Little bursts of familiarity with even the smallest of objects have been making me a bit homesick. I decided to go to a burrito joint yesterday called “Dolores,” and they fancy themselves an “AUTHENTIC SAN FRANCISCO BURRITO” joint. The burrito was decent—more of a Chipotle than anything. But the shittiest part of the whole experience was looking up at the walls and seeing the map of the city. I shouted out, “hey, I am FROM there.” Predictably, no one gave a shit. 

I walked outside of the burrito joint and noticed a guy wearing a Reggie And The Full Effect shirt. That’s strange. They’re an obscure band that I like—I’ll tell him I think it is a cool shirt!

Me: “Hey man, cool shirt!”

Him: (Silence)

Me: “English?”

Him: “Yep.”

Me: “Going to that Get Up Kids show? (Reggie is a side-project of one of the members of that band.)

Him: “Nope. Don’t really like them.”

Then he just rode away. Prick.

Today, I decided to go out to get some falafel with my friend William Nein. He’s English and says shit like “nice one.” As we’re picking a place to sit, one of us observes the shade is particularly inviting on one portion of the interior of the restaurant, and we decide to sit there, as opposed to being outside. This would turn out to be particularly important. Reason forthcoming.

I know Berlin is a “must stop” on any European tour, and apparently, The Get Up Kids were instructed with similar information. I had seen their posters up around town, and upon further investigation, found out that the tickets were 20 Euros. A little bit steep. I was planning, nevertheless, to stop by, maybe see if I could swindle my way onto the guest list by way of Twitter (never works), and perhaps head into the show. It was by no means a sure thing, though.

So William and I sit down inside the restaurant. I take a quick look around the room, just to observe my surroundings. Table of four guys in the corner, one guy alone in the other—no women, no nothing. After a bit of of shooting the shit and detailing to William my unsuccessful attempts to get on the guest list, I take one more look at the table of four. My stomach drops. It’s the fucking Get Up Kids.

Naturally, I say nothing. I grew up listening to these guys and still hold them in high regard; what could I possibly say, then, that would spark a conversation with any substance at all? “Sup guys, how’s the tour?” Fuck that. I let them enjoy their falafel, wishing secretly that they would turn and ask me for tips on how to overstay a welcome in a hostel. I’m a pro at that.

They leave, I kick myself, and decide that the COINCIDENCE IS TOO GREAT—I MUST ATTEND THE SHOW. Skadoosh.

I got to the show a little early to secure a ticket, and that led to me walking around the same block for 45 minutes looking either really suspicious or just completely lost. It was next to a park where kids were playing. I’ll guess it was the former. 

A homeless guy approached me as I was walking into the venue. He asked me if Mick Jagger was a singer. Thinking this was a set up, I told him, “Do I think he is a good singer?” He says, “It’s OK, I’m crazy and drunk.”

Finally, a little bit of honesty.

I say yes, I do know that Mick Jagger is a singer. He launches into a story about how he asked a person on the bus minutes before the same question, who replied with, “Why, I know he is a good singer. I played with him.” The homeless guy snapped his fingers, gave me a “can you believe it?” look, and walked away.

The show was fantastic. I’ve now seen this band 5 times on 2 continents. Kind of cool. Other than the girl who looked nice and like Jennifer Connelly who was standing alone in the center of the room after the show ended having a really short, pudgy Indian guy with a bad beard come up and start making out with her, I’d say it was a good night.

Now I have a splitting headache.