I went out to see a band at a bar last night and that never happens! Live music! Sweaty young people! Psycho-surf madness! I mean, sure, some parts could have been better. After all, I used to do this whole “live-music-in-a-bar” thing for a living, right? Or did I dream that? I’m beginning to think I dreamed that. In any case, let’s engage in a little constructive criticism, because I am now an old and cranky person who shakes her fist at young hooligans who ought to stay off my lawn:
1. Opening bands, even entirely fun and enjoyable ones with hot go-go dancers in white minidresses and long white gloves, should keep their sets to under an hour. You were good, we liked you, now surrender the stage peacefully. This has absolutely nothing to do with how early I like to go to bed these days.
2. There was this lady in front of me the whole night who clearly did not get the memo regarding personal space in a crowd. She kept bumping up against me, while maintaining far too much open space between herself and the guy she was behind. I kept wanting to nonchalantly shove her into that space, you know, just to help her out.
3. Everybody else in the world needs to stop looking so damn young and unbroken. Honestly. Cut us some slack here. Maybe wear a fake scar or something? An eyepatch? Thanks.
Age-induced paranoia aside, I had forgotten what that particular type of carnival smells like anymore. I’ve always deeply relished the faint (and yes, sometimes overpowering) smell of humans dancing and rocking out together in a tight space. I seem to have grown slightly more sensitive to the top notes of beer and cigarettes, however. Probably because I stopped wearing those perfumes myself some time ago. See above reference to old and cranky persons.
But I stuck to my age-old habits of sticking close to the stage and making eyes at the guitarist while my husband made eyes at the go-go dancers (it’s nice how we have these things arranged). They were filming the show for god knows what, and I know I made it onto the camera more than a few times, no doubt to get my desserts on the cutting room floor (in the sky, this being the digital age).
When the claustrophobia and aroma got to be too much we made our way out to the smoking porch, where I ran into friends. “Running into friends” is still such a new phenomenon for me here that I have to take special note of it whenever it happens. I’ve lived here for almost five years now and am only just starting to feel like I have a loose circle of friends.
This might possibly have something to do with the two full years I spent never leaving the house, the blinds drawn, with no car and no money. I dunno. Maybe not. I prefer to blame society.
So no, I really ran into actual friends and associates (I have those now, too!), one of whom had dyed his hair bright pink, which instantly endeared him even further to me. I was already fond of him, not least because he is a Young Person Aware of Good New Music who informs me of which obscure new CDs I might like. He hasn’t been wrong yet, and it is a service I am grateful for.
His stated reasons for dying his hair pink included: 1) he is desperate for attention; 2) it is a cry for help; and 3) it’s pink? I really have to get some of that purple hair mascara Nita was telling me about.
I had to leave earlier than I wanted to because I am old and lame, and I woke up this morning sore and achy, but with a new CD of original psycho-surf music by some local kids whose careers would really take off if they started wearing eye patches.