Totes Rando

One might describe the performance on Thursday night as “simply genius.” A show this extravagant will often be misinterpreted or misunderstood, but there was something visceral about what was witnessed that night. The rhythm and effortless manner in which every aspect was performed should be renowned by all, present or not. For those who were foolish enough to be absent, please accept this humble ATTEMPT at using words to describe what was missed:

I walked through the doors at approximately 9:00pm, about half an hour before the band was scheduled to take the stage. The rush of warm air and scent of beer invigorated my dormant appetite for an evening of music and laughter. Following behind me was my trophy girlfriend and her cousin, who was visiting from out of town and would later serve as jester to my King’s court. The waitresses and barkeep seemed to acknowledge my presence immediately - perhaps a “servant instinct” could explain how they knew to bring me a Guinness without me saying a word. And for some unexplained reason every man I walked by raised his open palm for me to slap five as I passed.

The first table I saw was filled with a group of women who all hushed their conversation as I neared. They all chanted in unison, “Hi Mike,” and took turns kissing my cheek. I couldn’t for the life of me remember their names. It’s likely that I had graced their company with my presence before, but at that moment it also occurred to me - maybe not?

Right before I could answer any question about myself some old acquaintances stepped in between me and the table, leaving the ladies with nothing but a wall of backs to admire. After greeting all the gentlemen there was a short debate as to whether my handshake would more often be described as smooth or firm. I assured everyone that, “it’s firm - the illusion of smoothness comes from my perfect skin texture.” I exhibited my hand, which only half of the gentlemen would look at. The other half gulped uncomfortably and looked elsewhere, possibly in fear that some suppressed homosexual desire would show its little head in public. If it results in them offering to buy me a drink (which it did), then I say, “why not?” But before anyone could get to the bar, a waitress who had apparently been watching the level of my drink like a hawk had substituted my empty glass with a fresh Guinness. The switch was so smooth that I probably wouldn’t even have noticed, but as I raised my nigh empty glass it was mysteriously filled to the brim. There was a little heart drawn on the foamy head instead of a shamrock.

My sleeve was gently tugged and I was informed that there was a seat in the back room waiting for me. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, opening a clear lane for me to walk through. Despite the four or five people encompassing the table in hopes that a seat would open up, the entire party rose and offered their stools to my trophy girlfriend and I. I strategically chose a seat that would provide me with the best view of the stage while keeping me in the best possible lighting. A woman that my girlfriend invited, and whom I hadn’t yet introduced myself brought me a glass of red wine. Despite the obvious implications (and subsequent jealousy that arose in my girlfriend), I accepted, drank it down in one gulp and handed the empty glass back. This was followed by some light conversation, none of which is worth mentioning save my comic witticisms, which garnered cheering and applause that would be unrivaled for the rest of the evening.

When the band arrived, each member shook my smooth/firm hand and personally thanked me for coming. As they began to test their instruments the room quickly filled. After their first song, which was dedicated to me, the singer approached the microphone and said, “Thanks everyone for coming. We’re Alyward Sarno Silva.” A few scattered claps braised the crowd. And it was at this exact moment that my night had officially hit its glorious crescendo; a moment that confirmed the depth of my influence and stature. Someone tucked away in a dark corner of the room waited for the perfect silence and shouted with the utmost sincerity, “A.S.S.!!!” The crowd was whipped into a frenzy of laughter and applause. It took me a moment to recognize the significance of what had just happened, but when I did it felt like a white light had poured down from heaven and warmed every cell in my body: “A.S.S.” was a nickname I had used for the band once in passing, long before this night took place.

The night continued - music was played, friends were made and drinks were had. I look on to those who weren’t there with a feeling of pity more than anything else, which is ironically how I felt about everyone who was there.

As for the music? eh…