After work on Friday I went over to my brother’s place. From there, a group of us went out to Cervantes’ Masterpiece Ballroom to see Fishbone. I haven’t seen Fishbone play since my college days when they came in town for Thanksgiving. It’s been maybe 5 or 6 years since I’ve seen them last. Fishbone is by no means my favorite group but their shows are traditionally a good time, and I’m usually always down for a good time. It was the same high-energy show I remembered. We all had a blast.
But I hate those fucking moshers. Admittedly, I haven’t been to a show that had a moshpit since the early 90’s. I thought that music lovers everywhere had wizened up and realized that pushing each other around in a circle is an incredibly dumb thing to do. Apparently I was mistaken. During most of the songs the crowd was paying attention to the show, dancing, respecting each other’s space, smiling at each other and generally enjoying each other’s company. In fact, the crowd at this show was really friendly and I met a handful of really interesting people. But, during a few of the harder and faster songs the knuckleheads would start their nudging, elbowing and running in circles. Jackasses. I’m getting old.
In addition to watching the Angelo Moore play the theremin (which has got to be one of the most unusual instruments on the planet.), I hung out and danced all evening with a very cute girl my brother had met a few weeks earlier and invited along with us.
I had a great time with this girl. We got along great. It was cute when she got mad at me for leaving her side and allowing some meathead to get her phone number. She was shy, reserved, sweet, attractive and young. Very young. Barely old enough to be attending this particular venue. However, when she found out I was the older brother, her next question was how much older. I just blurted out my answer. This is where I fucked up. I know better. Always answer this question with, “Old enough to know better than to answer that question.” I can’t help but think she would have opened up a bit more and things may have gone a bit further if she hadn’t known how much older I am than her. I still look younger than my age (she guessed 25). But damn! I’m getting old.
I hate it when I write that twice in one entry.