...pleased to meet you/ hope you guess my name....
Stage lights glow pink and blue against chrome rim. I'm transfixed by a drummer; such a surprise.
Scan the stage: a guitarist Hawk's nicknamed Baby Face McCoy. The keyboardist obviously is Big Red Shirt, which will confuse me next time I see the band, if he wears a different color. The vocalist, who needs help with pitch, as evidenced by his slaughter of the who-whoos in the song the band covers, is French Tickler, on account of his VanDyke. The Prince calls the bassist 'a football player somebody strapped a guitar to', (hardly grammatical, but the Prince speaks English like a second language) so JockRock it is. He's got his guitar behind his head. He blocks my view of the main attraction, the drummer, who, naturally, is BirthdayBoy.
We are at the Brass Monkey. Hawk leans down to talk in Coco's ear, and she laughs. I look at Sparky, and notice that he notices also how beautiful our spouses are, laughing together. Probably at the expense of the band, because they are wicked like that.
The Brass Monkey is not fun. It's a box with a stage and a bar, like the Recher, only much, much smaller. Drinks are expensive, bathrooms are tiny, conversation impossible. But we, ten of us, are here to see BirthdayBoy's first gig with his new band. They are unworthy of him, and the Good Charlotte-esque music they play is too simple to be musically challenging. He's energetic, though, and his excellent good hugs are explained by arm muscles he's reluctant to display.
Refusing to stay at the Monkey for the chick band up next, the group disperses. Goddamn, we're old. Only BuddahPat wants to come out and play. Off we go to the corner dive, less diveish now with lovely flatscreen plasma teevees that my husband instantly covets. I introduce the boys to Hogan, whose nickname for me causes prolonged uproar. The two of them play pool while I eat shrimp salad and admire the scenery.
I haven't quite lost count of the beers I've had..."two thirds of a six-pack," says Hawk, taking the keys.
Thanks for the math lesson.
(Sympathy For the Devil; Rolling Stones)