD be different. There was something in the works, something that unfortunately didn't happen ON his birthday, but would happen a month or so later.

Something *perfect*.

My father's profession as I grew up was in the music business and he was going to save my bacon, as he had countless times in my childhood. In fact his huge record collection and my parents habit of blasting talking heads and tom waits records are entirely to blame for my deranged taste in music. I was so lucky as a kid because he would have me working coat check at shows that I really wanted to see (like ice-cube or ministry) when I was only 12 and too young to get in the door. I'm still coming to grips with how respected he is in the Toronto music scene; to say he's connected would be an understatement. Imagine how spoiled I was growing up, that I could walk into any concert I wanted to, on the VIP guest list, just because of who my dad was. Even now that I have a job and can buy tickets if I forget to before it sells out I KNOW my dad can always bail me out. I don't think I've missed a concert I wanted to go to in damn near a decade. When he told me what was coming up and what he had potential access to, I knew I'd found Sharma's gift, the gift to make up for all the missed birthdays, the gift to end all gifts.

The Molson blind date was coming. It's a rather clever marketing gimmick, Molson puts up ballot boxes in every bar in Canada, people fill out forms in an attempt to win tickets to a secret concert at a small club in downtown Toronto. Molson jets all the people who won into Toronto from all over Canada, puts them in this small bar and then the secret band is revealed, previous participants include Lenny Kravitz, Smashing Pumpkins, that kind of thing. The idea being; a band that could fill a stadium of thousands playing in front of a small intimate group of only a couple hundred.

Normally I could care less, in my world if a band can fill a stadium with ten thousand rabid fans, chances are they suck ass. Radiohead wouldn't touch something that corporate with a 20-foot pole and a police reunion isn't about to occur, right? But my father found out who the band was, and while they are a cool band I wouldn't mind seeing, it's Sharma's ALL TIME FAVORITE BAND EVAR.

I know this for a fact, and I always make fun of him about it. Sharma is Trinidadian and this is the WHITEST BAND ON EARTH, he has always had to deal with people, and by people I mean me, making Carlton Banks jokes.

Anyway, my dad, through much effort and bribery, scores me the tickets, probably because despite hating every single friend I ever had, he always liked Sharma, I think because he was the only guy to totally kiss his ass and be respectful. He always had this Eddie Haskell thing going on.

I wrap them, and I give them to Sharma with a nice letter saying, "This is for all the years I let you down"

The only problem is... Because it's such a secret thing, I don't get the tickets until the day BEFORE the show. Sharma can't find anyone to go with him, so he just figures he'll take me. And it's not like I can tell him I don't really want to go cause I know who the band is, I'm not a fan, but I'd like to see the smile on his face when they come out.

So last night, we go and we're standing in the crowd waiting for the show to start, because it's this big Molson event there's free beer, and despite it being only 40 minutes after the doors opened people are off their face, I'm talking absolutely shit faced. And everyone is guessing as to who the act is and clearly these people have NO brain, you need only open your eyes to know that this years endeavor is attached to the universal record label so all these morons shouting for Creed (who I believe are on BMG) and what not are just ignorant, if I didn't actually know who it was I would have said White Zombie, because they've got a new CD on universal and are whoring it to just about everyone for crack money. If there were even a remote chance that it WAS going to be Creed I would have been at home doing laundry or something.

The taste these people are displaying is horrific, they're talking about much they hope it's Limp Bizkit or Bon Jovi or Ozzy Osborne. For gods sake people, Ozzy was a talentless hack BEFORE he was burnt out on glue, he can't even fucking dial a phone anymore.

I think that's the problem with a contest where drunk Rubes from Regina get flown in to Toronto is that they're expecting to see a fucking guns and roses concert. If I had my way the curtain would open and someone obnoxious and talentless like Russell Haswell or Kid606 would come out and fuck these white trash morons up, LARGE.

So I'm playing "spot the mullet" with Sharma and listening to everyone guess, and one guy near me guesses right. I honestly didn't think it was possible for someone to guess them because I didn't think they were big enough, but I figure I had to shut him up before Sharma got suspicious upon hearing his favorite bands name. I had after all promised him something that would make HIM very happy, and the crowd NOT so happy.

So I wait for a few more people to say what they think and then I butt in.

"C'mon guys, half the fun is the suspense of not knowing, just relax and enjoy the show."

One guy, who was convinced it was Limp Bizkit (and this guy I swear had his goatee and hat and outfit done up perfect, he must look in the mirror and allocate 10 DURST points or something) comes back at me and says "listen man, just cause I know who it is and you don't doesn't mean you gotta be like that."

Now, I'm a total self righteous jackass, and I'll be damned if some poser's gonna "step to me like dat"

"I'd love to get into this wonderful intellectual debate you all are having, but it would be unfair, as I know who it is."

"Yeah, you THINK you know"

"No, I *know*. And you, are dead wrong."

Now in this pack of 20 people I'm standing with, most have said who they think it's going to be, and a good half of them are pretty convinced of themselves, but NONE are displaying the confidence... nay the outright arrogance that I am. I'm not saying that I think I'm right, I'm saying that I KNOW I'm right.

After all, I TRUST MY DADDY!

Heh

How embarrassing would it be if I turned out to be wrong?

So now ALL the guys and girls I'm standing near are harassing me and trying to get me to make a prediction so they can laugh at me when I'm wrong.

"Look, I'm not guessing, I'm not even making an educated assumption, I know who it is and I don't have to prove anything, and I'm not telling anyone because I don't want to ruin the surprise for my friend."

(I'll bet you think this is the part of the story where I get beat up for being a total assmagnet, sorry to disappoint)

One guy of above average intelligence (for this crowd anyway) says "tell you what dude, write it down and put the note in your pocket, then when they come out we'll see if you're right."

Not a bad idea actually.

So I take out a piece of paper from my wallet (a bank statement with *negative* 400 dollars on it, how embarrassing... my family is big and it's the holidays... stop looking at me like that) and I quickly scrawl the name and stuff it in HIS coat pocket.

Almost immediately the lights go out, the curtain raises and the big logo lights up.

The crowd gets loud, and they walk out.

Most of the people there are probably disappointed, but they're so fucking drunk from the free beer they could care less. Sharma on the other hand is GIDDY to the point where he's GLOWING. I've never seen him smile like this, ever.

The guy who doubted me pulls out the note from his jacket and uncurls it. There, written in my unintelligible scrawl, is one word:

Weezer

He nods and says to the rest "fucking guy was right"

But Sharma could care LESS, they're playing "undone" (the sweater song) and he looks like he's on cloud 9. People aren't really dancing like they would if it had been a Weezer show that fans would have been at, but free beer goes a long way a few songs in a bunch of guys decide to liven things up with some crowd surfing. Suddenly it's nirvana at lee's palace all over again, I feel like I'm fucking 14.

Sharma, whom I used to take with me to rock type shows back when I could listen to this stuff, turns to me and over the din mouths the words "best.band.ever!" he seems to be enjoying himself, and I'm glad.

I'm standing there, the smug smile on my face I get when a plan comes together, when it starts to fade. Whenever one accomplishes something where everything went right, one invariably starts to try and remember what they must have forgotten. Suddenly it hits me, I'm not really... dressed for the occasion.

I know that sounds so fucking pretentious... and I guess it's a bit late to be worrying about that now, as that's all I've done for this entire entry. Anyway, I'm rambling. Point is I'm not sure exactly when I changed from being a grubby jeans and 5 year old t-shirt guy, but at one point I decided to start dressing like the nouvaux riche internet job having DOINK that I am... I'm all decked out in my work clothes because of a big meeting, and so is Sharma.

We look so much like a fucking Club Monaco ad it's pathetic.

All I can do is look down at myself and do a mental checklist of how much everything cost. And dear god no, I'm wearing my stupidly expensive and decadent Kenneth Cole shoes (that I bought specifically because they looked like Spike Spiegel's footwear).

5 songs in Sharma takes a crowd surfer to the head and has his 400$ "sleep with me I have CK frames" glasses knocked off. Half way through "My name is Jonas" we're on our knees sifting through empty beer cups trying to find them. I am taking COUNTLESS knees to the face and I swear there's an INCH of beer on the ground. At this point I'd like to have a few words with the nice marketing guy who thought that unlimited free beer was a good idea, people have been throwing around full cups like it's a fucking pillow fight. I'm being kicked around like a pinball on the floor and people keep dropping their FULL cups of beer on me. I don't even drink this shit and I look like a frat boy at a keg party.

The good news is that we've found Sharma's glasses, the bad news is fifteen people tap danced a fucking Irish jig on them. A lens is missing and the frame looks like a paper clip... One guy comfortingly shouts out "your glasses were sacrificed to the gods of rock and roll, man!"

How... quaint.

With the eyewear recovered we turn our attention back to the stage and it's pretty clear that I'm really rusty at this. It has been FAR too long since I've been to a concert where everyone isn't holding their chins and I think I can safely say that it'll be a while before I do it again, unless there's a crash course on "self defense for mosh pits" available at my local community college. I'm so completely inept at this that I'm actually trying to enjoy the show instead of constantly looking for incoming crowd surfers, talk about a rookie mistake. You'd think I would have learned after what happened to my friend but it's not even the next song yet and I take a combat boot to the face. HARD.

I swear to god I thought my nose was broken, I stumbled backwards with my hands clutching at my face and land in someone's arms. This someone of course had both their hands full of beer and in order to catch me had to free their hands. When I stand back up every inch of me is dripping, I look like "beer goes bukkake" (note: I got in a LOT of trouble with my friends for not warning them about the horrific and disturbing content I link to, if you are weak stomached and find the sick things that people do too disturbing to learn about, do NOT click that link). Standing there with my arms held out to dry, an unhappy and wet face on like a dog forced to bathe must have been a comical sight, because everyone around me started to laugh. One guy was so considerate as to help me be the center of attention by adding to the hilarity. "You might as well go all the way now!" he bellowed as he slowly poured an entire beer over my head.

Yeah, I might as well go all the way fucking home.

After that I backed off a bit to the outskirts of where things got bouncy, the view might not have been as good but to be frank I wasn't really seeing anything but wet stars and lens flares.

I do a quick damage assessment, my shirt is soaked through and reeks of beer, my nose is bleeding a little, I've got a swollen cheek under my left eye, and no shit, my EAR is bruised and blacked. How many people can say they got a black EAR? I look like total shit, but at least now my hair is all spiky and stiff, someone's gonna market this look someday, "gel de biere"

After the show I drive Sharma home, he's not a very energetic or enthusiastic person normally, but I guess I was hoping he'd be ear to ear, bouncing with glee, but he's not. In fact when he starts making fun of the Weezer shirt he got and how it's bright green motif won't exactly blend in with rest of his Banana Republic brown, I start to get the vibe that he really didn't have a good time at all. Perhaps it was the damage to his glasses that put the kybosh on the fun-o-meter; maybe the realization that we're not teenagers anymore is hurting him as much as it's hurting me. Either way it's pretty clear that what I'd hoped would be the "present to end all presents" would turn out to just be a good embarrassing story to tell about each other when trying to impress someone else.

We always joke, Sharma and I, about how we always look like a gay couple, him the buff brown stud and me the lanky white bitch. It's not that we're at all homophobic, good god no, we're just both single and we don't want to send the wrong signals in case someone is into one of us. We avoid any public displays of affection (which actually is stupid, because if we started holding hands and shit we would probably get LAID LIKE MADMEN).

So Sharma waited till I dropped him off before he gave me a one armed Donald duck hug, because that's what friends are for dammit.