I celebrated another anniversary of my twenty-ninth birthday two weeks ago, and God has a funny way of sending you periodic reminders that you aren’t as young as you used to be. It’s your body taking extra time to recover after a work out. Sometimes, you find out the hard way that you don’t have quite the same tolerance with the alcohol.
The other day, I had one of those experiences at Terminal 5 in New York City (a club that sucks as bad as everyone says it does) during a My Chemical Romance concert.
I had seen MCR a few years ago during “Projekt Revolution” and thought they put on a great live show. I was looking forward to seeing them again as a headliner (when I saw them, they were just under Linkin Park in billing). Their new album was a favourite of mine from last year, so when tickets went on sale I figured “what the hell?”
What the hell was that…for starters, my pre-gaming has changed from a few Budweiser tallboys to a few pints at Rattle n Humm that are slightly higher in ABV, which was ok. I wasn’t in the bag, just buzzed and a little tired. Then came the concert.
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First I discovered 
