Look, I cannot push this important life-lesson enough, kids: never attend a free concert –- because you get what you pay for. And in this case, it was a crowded lounge in a ghetto casino with drunken frat kids everywhere. Tall, drunken frat kids. Obnoxious, rude, moronic, cheap-ass, tall, drunken frat kids. Everywhere. Ass to elbows, if you know what I mean (and not the fun way, either). The Reno Fire Marshall would not have been very impressed.
And then, it happened: the four members of A Flock Of Seagulls walked onstage.
They were very nonchalant.
Fat.
Middle-aged.
They wore parkas.
God-dammit, these were the same guys I had seen in the café earlier. To think, I could have met them. Talked to them. Ate unidentifiable food with them!
My anger at my own inability to distinguish one parka-donning fat-ass from another quickly disappeared when it became quite apparent that I could not breathe (it was that crowded). Nor could I differentiate one sound from another (it was that noisy).
Then the band started. And they sucked... big time.
It was obvious that these performers didn’t give a rat's ass about the whole gig. Hell, why should they have cared? It wasn’t like they were getting paid or anything! I guess the 300 plus kids that piled into a tiny lounge to see them must have done so by sheer accident alone.
At that point, I didn’t care anymore and I was ready to go up to my shoddy hotel room. Strangely enough, it was then that my lady-friend Danielle squeezed past me. She told that she and her posse were heading across the street to Vino’s, where it was Retro Saturday Night: it cost money to get in (which meant no cheap-ass frat kids) and there was a DJ.
She asked me to join.
I went. We danced. It was fun.
Thanks, Danielle.
Fuck you, A Flock Of Seagulls.
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