Note: The following is a guest post by David Rolland, the narcissistic creator of Pablochiste.wordpress.com. Depending on the social situation he might describe his occupation as either writer or teacher. The easiest place to check out more of his writing is by renting the children’s movie Finding Rin Tin Tin. Much of the dialogue is his, but none of the toilet jokes.

George Costanza said it best on an episode of Seinfeld about why he wouldn’t pay for parking. “It’s like going to a prostitute. Why should I pay, when if I apply myself, maybe I could get it for free.”

I  won two tickets to see the bands The Dandy Warhols and The Silversun Pickups and I couldn’t find anybody to go with me. The show was at the Gibson Amphitheater, which is nestled in the Universal Theme Park. I was by myself so I parked way outside the premises. I climbed the giant hill following other concertgoers. I started dripping sweat and thought maybe this wasn’t a good idea. I’d picked up some kind of canine or feline or maybe even human flu and started feeling the symptoms that day. But I finally made it to the apex. I walked into the theater and took a seat in sick exhaustion behind the first of two partitions. The two piece band Matt and Kim were playing. I caught the end of their set. The drummer climbed on to the kit and started beating the percussion as a huge shower of confetti poured from the ceiling.

Their set ended. A bearded vagabond walked by me wearing a backpack. He stared into my eyes. This guy should have played Alexander Supertramp in the movie Into The Wild. He reaches for me. What the hell? I was too out of it to feel like this situation was happening to me. He grabbed something from my head. It was a flake of confetti. He flicked it away without saying a word and walked down into the second tier of seats. Security stopped checking people! He was my spirit animal. I sat as close to the standing room area as I could.

The Dandy Warhols came on. They are one of my favorite groups. They’re probably the godfathers of hipsters as The Strokes completely co-opted their sound and their fashion sense. They found fame from their keyboardest, Zia, playing topless in her younger and hotter days. That night they brought their shirts but did not bring the energy. The lights left them in silhouette. There were some digital screens behind them flashing assortments of colors. I don’t know if they didn’t want to overshadow the headliners or if it was because as lead singer Courtney Taylor-Taylor (who is very photogenic and handsome from afar, but looks like Popeye up close) said, “We’ve been in the sun smoking pot all day.” The flu left me feeling stoned too, so I enjoyed the laid back aspect. Let me recuperate and sing along to the slowed down tempos of my favorite songs.

They come off and the masses started arriving. A nebbishy woman in her forties tapped my shoulder. “That’s my seat.” I was disgusted with her attitude. Assigned seating is completely against the credos of rock n roll. I moved a row closer, but I could not sit because everyone was standing.

I did not know how long I could last but then The Silversun Pickups came on. They brought it. The crowd was dancing, the lead singer was strutting. They sounded like Smashing Pumpkins circa 1994, but I saw Smashing Pumpkins in 1994 and they were not nearly this good. The adrenaline from the music fought away the fever. As long as they were performing I felt fine. They finished it up with the song, Lazy Eye. I headed towards the exit. I thought fondly of my bed and my blankets.

I followed the crowd through the ridiculous faux shopping mall of Universal City Walk. I asked some lady if this was the way to Lankershim Boulevard. She told me to make a right and head down the hill. I followed her instructions, but I began questioning them as the landmark of the 101 freeway seemed to be at the wrong place.  Was she mocking me? I was unsure. I kept walking in misery. A car was stopped at the traffic light. I asked, “Where’s the Lankershim metro station?”

“You’re completely in the wrong place. It’s on the other side of the hill.” I moved forward on the sidewalkless street as he drove past me. Our driving culture is weird. If there wasn’t this bias against hitchhikers I would have asked for a ride and maybe he would have offered me one. If it was a taxi cab I would have gotten right in with no questions asked from either side except where are you going. But without the trappings of commerce I was left walking the deserted path on my own. My father told me that day about a Canadian folk singer who was mauled to death by coyotes. I am probably tougher than her, but in my weakened condition, maybe not. I couldn’t even stave off Alexander Supertramp.

After an extra mile walk in the cold I made it to my car. Costanza was wrong. Tonight was a night for the prostitution of paid parking.