All Hail The Dimly Lit Concert Hall!

     I’d like to thank my neighbor Steve for making a night out, and hence this column, possible.  Steve recently offered me a ticket to see Robert Randolph in concert.  Robert Randolph, by the way, kicks ass.  Just sayin’.

     I was not as out of place as I had feared, though the crowd was undeniably college-centric.  The whole scene could have been enough to take me back to my own college days, but during my time there, I had neither the money nor the sobriety to make it out of the apartment with any frequency.

     While I will gladly confess an appreciation for the twenty-year-old eye candy that dotted the crowd, I also must admit that the most fun I had pre-show was scanning the audience to determine what drug had been used, and then, identifying the moment said drug kicked in (you know what I’m talking about, dancing blonde girl in the front row).  How do I know said girl was on something?  Easy.  She was dancing to the horrible opening act.  No.  I take that back.  The comparison there is insulting to horrible opening acts everywhere.  I could have made better music with a Bic lighter and a flatulent octogenarian.  The lead singer/guitarist tuned his guitar before, during, and after each song, but sadly, he never got it right.

     As the show wore on (after Robert Randolph relieved us of the misery of the opening act), my age began to rear its ugly head and I was forced to sit.  My view of the stage blocked by throngs of younger people, I started my people watching again, scanning the crowd in case someone fell, or got punched, or something else really funny.  I caught the cute little brunette behind me looking at me and I smiled, then turned to the stage again so as the lower my creepiness factor.  A moment later, there was a tap on my shoulder.  It’s the cute little brunette.

     “Do you like the show?”  She yelled.

     I nodded.

     “I like your ‘do!”  She said, pointing at my head.

     (In her defense, I have a mohawk, not some $8 SuperCuts left to right comb over.)

     Now let me tell you a little something about myself.  My inability to discern when a woman is flirting with me is the stuff of legends.  Even now, I’m usually two to three weeks removed from the situation before it dawns on me.  This is, unfortunately, a huge leap from my high school days, where one girl flirted with me two years.  I found this out a year after graduation, and it still hadn’t occurred to me that she was the slightest bit interested.  I bring this up, because the cute little brunette did what almost all women I’ve ever dated have had to do.  Be obvious beyond all belief.

     “You’re hot!”  She said.  (It’s dark, remember, and I’m fairly certain she’s been drinking.)

     As all-encompassing as my inability to recognize flirting is, it is nothing when compared to my inability to effectively respond to flirting.  My attempts come off with all the charm and aplomb as the Canadian National Anthem being recited by an inbred, stuttering, fork tongued Gibbon.  Who has Tourette’s.

     I smile like an idiot and turn back to the stage.  All in all, the smoothest I’ve ever been.

     It’s now that my imagination takes over and sends me to a place where I’m single, and not incompetent with women.  And then I start to feel sorry for her.  Cute brunette girl and I stay out drinking after the show, only to end up at her place.  The next morning, she’s sober and the sun’s out.  She wakes to find her clothes a crumpled mess on the floor, and beside her lay another crumpled mess – an out-of-shape, middle-aged white man intermittently snoring and mumbling about 401k’s and high-fiber cereal.  Poor little brunette girl has to sneak out of her own apartment and hide in the bushes across the street until I regain consciousness and stumble out, confused and shirtless, the mid-day sun glaring off my soft, white underbelly.  Her friends, justifiably, tease her mercilessly until she is forced to transfer to a school up north.

     Sorry cute brunette girl.  If it helps, you made my night. 

Grumpy

What the fuck is up with all the black history month....  There is not a white history month and the Mexicans only get a day, and further more there is not even a day for the Indians or the Llamas or the Chinese and they out number us all.

Anyway I got called racist for saying this and I think that they are flat out stupid.  Equality is what we as a country asked for not the
fact that if you are black or a woman you are one up for a job, or that one is dedicated a month and others a day or nothing at all.
What happened to their call for equality.  Did it die when they thought that they could get to be one up on all us?

Anyway label me a racist.  Or tell me how it is fair.

Dear Unsigned,

Gee.  So look, uh.  Wow.

Huh.

Well.

Oh, here's something.  I'm certainly not gonna label you a racist.  I don't believe in labeling people, it only serves to demean an individual and trample on their rights as...ha ha.  Sorry.  I thought I could do it.  I love judging and labeling.  People need it.  It's true.  Follow the logic.  I am people.  I need to judge and label.  Therefore, people need to (be) judge(ed) and label(ed).  (By me.)

Slow month.  You get your rant published.

Hope that helps,

Grumpy