Rancid, Croatian Cultural Centre, Thursday, September 28th, 2006. Rowdy crowd, but because of what day of the week it was, there were more underagers than adults. I was at the front gate, as per usual with 90% of the shows I go to. The crowd was so rowdy, I broke a rib on my left side. But it was so fucking worth it. To top it all off, Tim Armstrong comes down after their set, pushes away the ocean of fan-hands, grabs mine, pulls it towards him, puts his pick in it, and goes "Thanks man! You're fuckin' rad!" Gives me the devil's horns, and fucks off.

Gnarly eh?

Second Day of Rancid at The Cro: September 29th. It's a Friday. All the working-class punks are out this night. The crowd could overthrow a fuckin' army, they're THAT rowdy. Me, being the dumbass that I am, I'm at the front gate again, right in the centre - with a broken rib. So I put all my pressure on the non-broken one, and sho-nuff, it breaks. Whatever. I can deal. It was fucking HOT. Hotter than any gig I've ever been to, except MAYBE Eagles of Death Metal... Anyhow, they're dishin' out bottles of Dasani like mad. I catch like 9 bottles 'cause I'm big. I share with all the folks around me. Apparently being nice and sharing is a bad idea, 'cause when I wasn't looking, someone loaded a shitload of GHB (it's a daterape drug. Look it up. (For educational and safety purposes, not benefitial, asshole!)) into one of my bottles and handed it back to me. Wowee! Cool beans! Fuckin' idiots. Anyhow, I wasn't expecting what happened to me, which was the scariest part. I just stopped breathing at a normal rate with no control over it. I couldn't see. My legs stopped working, as did my arms. It took four fucking security guards to haul my ass over that gate. LONG after the fact that I've been drugged. As I went over the gate, I somehow lost my keys, my wallet with a-hundred-cash in it, my cell phone, my shoes, my sunglasses and my shirt. I get chucked away by security. I can't see. I don't know where I'm going. Out of fucking nowhere, some random ass dude scoops my ass up and tries to make me feel better as he guides my drugged-up-and-fucked-up ass to safety. Turns out, he's heard of me from our town, three hours away. He knows of me through some people, saw that I was fucked up, and he knows I don't fuck myself up like that, so he came to the rescue. His name is Braden Wear. He's rad. As he helps me to walk and stand, apparently (this is all eyewitness accounts here, I really don't remember much of the whole thing) I walked into the soundboard and got really pissed. DURING Rancid's set. I must've pissed off some techies! Anyhow... He corrects my route and dumps me off at the back of the venue. I come to, and I'm resting my dome on some chick's lap. I wake up to...

"Hi! I'm __________! It's nice to meet you! I think I know who you are through _________..."

All I know is she's got a badass Misfits martini-glass-girl, and it looks familiar. And she's super fuckin' nice. Unfortunately she's a little ill, so she's takin' 'er easy at the back of the place. And she's from home, so it helps. She's singin' with Rancid's set. It's really helping me come out of my G-Hole. My little brother, who I took to the show with a bunch of his little friends, appears out of nowhere with every single fucking thing that went missing from my person as a result of this drugging. Things are looking up. Not to mention the drugs are makin' me a liiiiittle euphoric. _________ has to blast off. She's gone. Braden helps me up. Apparently someone called me an ambulance and the paramedics were looking for me, but I was miraculously fine now. Then... A friend's friend got assaulted, in a sexual manner, and she... Seriously now... Took the fuckin' guy's eye out. Right out. Scooped. Hanging by the optic fucking nerve. I saw that he found more use for the ambulance than I did. I went to the liquor store, bought all the under-ager-buddies booze. And started on the long intoxicated public-transit trek home...


The next day, Braden and I had a jam session, what would later become the beginning of our band. It was a magical beginning. Two broken ribs, an accidental drugging, and the start of a beautiful band-relationship and friendship. And a killer fucking story.

Oh yeah, almost forgot. Andrew joined the band the next day or something. He's in the band still right? ...Yeah? Alright yeah. Andrew. He's there too. I'm sure when he joined it was glorious. I can only assume.

Together, the three of us create a tripod of fucking awesome! We've created a symbiotic flow with one-another, complimenting eachother's stylings nicely. Being a tripod, you know what happens when you remove one of the three necessary legs?

...Well... I guess you get a biped creature finally free from the physical constraints of having this ridiculously redundant third leg, able to stand on its own two feet for quite some time.

But we still love eachother.

And if you've read this much, we love you too already.

We're The Motherfucking Wrecktals and we're gonna fuck your shit up. (read less)

Rancid, Croatian Cultural Centre, Thursday, September 28th, 2006. Rowdy crowd, but because of what day of the week it was, there were more underagers than adults. I was at the front gate, as per usual with 90% of the shows I go to. The crowd was so rowdy, I broke a rib on my left side. But it was so fucking worth it. To top it all off, Tim Armstrong comes down after their set, pushes away the ocean of fan-hands, grabs mine, pulls it towards him, puts his pick in it, and goes "Thanks man! You're... (read more)