Went to Jimmie’s Place in the Heights last night to watch Governor’s Chair. The icehouse was full of lots of people who were missing chromosomes or teeth or dignity, plus a collection of yuppies who came to see the band. The yuppies were surely missing things too, but they were able to hide it better.
One of the non-yuppies started his bike up (too small to be a Harley but about as loud). He kept revving the engine, which I took to be a general insult to the band, the people on the patio next to the bike and the neighborhood in general. Then I realized he wasn’t standing upright with ease. People on the patio realized this too and went over to him, attempting to wrestle his keys away. He tried to hold on to them but was distracted when he puked a little on one of his boots. He gave up the keys and then the big daddy of his group approached (there was a large empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the table, if that gives you a hint about these fools). The big daddy argued with one of the women who was not going to let the puker ride the bike – I think the big daddy was saying that he’d be okay now that he’d thrown up a bit. Right.
Big daddy lost any ground he might have been making when the puker ran over to the large planter a few feet away. This being an icehouse, we could easily see the guy puke his guts up into the planter, which happened to be right behind the lead guitar player. No one in the band noticed this was going on, but I thought it was a lovely tableau for a rock and roll show. Then the breeze changed. It was no longer amusing.