I'm in Elkton for a show. Precisely speaking, I'm in a restaurant in Elkton, trying to get dinner before a show. The restaurant is not crowded. I recognize the look of people I assume have tickets to the show as well. They have a look, Crack The Sky fans. I'm alone at my table, and female. I do not know if this is a factor in what follows. I've taken the Gunslinger's seat, furthest to the back of the room, facing the door.
Once upon a time I joked, in the presence of a psychic friend, who was reading someone else, that I must have been stabbed in the back in a previous life. She looked up, said "No you weren't- you were shot," and went back to her reading. I heard no more about it and have continued to take the Gunslinger's seat when I can, especially in a restaurant that seems ill-equipped to handle the influx of folk coming to see a band not big enough for a big venue, but too big for a little one. Certainly their 50-year accumulated following is too big for this 2-person restaurant. The place fills with folk who look like they've seen Metallica, Elvis and maybe the Beatles. I hope I don't look as road-worn, though I saw the Ramones at Hammerjacks, twice, when I learned I don't belong in a mosh pit. It was fun and I'm glad I tried it, but it was the sort of bruising fun that I imagine football players have, and I wasn't a fan of the colorful aftermath.
But these people look OLD. Creased and white-haired, them what has hair, in scraggly ponytails, band T shirts, Ravens and Orioles gear, tight skinny jeans, saggy classic cut jeans, and eyeliner only on the women. I love this band but these are not my people.
A nearly toothless waitress shows up with a menu and asks what I'd like to drink, so I tell her Gin Lemonade, rail is fine. She returns and it is generously poured.
Gin Lemonade on an empty stomach makes me feel groovy and relaxed, so I am not impatient for the food I order. Until it is ten minutes before the doors open at the venue half a block away, and I note that two tables of old-looking people who are probably my age have already had their food dropped, despite having come in after me. I catch the eye of the waitress, who now has ten tables. I ask for my check. She says, "Oh, Hon, your food should be ready now..." and wanders off. When she returns, she has a slip for my drink. Somehow my order was not submitted and never cooked. I pay for my cocktail and walk the half block to the venue.
Gin Lemonade on an empty stomach makes a second cocktail seem like a good idea. Because the uncocktailed part of me recognizes that MORE uncushioned alcohol is probably a bad idea, I ask for chips, the only option at the venue that resembles food. The bar gal lets me choose from a rack of tiny bags. Okay, popcorn it is. With a Strawberry Lemonade Vodka in a can.
Because popcorn doesn't do a great job cushioning alcohol, within the hour, another cocktail joins the previous two. I have a great time at this concert, even though the set list is identical to the Crack The Sky show earlier this spring. The guys sound great, and crank through two full hours of music without pause, though many of their songs are constructed in such a way that everyone seems to get a break. John sits frequently. Alarmingly frequently, in fact. Joey sits the most, but he's the drummer. Rick may be a radical vegan or something, because though he looks old, he moves young. And he is moving. And MOVING. I'd like to move, too, but this is a seated show, in deference to the age of the audience, who remain mostly seated, surging like a wave to stand when songs finish and settling back to sitting as the next song starts. A few of us wiggle vigorously in our chairs.
I visit the merch table. If I even still have a Crack The Sky shirt, it's a white baseball shirt with black sleeves that fit me in high school. Where is that now? In the wind, I guess, or maybe in the box of shirts I intend to turn into a quilt... someday. I buy a black T shirt. What I wanted, really, was the book. The merch stand offers CDs, T shirts and a poster, but no books. No books? "You can get it on the website," says the merch dude, handing me a paper bookmark with a QR code.
Dude, seriously? Why are you tormenting old people with a QR code?
Nuclear Apathy; Crack The Sky
