Last night I had the shittiest sleep of all time. We were put up by Brian from American thrash band Lich King in a small town called Greenfield, MA. He lives on a beautiful property at the end of a long, skinny and winding forest road. We headed there after our set in Florence Mass for some much needed shut eye. When we got there Brian gave us a tour of his basement, which turned out to be an awesome recording studio. I would normally be all too enthusiastic to be hanging out with all of this great recording equipment and great company, but I was just too damn exhausted to hang out. Instead of being a polite guest, while everyone was preoccupied I meticulously and connivingly scoped out a place to sleep. “Forget these chumps I am traveling with; I'm looking out for numero uno. Self-interest is the name of the game, baby,” I selfishly grunted to myself. As the band was getting the grand tour and being polite, I took off in a flash in search of a soft surface to rest my weary head.
I came across a large room I can only describe as a utopia of sleeping apparatuses: couches and bunk beds galore. I had my first pick of all of them. I believe I started laughing maniacally before doing a quick test sample of all of them with my fatigued fanny. Until I found it: the top bunk of the bunk bed. I could not resist its charm. There is something about the top bunk that has always been sacred. It has been fought for and coveted through the ages in school-aged sleepovers since the invention of the stackable bed. I love everything about the top bunk. Especially that intrepid and gallant feeling you get as you pitter-patter up the silly little ladder. I scaled that fuckin' dumb ladder in 2 and a half seconds and descended into sweet, sweet comfort and relaxation.
Enter Adam Zlotnik
I will say this right now. Sleeping on a bunk bed above Adam Zlotnik is like trying to slow dance with an epileptic at a rave. It’s fucked. He immediately hopped in the bottom bunk and made a phone call to my complete sorrow and disappointment. Once the phone call was complete, he began tossing and turning like a listless trout washed up on the beach of fuck-it. Once he got settled he would go “AAAAH” like he had just drank a nice iced tea on a hot day. All the while I was wiggling about on the top bunk like an asshole whose only fault was being mind numbingly self-serving.
Then finally I approached rest. You know that warm and tender feeling you get as you slip away into sweet unconsciousness? It’s like a hug from your mother, and a pleasant bath all in one. I just started drifting… and drifting… and drif…
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
I immediately become fully alert and filled with homicidal rage. I realize that it is Adam knocking in my bed from underneath me. “WHAT!?” I squeaked like I had just had a dream of road rage. “Is that you snoring?” he whispered. It was then that I look to the floor and find my brother and drummer: self-sufficient snoring Mason on an inflatable air mattress that he had the foresight to bring from home so that he would never have to sleep above a gentleman with the personality and likeability of a wet sock ever again. “NO IT’S MASON SNORING, AND NOW I HAVE A FRONT ROW SEAT FOR IT ASWELL YA PRICK!” “…sorry.”
I could have gotten back to sleep if my entire being wasn’t consumed by hate and irritability.
Should have taken the couch.
Spencer “Me first” LeVon