-2.19.98-
I went to see Bob Dylan at the Fox Theatre last night. I did not plan on going, but came across a Beatles page on the net. Daria had told me a long time ago that it was Dylan who first got the Beatles high. I ate it up but took it with a grain of Rock-Hype salt. The page had a listing of internet links that were connected to a site dealing with people linked to the Beatles and summaries of what those connections were. Dylan's said: "Introduced the Beatles to marijuana." That provoked me for a couple of days then I asked myself why I was not going to see him. You know I am not a "real" Dylan fan, but a fan nonetheless.
I went hoping to catch glimors of history. Instead I was washed in real life greatness, not history's. He played the rock and roll such as what I consider when the Dead's writing fast-paced rock, not southern/classic/blues/rock-a-billy/ bluegrass, but progressing/exploratory music. He did, in fact, also play the former which was great. I couldn't believe how great his guitar playing was!
I went by myself. I picked Doug up from home, picked up some McDonald's and headed for Bullfeathers. (only a block from the Fox) When I got my first beer, the new owner told me that I couldn't eat my MickeyD's in there because they now had a full menu. I told him I was sorry, I hadn't known, but that I planned on buying many beers. He thought that was kind of funny an also was probably feeling a little sorry for my lonely ass since I was going to get drunk & go to a concert by myself.
Long story short, I was "not allowed" to sit at the bar and listen to him and the rest of the braintrust, sitting around there, tear up those whom they judge to have a good opinion of themselves. I "had" to sit up in the loft alone, watch the Michigan/Michigan State game, eat 2/$2 , drink guiness and pull woneys until I was ready to stumble down to the show. (the gods of smar were just beginning to throw a couple back while watching my one-man country-concert)
From the time of the conversation with Cliff at the bar, until the exchange with my alter-ego sitting next to me in the middle of Bob's performance a span of about 3 hrs past.
It's a wonderful feeling I get when I'm a stranger in a non-strange setting. It's a very effortless vacation. During the show I was intent on the performance but when I wanted to go stand in the back and listen from the smoking section it rocked. I would stand there sucking down ultra light after ultra light with my eyes closed and letting my soul out just enough to qualify as grooving. No matter what I ever say or preach, I know as well as the veteran alcoholic that euphoric happiness which accompanies intoxication. The middle ground, unrecognizable by the non-drinking/occasional binger and the nightly drunk. Bob not only did me no wrongs, but took me exploring some higher ground which, in my book, is the best time spent. All good memories include those times. Time spent retelling good memories bores me and tires me. I don't believe I am incapable of continuing their production, most people think there was a recipe to making them. It's that bullshit I'm really weary of. At the Fox, with that box full of happy people who knew the only ingredient necessary for a good time was their attendance, I raged, danced, loved, stumbled, dorked-out and grinned like my first child was born. You would have loved it.
Everytime I would get up from my seat to go have a cigarette or get a beer, I would stop off in the restroom and check on Doug. He was funny as shit. By the time I was walking out of the Fox I was seriously loady. I moved my car from the street into a SLU lot and started the reflective walk home. It was a nice night but despite my state of mind I was very paranoid of being jumped. (which kind of sucked and caused the 2/$2, the drafts & the quick-paced walking to turn into very disturbing gas) When I got home
J.P.
and
Wario
were laughing at me and the former was really wanting to part-take after hearing the many ways I had served sherbert to my brain. I unloaded and realized Doug must have missed the bus! I couldn't figure out what more I could have sacrificed to the smar to deserve this blatant crotch-knock on my night. After a disheartening series of Mariokart battles with J.P., I turned in.
When I finally went to pick up my car after classes on Wednesday, I thought I remembered possibly fucking around in the glove compartment the night before. Sure enough, my confusion about the treatment from the gods was warranted because I had done all that was right to justify myself being in their favor. Doug was there sleeping. He was not the lackie of some yuppie manager at the Fox, he was bee-bopping to the tune of "How Bizarre" with me,
a closet yuppie
.
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