Mosh Pit Santas & Dirty Footballs

I spent Christmas night with shirtless Santas. Santas with mohawks.

It was around 10:15 pm when I started to wait until 10:45 to get into Fitzgerald's in Houston. The line to get in was glittered with colorful characters, some of whom politely stepped out of line to take vomit breaks. Pre-drinking was not kind to them.

Home for the holidays and not in the mood to write another chapter in my family Encyclopedia Dysfunctiona (in which many juicy chapters were written this season), I left the house to go see a punk rock group at the club off of Studemont on the west side.

So at about a quarter until 11:00 I'm in the club, and after about 10 text messages and barely discernable phone calls, I finally meet up with my cousin upstairs. Practically yelling over the pre-show din while waiting in a mile long line to get a drink, he tells me that the band's name is "Dirty Football." I'm already disappointed. Footballs are supposed to be dirty, I thought. How bouts "Dirty Faberge Egg" or "Clean Turd."

We escaped to the second tier overlooking the stage before the show began. After meeting my cousin's friend with pink hair and meeting another friend of his named Raven (who I didn't get to know very well because she didn't quoth enough), I looked down upon the band's drum set. "30 Foot Tall," it read. Not "Dirty Football." Sigh + Relief.

30 Foot Tall ended up being rather kick-ass. They started the show with the obligatory Sex Pistols' "Punk Rock Christmas." But I spent most of the night watching the guys (and some chicks with tits of steel) down in the mosh. It wasn't very long before three punks in Santa suits came out and started kicking some asses. Cue the camera phones.

It was a Merry Friggin Christmas overall. Christmas happens to be my birthday as well. But paradoxically, my birthday sucked.

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