The Night of the Sticky Floor

About 6 months ago my friend Melody asked if I had any interest in hearing live bands.

"No," I said.

I am the last person you want to go hear live music with. I don't like the smoke and crowd of bars. I resent having to yell to have a conversation with a friend. And most of the "music" sounds like instruments being thrown down stairs.

Which is why Melody and I were both surprised when, last night, I agreed to go hear--are you ready for this?--PUNK bands at the restaurant/bar across the street from where we'd just come from a meeting.

I had fun. I felt old, standing in a room with 21-year old kids with mohwaks, green hair, studded belts, and--God love them, they're so young--a fedora or two. I wanted to rip the cigarettes out of their hands and say, "Sure, you look 'cool' now, but in fifteen years you're going to be a stale-smelling, pucker-lipped, nicotine addict. Don't do it!" But I enjoyed some of the music and it was fun to be out and about, talking girl talk and pointing out which guys we would have been interested in if we were twenty years younger and single. I rolled in about 11:30, which is equivalent to 3 AM in most peoples worlds.

I've showered and I swear I still smell like smoke. But as I said, it was fun. Great fun. I'll probably become a regular on the punk band indie scene.