sxsw vs. jxjc

Partymanica and i, bored of punks promoting atrophied antirhythms as funk and in search of metal madness pizza, with an agenda including far more country music than’s been programmed in my blackberry since I chirped out of mom’s nest, stumbled upon His Place.
Really, we were just looking for some crunk. And a speaker, placed on the sidewalk outside His Place, wondered, “Y’all ready to get crunk?” Crunk turned out to be one MC asking “Whose house is it?” and 40 kids answering “God’s House!” They were serving cookies and Tang at this particular venue.
Later, a very convoluted/ out-of-our-control string of events placed us in the middle of a Vanilla Ice show, wherein Vanilla Ice emerged to a pre-recorded crowd-roar track wearing an Insane Clown Posse tee, trying to rep Austin and growling like Lil Jon, complete with drummer wearing some sort of green glowstick paint all over his body, and baring fangs while hitting the high hat in this sort of jerky, 1989 “I AM SCARY ROCK GUY” face. 300 drunk people screamed, but not loud enough to drown out the prerecorded scream track. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway, as they were already screaming, on account of the Jello shooters. I felt genuinely bad afterwards. Not bad sympathy bad, but bad sullied bad. Dirty. Scathed.
I forgot to mention the show was free, and when the bouncer carded me, he said, “Give me a kiss on the cheek.” I said, “I’m not giving you a kiss on the cheek.” He said, “Come on.” I said, “I am not fucking kissing you on the cheek.” I should have walked back to god’s place, then, for some xtian xrunk. During the concert, J. Hanahan leaned over and said, “The bad part about rubbernecking is that sometimes you actually see the accident.” Cars kept piling.