Sticks and stones
2004 05 02
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One of my best friends is a DJ for a local rock radio station. On occasion, she has to go to clubs and do contests and judge things and be a presence and all the things a reasonably well-known person must do when schmoozing is involved. This evening was one such, and I went along with her. It was one of those battle of the bands deals - and the bands were reasonably okay, even the one guy who sounded like he'd been gargling motor oil and sucking razor blades; even the Christcore band - who were, in fact, the best musicians out of the bunch.
All in all, a typical rock evening in a bar in a town that's in the middle of nowhere that one reaches by driving highways that have no lights and are the sort of places Stephen King writes novels about. The van parked by the side of the road under an underpass, with no lights, did nothing to dispell the Castle Rock aura. You, Mr. Van Owner, were surely doing something that the police make episodes of Crime Stoppers about.
All in all a typical evening, except for the guy who believed it was his duty to share with the entire bar the fact that he was wearing silver lame underwear - and he shared this little bit of personal info by dropping his pants and showing them to us.