Good

Good weekend.

Saturday was a Roger Clyne & The Peacemakers show down at the House of Blues. And for some reason things just hung a little weird all night. My sister was able to ride along for the first time in a long time, which was great, not wonky. We headed over to Dick’s Last Resort for dinner, place that pride’s itself on the insouciance of its wait staff. Which is fine. I’m perfectly willing to play along with a little sass. But our waiter kept insisting that he needed a slap on the fanny in order to get me a beer. !! Seriously, if it was actually socially acceptable to give someone a spanking in order to make them get me a beer, I’d have kids by now. (Kidding) Anyway, I gave him a couple of token pats, but really, I’m not cougar material. That takes a lot of effort. And that naughty boy needed more discipline than my pimp hand could mete out. Pert though his posterior may be. Besides, I was saving energy for the show.

And thank goodness I did. Weirdness energetically ensued. Though we did score the coveted sofa seats for the opening act. Nice. We could only see about 10% of the stage from there, but I discovered that sitting behind a column ain’t so bad when the slice of stage you can see contains a view of 2 tall-drink-of-water guitar players and a scruffy drummer. I was content. But then we moved into the crowd for RCPM.

The drunken eejit factor was extremely high. And my sister has an absolute knack for attracting the most . . . unusual sort of bar fly. She spent several minutes getting a tutorial in how to make devil fingers from a very wobbly gent with the most fro-tastic head of kick-my-ass-red hair I’ve ever seen. She tried to explain that she did indeed go to ASU, and, as a proud Sun Devil, no lessons needed. But she’s not terribly fluent in drunken eejit, and I'm not sure communication every really occured. Add in that we had to side-step a sloppy little bar brawl that turned into an I love you mannnnn. And we were next to another wobbly gent who really loved giving the high fives. And at some point I found myself in a spontaneous group sway (those break out quite regularly at Peacemaker shows – feel the love, y’all) with the arm of some random guy (who was built like a brick chicken house) thrown around me. Hey, I said it was a weird night. I didn’t say it was a bad night.

Anyway, the show was great, per the usual high standard, weirdness not withstanding. Though at one point, I started trying to mentally calculate, not for the first time, just how many shots Roger Clyne had shared with fans. By midnight, he must have been sweating pure tequila and Dos Equis (shall we say, an interesting notion, in and of itself). And as a side note, Roger, I’m rather fond of you in a person-I-don’t-actually-know kind of way. And I’d like to think we’ll be doing these happy/sweaty/tribal, Peace-filled shows until I’m 60. Take care of that liver, darlin’. Just sayin’.

And all of that was followed by a bleary Sunday morning viewing of the new Star Trek movie (more on that later – but for now, suffice it to say, let the choirs of angels sing – AWEsome!) and my niece’s Hawaii themed surprise B-day party. Good weekend.