One less thing to do before I die
Saturday night I went out to dinner with some good friends. During the meal one of them mentioned Cheese Pizza was going to be playing at a local bar later that night. I am apparently completely out of touch with all things cool because I thought cheese pizza was a really boring flavor of Italian pie. But it’s actually a fairly well known and popular band. Who knew?
I finished nibbling on my salad that was really just shredded lettuce with a couple of tomatoes and strips of grilled chicken (note to self: don’t order salad at a Mexican restaurant), we paid our bill, and headed to the bar.
There was a $10 cover charge at the door. $10. WTH?!? I know you people in the big cities are all like “what’s the big deal about a $10 cover charge. That’s cheap.” But here in the country we don’t pay $10 covers. Five bucks max, but never $10. However, I was assured that it was totally worth it.
As soon as we stepped in to the bar I wondered if that was really true. Dude. The music? It was so loud. I proclaimed, “Either I’m old or this music is really loud.” I believe the consensus was that I am really old. But seriously, do rock back have to be so damn loud. Can’t they just rock out a little bit quieter?
The warm up band played a bunch of oldies. Some Def Leppard. A little Metallica. All very loud. Did I mention it was loud?
Then finally Cheese Pizza took the stage. This is what they looked like from our vantage point.

I’m not really experienced in all things rock. When I was much younger (like junior high) I tried to get tickets to the Bon Jovi concert. But Ticketmaster sold out before my dad got home from work. Other than seeing Quiet Riot at the fair a few years back, I’ve only been to two concerts; both of them Boyz II Men. Nothing against Boyz II Men, but they aren’t exactly hardcore. So I might have tattoos (very pretty tattoos), but I’m far from a bad ass.
But here I was at a rock concert. The music was already pretty darn loud for me. Another couple years and I’ll be scowling and stomping out of places with bands playing “that ear piercing noise kids are listening to these days.” So I needed to whoop it up before I started getting arthritis and needing a cane.
I decided we needed to get closer. Be groupies. Beg for beads. Trample young girls for the slightest chance of actually touching a smelly, sweaty, cross-dressing rockstar. Every girl needs the chance to be up close and personal when a fat guy strips down to his g-string. Good stuff like that.
So I dragged my friend up to the front. Here’s a shot from the front row.

Hey, at least I was very nice about pushing people out of the way and elbowing my way to the front. I threw on a big smile and apologized to every person I stomped on. I’m such a conscientious line budger.
So now I can scratch off “become a groupie” from my bucket list.


