February 2010 • Page 3 of 3 • Mellzah

The Editors @ Showbox Market

On Friday, I received a text from Aisling asking if I one: had heard of The Editors and two: wanted to go see them. She had bought her boyfriend a pair of tickets to the show as his Christmas present and he had also bought a pair of tickets, so they brought me along with one of the extras.

Since I’m not a TOTAL mooch, I bought them both dinner at The Honey Hole beforehand, and was frankly surprised to see ‘Beer Battered Onion Ring And French Fry Platter’ under the category of ‘Lite Fare’.

This, folks, may be why we are fat.

We ended up missing the first opening band alltogether, and the second (Princeton? I think?) left me thoroughly underwhelmed. Truth be told, I kind of wanted to beat these guys up. I’ve never been a bully, but the urge to give the singer an atomic wedgie was almost overwhelming. Everything about them was awkward. The music was awkward. The stage banter was awkward. They were awkward. Whether genuine or contrived, they are owed a wedgie by someone at some point.

Having never heard The Editors before, Princeton’s underwhelming performance left me a little concerned for what was in store. I oughtn’t have worried, I generally agree with Aisling’s tastes and I don’t think she’d invite me to a show that she thinks I’d hate.

They were really energetic performers, the music was tight, and I am a really big fan of the singer’s voice. If Muse, Interpol, and She Wants Revenge had a baby, I think it would sound a lot like The Editors. However, it was really, really, really loud. At one point, I am certain I could feel my hearing getting damaged.

Protip to concertgoers: Everybody brings in cameras to shows now; with a camera standard on every phone model, it’s a rare venue that will try and take any camera away at the door. Young Ansel Adams, should you feel the need to photograph over a short person’s head, capturing images you will likely never look at again, you ought to take care not to let your camera strap dangle and continually brush the hairs on the top of that short person’s head, thereby interrupting their concert experience. You may find that short person has an equally short temper to match, loathes being touched by strangers, and may be considering whipping around, grabbing your camera, and smashing it in your face and the only thing stopping this person from doing so is the desire not to embarrass this person’s friend in front of her new boyfriend and that next time, you may get the beating and wedgie combination you so richly deserve.

Blasting across the alpine hills in a jet-powered, monkey-navigated tube

On Sunday, I went tubing with Tristan, because we both agree that skiing and snowboarding sound like a lot of work, but that sliding downhill at high speed on our stomachs should be completely doable.

Two out of the last three weekends, I have had to sign documents promising not to sue if I break my face. This is a good trend, I think. We ended up getting there with quite a lot of time to spare, and instead of standing around in the snow for an hour like schmucks, we hiked up to the ski lodge and hit up the bar at ten am.

Gin & tonic & mac & cheese: truly the breakfast of champions. The bartender was maybe a little heavy-handed for ten in the morning, but I can hardly fault him. By the time we hit the snow, I was already toasty warm inside.

We were maybe a little apprehensive about flinging ourselves downhill on a tube; after all, they wouldn’t have us sign a waiver unless there was actual danger involved, right? What if the abominable snowman doesn’t just go after skiers but instead enjoys snacking on the easier prey of adults on less-maneuverable tubes, swelled with dairy and starches and too drunk to run away? Worse, what if we enjoy it so much we end up concocting a special tubing uniform like this guy?

The only way I can describe this outfit is: A clown ate crayons until he exploded, and a passing unicorn was so amazed by the sight that HE exploded, too. We oughtn’t have worried–flinging ourselves downhill was insanely fun, even better as adults than we remembered as midwest tykes. We conducted a series of experiments as to which position led to the fastest and furthest ride and didn’t come to any official conclusions, but unofficially, flinging yourself onto the tube, superman-style (belly down, legs out or up, arms extended) was the most fun, knees into the hole of the tube was probably the most dangerous (Tristan flipped his tube, to the raucous laughter of us all), and on your back looking up at the sky FELT most dangerous but actually got a shorter overall distance owing to not being able to run and dive onto the tube with any great accuracy. About half the time, we trudged back up the hill on foot, and half the time we took the tow. We probably could have gotten more rides in during our two-hour block if we’d trudged up every time, but then I might have died.

This is my ‘I’m boozed up and overstimulated’ face. The two hours positively flew by, but at the end, I was surprised at just how worn out I was–it didn’t seem like we’d done anything worthy of the term ‘exercise’ but my body told me otherwise. Everyone else seemed to be running out of steam as well. Tubes were being abandoned at the bottom of the hill and I ricocheted off one and nearly flew off my tube. A kid who didn’t want to hike back up the hill threw snow at his dad’s camera and the dad lost his shit. The employees were perky as ever, cracking jokes, asking us if we had fun, saying they hoped we would come back…it was really nice. On the way home, we loudly sang along to the Rocky Horror soundtrack, maaaaybe drawing stares from passing cars. Maybe.

Save