I went to Emo's tonight, for the first and last time, on account that that place is an organizational disaster of unprecedented proportions, to which I wholeheartedly refuse to give any more money. Seriously, this place needs to be firebombed off the map, and I can only lament that I am far too mild-mannered a lady to be the gal for the job. I mean, the name alone should have been a warning, right?
If you want to make two lines that distinguish between ticket holders and non-ticket holders, fine. That's customary, right? If you want to rope the will-call folks in with one group or another (those who physically hold their tickets or those who need to purchase theirs), well, all right. But really, must this result in absolute bedlam?
Things that could be done to prevent complete chaos from ensuing from the decision to have two distinct lines at the front door:
1.) Uh, distinguish two distinct lines (I realize there's a curve for everything, but come on, people).
2.) Have signage to distinguish which line is which.
3.) Or have velvet ropes in place to accomplish same.
4.) Or, or, and this is me really going out on a limb here, have the monosyllabic troglodytes who man your doors (apparently there was a blue light special on lobotomies in town this week, and apparently having taken advantage of such is a prerequisite to man the front door of this august establishment) at least take a perfunctory stab at stringing together a coherent sentence (with multiple words and parts of speech and everything!), that is, like, audible to the masses swarming toward the doors, to the effect of which line is which.
But oh well! The bartenders are awesome, and Hank III puts on a damn good show, especially if you are properly drunk, which you needs must be to properly attend a Hank III show. Toward this end I imbibed three whiskey-and-cokes, and I am almost exclusively a beer and wine girl. Or really, since I will turn thirty-two this month, I guess I am a beer and wine WO-MAN.
Oh, to make your living bringing American myths to life for crowded bars!
And the sociological opportunities! After tonight I could write a doctoral thesis about homoerotic behavior among homophobes.
And since I am being nice and evil, I would like to issue the following PSA to guitarists who dangle cigarettes from their mouths whilst playing: uh, Slash did that. In the 1980s. If you really need a cigarette that badly, dude, it's time to go on the patch. And I say this as someone inclined to view cigarette smokers as the last freedom fighters in a society that is increasingly—and unnervingly—geared toward Morality Policing its citizenry within an inch of their free will. But, dude. Maybe when you're like older than five you can pull that off. Meanwhile you're attempting to inhabit something that you won't fit into for decades. Hard decades.
Believe it or not, I actually had a good time. A Hank III show tends to transport one to a deliciously haunted landscape of a distinctly American stripe. And it was really fun to see the man perform in Texas, which I suspect contains the core of his target audience.
And maybe if, upon my return to the soulless biosphere I inhabit (till July at least), I'd found a parking space within a mile of my apartment, this would be less of a screed. But hey, physical exertion is one of the only things that keeps me sane, so even that could be construed as a blessing.
So, I guess tonight was a mixed bag. I did what I set out to do, but alas did not successfully evade impersonating Linda Blair (THE SOW IS MINE!!!!).
Ah well, we'll call it a draw.
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