Run mad as often as you chuse

Last night the Lad and I found ourselves at Slim’s for the Dick Dale show. Once the opener, Thirsty, had cleared out and most of the heavy metal fans had left or faded to the back, the Lad and I were suddenly surrounded by men in their 50’s; men with grizzled hair and Hawaiian shirts and glasses; men who were looking forward to some serious surf guitar and didn’t care who knew it.

“My God,” the Lad breathed, looking around. “It’s the clones of Clark.”

“Quick, make a pun,” I cried. “You could rule them all!”

While we waited for Dick to take the stage, the audience was treated to a projected video called 60’s A-Go-Go. “It’s as if they’re saying to us: No matter what you might think, Dick Dale is a relic of the sixties and by Heaven we’re gonna keep him there,” I said. As the increasingly long delay wore on, the Lad suggested there might have been problems opening Dick’s time capsule where he had been stored in a cool, dry place since 1968.

Finally, after more than an hour of standing (including the Thirsty songs we had caught), Dick emerged from his capsule. It was immediately clear to me that management had fucked up. Dick wore a black sweatband around his forehead, a snazzy vinyl jacket, a sparkling guitar strap and a long, sweaty ponytail, and repeatedly used the word “bitchin.”

“You morons!” I heard the manager snarling from the back room. “When you packed him in there, you must have set the stasis dial to 1988, not 68!”

Though Dick was pure eighties in attire, he started off with some excellent sixties crowd pleasers. After two and a half songs, I was so pleased that I started to black out. Possibly it was the hour and a half of standing, though–despite my impressive physique, the truth is I am a champion sitter and not good for much else.

As I began to elegantly crumple up against the Lad, he managed to grab me (while holding my helmet, my coat, and a few soon-to-be-shattered dreams of his own about getting to see a Dick Dale show in its entirety) and heroically manhandled me through the crowd. Though my vision was mostly dark and I kept forgetting to inhale, I had enough sense to realize the excitement of my position. Nearly passing out! Being looked at! Boyfriend heroically rescuing me! Stepping on people’s feet!

We got outside and sat on the pavement for awhile, listening to Dick finish up “House of the Rising Sun” inside (of all the songs for me to pass out during). A staff member gave me some water and the Lad gave me a ride home. As I lay in bed that night, I was pleased. Pleased to have seen a legendary guitarist. Pleased to have ruined part of a great song for as many people as I could step on. Pleased to have taken an important musical experience away from the Lad. Pleased that I would finally have something to blog about in the morning.