Don't Bring Me Down

Are we all in agreement that watching someone fall down is one of life's greatest pleasures? I'm not talking about the kind of spill that leaves someone with a bloody gash on the head, or a broken leg--although a fall resulting in two broken wrists can provide years of amusement for coworkers lucky enough to witness and appreciate the irony of such a fall's aftermath. Hee. I am living proof that 14 years of gymnastic training does not ensure a lifetime of grace; if you've lived in this town for six months and hung out at the Crocodile, Graceland, Showbox, or Cha Cha, chances are you've seen me hit the deck. (In fact, I arrived at Seattle sporting a black eye caused by a drunken header.) My friend Kim falls even more than I do, so much that I not only don't laugh anymore, I don't stop walking, either. However, her golden oldies still make me giggle: for instance, the tuck-and-roll in front of the now-closed spy products store that used to sit next to the Graceland, beautifully executed after her foot got fouled up in the seatbelt as she stepped out of the car. I had to give her extra points for busting the top button of her Levi's as she hit the ground. Then there was the time she mopped the kitchen floor wearing only socks. Oh, and the missed chair in the EMP greenroom was a roar for all.

The right side of my office has big windows, which rule. Once I got to see someone sleeping in the ballpark across the street get soaked when maintenance turned on the sprinklers. I know it's not funny to laugh at a guy--who probably doesn't have a home--getting soaked. But his backpack/pillow was RIGHT on top of the sprinkler outlet and it was so hilarious from my excellent view. Another time I watched a staggering drunk remain astonishingly upright as he high-stepped his way across the same field, until someone blew a horn loud and hard and he lost his balance, fell face down, and passed out for an hour. It was one of the most comically drawn-out, exaggerated face plants I've ever seen, and again I was cackling like an asshole at his misfortune.

Okay, so why the longwinded ode to other people's calamities? My motivation is two-pronged. First, I hope to help Kevin Willis win 10 bucks from Nate Manny, who apparently had some crazy doubt that I would use this space to warn the showgoers of Capitol Hill of the new, potentially limb-breaking steps inside Chop Suey (the warning is prong two). Surrounding the new wooden dance floor and separating the bar area from the rest of the room, the six-inch ledge is mayhem for those of us there to see a live show. My people were tripping and stubbing, or flapping their arms as their heels dropped off the ledge and their lives flashed before their eyes. All I'm saying is look out. If you thought watching people hopelessly navigate the pitch-black cattle chute running along the booths in the Graceland band room was a hoot, you haven't seen anything yet. I foresee an epidemic of too-tight leather jackets plagued by ripped-out armpits.

Speaking of injuries, remember the mishap concerning godheadSilo's thunderous drummer Dan Haugh and his nearly severed arm? (No one's really sure if it happened while he was preparing a sandwich or opening a box.) He's back in action with his bassist partner Mike Kunka in a band to feature Spencer Moody as singer. How low--and loud--can you go?