Saturday was the usual good stuff - gym in the morning, lunch with Kate, some shopping, some errands, some worry because my car had started making some very unfashionable groany noises that worried me a lot. I mean, I know it's got 170,000 miles on it, but it's a Toyota! Bitch better last forever. Sadly, 170,000 miles does not sound that bad to me. I cracked up recently when someone on a message board I read was considering buying a used car with 21,000 miles on it and are advised not to because the mileage is too high. THAT IS NOTHING, SUCKER. (Kenny topped up my power steering fluid and that seemed to work for now, so fingers crossed.)
Anyway, Saturday night, instead of being old people like normal and watching a DVD, Kenny and I got up off the couch and went out. Yes, that is right, we not only went out, we went to a concert. Specifically, we went to see The English Beat. I love Ska music and was really excited.
Even more exciting, some friends of ours had rented a sky box, so we had our own private viewing area, complete with a bathroom, a bar and ample seating, if we so required it. The venue wasn't big but it was packed, so we were glad to have been invited. When the opening band started (the very excellent Bad Manners) I started to get all itchy because I wanted to dance and it felt weird to not be down with the crowd.
So Kenny humored me and we went down to the floor, packed full of people, and I was all, "Oh hell no." I suddenly realized that my crowd shoving days were pretty much over. I couldn't fathom fighting my way through anymore, ME, the girl who was always right up front for whatever great band was playing. I was officially too old for this shit. Related, I really liked the shoes I was wearing and didn't want them to get stepped on. Back upstairs for me, please.
So, once upstairs everyone had a few more drinks and The Beat took the stage and oh damn, what a great night. They did all their great songs plus "Tenderness" which was such a dreamy General Public bonus. You can't not dance to this music, is all I'm saying. We all did our best skank (read: sad but enthusiastic) and apparently we did too good a job because someone downstairs complained that we were making the lower level's ceiling shake. Hey, we can't help it if we rule.
The private box next to ours had the adjoining door open and it was full of weird drunk women and old preppy Richmond guys who all looked like they should be named Chip - the kind of guys who wear dockers and loafers without socks and enjoy crappy beach music. They were barely watching the band and were clearly there to get drunk. DUuuuuchebags. One of them was wearing a sweater of such ugliness that I made Kenny pretend to pose for a photo so I could document it for you all. Don't say I never did anything for you:
After it was over we hobbled back to our car and made it home, tired and happy. I woke up Sunday looking and feeling like I'd been punched in the face. Wow, staying out all night does not agree, apparently. It was totally worth it, though.
Nah, his name is Skip. Ten to one he's a CPA. UR grad. No, Hampden-Sydney. No, both!
ReplyDeleteThat is one ugly sweater. And the pot belly too--what an excellent picture of John/Chip/Skip.
ReplyDeleteChip/Skip is probably ACT-chew-ally named Chad and he's in Advertising. His buddy (and mistress) is named Cleeves and he runs his daddy's bank.
ReplyDeleteAny "popped" Polo collars in that crowd? lol