Patchouli or Phlegm?

It's official. I'm old.

Last weekend, my friend Doug and I stepped out on the town. Doug managed to procure a pair of tickets for a stinky hippie show at Shea's Theatre. Phil Lesh & Friends dropped by with Chris Robinson, of Black Crowes fame. Now I've never been a fan of the Grateful Dead, but I attribute that fact to the fans more than the music.

I'm all for nostalgia, but personally I prefer to be nostalgic about an era in which I actually lived. I suppose that's why I hold "dead heads" in such disdain. There's such lack of originality in reminiscing and living out an era that died out twenty or so years before you were born. Granted, the 60's counter-culture is a bit more celebrated in the common consciousness we call Americana, but ultimately, what is it besides a bunch of college kids that became socially aware, did drugs and banged every skank from San Fransisco to New York? You could do that today, and you don't have to wear burlap and a tie-dye to do it.

We made our way through the crowd, past all the mesmerized, stoned dancers in the aisle, and found our seats inhabited by a few kids. Apparently they thought that the numbers on the row and seat were mere suggestions. Glossy-eyed, they were gracious enough to step aside. We managed to stay through two songs (granted, those two songs spanned 38 minutes) before Doug decided he'd had enough.

"Aaaaargh, I got patchouli on me. GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF!" Doug cried as we made our way out the door.

When we were leaving, the security guard told us, "Guys, if you leave, you can't get back in."

Promise?

Before we called it a night, we decided to stop in at the Town Ballroom to visit our friends Donny and Artie who work there.
Artie was in the lobby, so we chatted for a bit and popped our heads in to see the show. It was one of those god-awful new-metal/hardcore bands with one of those cleverly devised sentence fragments for a name. As I Lay Dying.... As you lay dying, WHAT, f*ckhead? Shit. If you even SAW the Grim Reaper coming towards you, I know you'd casually cross the street , pretending you don't see him.

As infinitely stupid as that band's name is, there's MORE. We were handed a flyer for an upcoming Holiday show featuring Every Time I Die, It Dies Today and Dead Hearts. Great timing... just at the height of suicide season.

As for the music, your run of the mill, unintelligible grunting over the dissonant crunch of hessian guitars. Throw in the stereotypical chubby bass player for good measure. The crowd seemed to enjoy it, judging by all the macho posturing in the "pit." Sweaty post-pubescents flailed their arms and pumped their fists wildly in approval. One boy strolled across the chaos and coughed up a visibly large loogie from the back of his throat and propelled it indiscriminately over the crowd. Very classy of you, Phlegmy Kilmister.

'Um, let's get out of here.'

On the way out, we saw one of the denizen of Testosterone Town come out of the bathroom wearing a hooded sweatshirt and a bandana across his face. I peered into his seedy little eyes, wondering if he fancied himself a suburban Zapatista or if he was a bit embarassed by a grill-full of acne.

In any case, I found myself wondering which was the lesser of the two evils: the stinky hippies or the suburban toy soldiers. Personally, I'm thinking the hippies. God. I can't believe I just said that. I think I'm going to ask my wife to grow armpit hairs and stop bathing. Growwwllll.