The nineties were a great time as far as iconic rock tunes were concerned. We couldn’t turn on our radios without being bombarded with catchy choruses over major-chord arpeggios, and we were better off for it. There’s no shame in being a die-hard follower of our favorite bands of the era, which leads me to wonder why carving “Slayer” into your forearm is normal, but carving “Toad the Wet Sprocket” isn’t.
Seriously, double standard, anyone? Why do thrash metalheads get a free pass to act self-destructively while alternative rock fans are expected to comport themselves in a more socially acceptable manner? Just because I’m not as enthused to air guitar the solo to “The Antichrist” doesn’t mean I’m not a music nut who’s willing to spill blood to show his fandom.
Speaking of which, this is a lot of blood. Maybe I should’ve been a little safer and gone with an acronym instead of the full band name? At the very least, it would’ve probably been a good idea to clean the knife before putting it to my skin. Just grabbing a dirty one out of the sink was admittedly a rookie move. I have no fucking clue what this thing was just used on, but it must’ve been something with a lot of bacteria, because there’s an awful lot of pus coming out of the wound, which is a drag because it’s starting to obscure the lettering.
Anyway, where were we? Oh yeah, Toad the Wet Sprocket. Sorry, I’m just starting to get a little lightheaded. “All I Want” is a stone-cold classic, and you’re lying to yourself if you’re pretending it hasn’t brought you to tears at some point in your life. It certainly has for me, and whether said tears are the result of Glen Phillips’ soulful crooning or my arm rapidly succumbing to what appears to be a rather serious infection remains to be seen. The only thing I know for certain is that there’s absolutely nothing weird about the action that brought me to this place.
But I digress. I think I’ve made my point perfectly clear. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better nip this problem in the bud and get some antibiotics. It’s only been about a week since I had to get the Better Than Ezra brand on my bicep looked at, so the gang down at the MedExpress will probably remember me.
