Monday, January 05, 2009

Real Nightmares

They are not about monsters chasing you, or villains cutting you. They're not about falling, or even dying, because they are so fantastical, that you know right away that they are not real.

The ones that hurt the most are the ones that are subtle and get into your head. They convince us that something we really wanted was ours and was real. Then, they continue to play out until they become part of us. Right when we are sure that we are not asleep, that "this is not a dream," we wake up. In those first few minutes, we are left to our own devices to sort out was real and what was better.

We are forced to give up something that meant so much to us; something that was, for a time, both never there and truly ours.

Thursday, November 13, 2008


Today, while driving up a busy street, someone on the left was in the center island area, so I let them into the lane. While I did that, someone from a side street on the right also went. Fine. BUT, someone behind them ran their stop sign, because they did not feel like waiting for the next opening, and being the 3rd car, had to push in front of my vehicle. When they came to a stop, not only did I see a "BABY ON BOARD" sign, (and yes, it's in all capitals, for extra guilt) but I saw the actual car seat and actual baby.

With both Mom and Dad in front, I stuck my head out the window and yelled, "AND THE SIGN EVEN SAYS 'BABY ON BOARD.'" Dad, not only turned from the passenger seat to give me a dirty look, but removed his "shades" for impact. When they turned right, I yelled, "GOOD LUCK, BABY."

Cause, he's gonna need it.

And seriously, I don't need a sign to remind me to drive safely. Either I am or I'm not, and I do. Driving "baby safe" should be like "hate crime." There's "safe" and there's "criminal."

If you have ever driven in a school zone, one of the most selfish zones in America, you'd see that the sign needs to be turned inward.

Sunday, August 31, 2008


A few weeks ago, I played in a band that appears at the bullfights in Tijuana, Mexico. I had a very peculiar incident down there, so I wanted to share it with other musicians, and hear your thoughts about it. After my initial writing of this experience, I’ll share some responses from some of my friends, and friends of theirs.

At this point, the only people that I know are the trumpet player and a trombone player from my band back in the states. Sheets of music are handed out and collected one piece at a time. When the first piece is left on my stand, I am still warming up. So, even before my first song, a clarinet player comes up to me and says,

“This note here, it is one and three,” and demonstrates the fingering.

Now, the note he is pointing to is a D in the staff. Since he is a clarinet player, so obviously misguided, I feel comfortable saying,

“Uh, ... no. That’s open.”

“We play it one.”

Now, as you will soon be able to tell by my descriptions if you have not been able to discern already, I am NOT very knowledgable on my music theory. There is also the language barrier to consider, but I DO speak Tuba, and I know a D when I see one. (I had hoped.) At that point, I decide that this guy is nuckin futz, and decide to speak the same language.

“When I see that note on the paper, I play TOOT and to play TOOT I have to either play it open, or one and two. If I play one, TOOT or one and three TOOT, I get that note, the note below the one you are pointing to,” and I’m tooting away, so he can hear what I believe I am supposed to hear when I see the D on paper.”

“We do it differently here.”

Do it differently? There is no “differently.” Music is supposed to be universal. At this point, I am torn between stealing the “There is no crying in baseball” routine from Tom Hanks, and panicing because I have fallen down Alice’s rabbithole into a tuba hell. To console myself, I think that maybe the language barrier is still in effect, because the older tuba player keeps telling me to play it up. Also, since I rode with somebody else, and four hours to kill, what do I have to lose by beating my head against a musical brickwall? I am going to just listen across, and hear what I am supposed to hear, and in turn, be rescued from The Twilight Zone.

To my left, is the older guy, and to my right, is a younger guy. We play the first song, and sure enough, they’re playing every note two half steps down. In addition to having to transpose, the other two players played most of the music an octave down, intermittantly mixing in the proper octave, which played even more havoc with my chances of following along. After the first song, I felt tricked and abandoned. The music was fantastic, but I could only play some of it. If you have ever gone to a friend’s rehearsal, and could only listen and not play, then you understand some of my frustration.

At this point, the clarinet player approached me again, and said, “We play it two half-steps down because your horn has three valves, and so does the trumpet. So, we write it with the trumpet and the clairnet. In America, your part is written along side the string bass. Doesn’t that make more sense this way?”

Fortunately, I am so frustrated and caught off guard, that I cannot be snake charmed. I told him, “Right now, I’m not going to argue which system is best. Right now, I really want my system. It’s the one I know.” I found it very very strange that he would state that their way was the one true way, but also argue in its defense. Very suspicious,indeed.

He takes off, and the young player tells me, “In America, it’s different. This is how it is done in Mexico. Most of the world does it this way. America is about the only one that plays it like that.”

All I can think about is how I know people and I cannot wait to get back home and have this checked out. I just could not imagine that after all these years, that I was playing some sort of Secret American Tubage. I went to my trombone and trumpet friends, and said, “Hey, is your sheet music the same here as in America?”

“They’re not playing what’s written?”

“No, they’re taking two half steps off of each note.”

“No way! That’s bullshit.”

“Well, they’re playing the notes that fit the song. Somebody just wrote everything up two half steps on paper.”

So, I go back to my corner, thinking thinking thinking. Something had to be up, because they can’t just screw with one part. I could see if it was written from the view of another instrument entirely, but two half steps down? Music is math. It is a formula ranging from soprano to bass, and you can’t just relocate something because it suits you. I do not know why the rules are there, but I do know they exist, and need to be followed. Similar to a recipe, but stricter.

Oh, and in case things get too easy, most of the music was two sharps. We brass players LUUUUVVVV sharps. Did I mention that there was only one sheet of music for two sousaphone players and one tuba player to share? Did I mention that there were songs that the other sections had sheet music for, but the tubas had in their head? It was killing me. I was feeling very “intermediate band.” In spite of all that, every once in a while, I would get a part down, and let everyone know I had it.

At the break, I needed help. I saw beer, and as every good tuba player knows, beer = help. I should not have moved. On my way back, this VERY drunk man gets ahold of me, and starts joking on how the white boy stands out. Without warning, he switches to his wife that just recently died, how he did not have much longer, and how I was a young pup. Crikey, I was busy hating everybody and everything, and I have to have a conversation! I had two hands. Why didn’t I have two beers? That second beer could have gotten me into the conversation. Finally, the next song was starting, and I got to run away.

As we start playing, I notice that what I consider to be an Eb, they consider it to be an E. My Bb, is their B. Then, two things hit me. One, they had written a bass clef part, but adjusted it to a trumpet’s rules. I was reading some sort of bass trumpet part. Two, that there would be no immediate resolution of this problem. That my only way out was the other side.

From time to time, maybe once every other piece, I would get a section down, and go at it. Unfortunately, it was never an entire song, so I could never really relax.

Next break, next puzzle piece. The older tuba player showed me a newspaper clipping of himself playing in that very same band in 1978. (Mexico had button fly collars. Seems that we have some cultural apologizing to do, too.) At this point, the group moved into the arena, and took our seats to play for the bulls. Over the next six hours, I struggled to understand an hammer out a theory as to what was going on musically. My friends kept saying, “They’re not playing what’s written. That’s crazy,” and I would have to go back and explain that yes, they were playing what was written, AND they were playing the notes that fit with the rest of the music. It was just their sheet music that was off.

What I really struggled was for an analogy that would put it in perspective for other musicians, and even non-musicians alike. This is what I came up with. If you and I spoke English, and I said, “How are you?” I would say it in English, you would hear it in English, and we would both agree on what that phrase meant. Then, you wrote down “Glerble blah, maw maw,” and read that as “How are you?” You and I could talk to each other (as I did in toots earlier) but we could not write to each other. This would be the case whenever I played with this band at the bullfights.

Here is my final guestimate as to why I was seeing what I was seeing. Long long long time ago, it was probably the same director that scored these pieces. His knowledge of trumpet scripture was much more advanced than his knowledge of bass scripture. To me, it would take a much more educated man to come up with a bass trumpet part than to learn a bass clef part, but that seems to be what happened. Since it is a mathematical system consistent within itself, it works. As for the reasons why everyone around me was acting like Stepford wives, at that time the music was written out, the clarinet player, at a young age, was convinced of the logic of this way of writing music, and took it as THEE way. He himself, became a music teacher and taught his students to think this way. One of these students was the young tuba player, who currently has graduated.

Tuba Conspiracy.

Like I said before, this is only a guess, since nobody would give me a straight story. All of you Star Trek fans will understand the line, “You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile.” That is exactly what it felt like.

Now, had someone been straight with me, I probably could have relaxed, and accepted the situation for what it was. Like I said before, it is my horn, and I love it. I have been playing it for twenty years now, and if someone is going to tell me that I have been in the dark for two decades, I am going to, as you can see, investigate the situation very seriously.

I would like to make one last point, as a musician, and as an American. WE are originally from everyplace else. We brought our concept of musicianship to the new country from Europe. At the time, up until jazz, playing like people did in Europe was considered the ideal. It was the way to be “truly sophisticated.” So, you cannot tell me that we kept every aspect of music the same except the concept of writing the tuba’s part from the standpoint of the three valve instrument, while no other instrument’s part was dicked with whatsoever. Either all the parts evolved, or it all remained constant.

Anyway, if anyone can help me with this, I would be interested in listening. As I stated earlier, I am far from being a music major. I only became an amateur Sherlock Horns to get answers.

Have I missed something this big all my musical life?

response from friend

OK. Checked with my firends, my tuba specialists, AND my "Mexican Connections". Obviously, tubas read bass clef in every country including
Mexico. Come on.....certainly you've played your share of German Polkas. What clef were they in? If you want to prove it to the guy, just get online and order a piece of tuba music from a Mexican company in Mexico to be delivered to a Mexican Tuba player in Mexico. It will not come in treble clef. therefore, if Mexican music comes in bass clef for Mexican players your point has been proven.

Most of my friends chuckled when I told them your story, but one of the Mexican teachers (who actually teaches down in TJ also) actually got angry. He was angry because this guy was making all of
Mexico look bad. He asked me to tell you that not all of Mexico is like that. It's like when we got those two-for-one beers from that resturant. (Two beers for one guy, not two beers for the price of one.) Also, TJ doesn't not have music teachers in the public schools. (They can hardly afford teachers) He's problably just volunteering his time or working like a marching coach would at an American high school. Anyway, all of my friends agreed.........if he truly is serious, don't be too hard on him. He's doing the best he can with what little education he's recieved, and since very few tuba players grow up to be professionals, at least he's bringing joy to some kids life for a little while. Because in Mexico most of their playing is by ear anyhow. He's probably just trying to save face in front of his students.

Next time charge you friend a lot more beer for the performance.

Tuba case closed.

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Monday, August 18, 2008

Ashley Is A Derby Girl

(and doesn’t even know it)

She loves hissing cockroaches, and frogs with colored bellies… as pets, not for breakfast.

Creative beyond her years, she graduated long before she left the fourth grade.

She takes guitar lessons, but made a cardboard guitar so she could be in an air band with her best friend… who plays the cardboard drums.

Ashley does not listen to music.

She broke her arm trying to combine the scooter and the roller skate.

She only eats foods that are white. (Cauliflower, vanilla protein shakes, and… uh…)

Ashley did not like the Wild Cherry M&M’s I gave her, “But we ate them anyway.” (This will translate into “team spirit” in a matter of years, if it has not already.)

She invented Elvis Tag. Once you are tagged, you can unfreeze yourself by doing finger guns, and saying, “Hey, beh-beh,” by way of an Elvis impersonation. (At her current age, she will let you “unfreeze” yourself. Once she starts skating, tags are for keeps. Possible skater names for Ashley: Tagged Out, Put Down-Stay Down, Elvis Upside Your Head, You’re It!)

*she says the boys didn’t get it*

She once cleaned a toilet with her bare hands. No, she did not use her bare hands to move a scrub brush. Her hand WAS the scrub brush.

On our last day together, we debated who would miss whom more. (I let her win.)

The Ashley Show happens 24 hours a day, and if they televised it that is exactly how much I would watch it.

Ashley is a derby girl, and doesn’t even know it…


Monday, August 04, 2008

Roller Derby Announcing: My Introduction

First response to question: A&E's Rollergirls
Second response to question: A&E's Rollergirls
Third response to question: A&E's Rollergirls
Fourth response to question: A&E's Rollergirls

So, I had finished watching the A&E series, "Rollergirls" only a couple of month previous, when I saw an ad for a bout for the San Diego Derby Dolls. Even when I watched the series, I only watched it because I thought it would be a train wreck. Being that it was an A&E series, I thought it would be marks above the usual crap staring your average celebrity-craving attention whore. (Geez, they'll make a reality series about anything.) I still underestimated the series.

Even though I enjoyed the series, the sport itself did not really interest me. The MTV-style jumping camera shots works against what is most exciting about the sport. Still, I wanted to go once, just for something different. Besides, how long were they going to last?

So, I went. And... I LOVED IT. I loved it more than I could have ever guessed. I am not a sports fan, so this feeling of being a fan was strange to me. Almost overwhelming. My first thought was that people had no idea how great this sport is.

Soon after that, there were ads on MySpace for announcers. My improv group had just collapsed, and I was looking for that next step. The ad had several requirements; keeping it a family show, being able to talk for an hour, able to project, etc, etc. I had done all of those things separately, but never all at once.

Plus, I was not a sports fan. Zero announcing experience. Nope. Not for me. Too bad. Would have liked to been involved.

A second ad came out. Then, I started thinking about it. It is a new sport. They cannot expect the announcers to be experienced when even the players were not. At that point, I thought I'd go and try out, and leave it up to the team whether I was qualified or not.

Still didn't go.

It was something new, and uncertainly had me always coming up with things to do other than get in contact with this group.

Around that time, Aunt Flo posted a birthday party at The Zombie Lounge. I went, and started talking to Kiki Diazz. I told her all the reasons why I did not think that I could do it, and she encouraged me, saying that they had "professional" announcers that were very flat and condescending toward the entire experience, and that they would much prefer someone that loved the sport.

So, I sent an e mail asking how I try out. Nobody responded. Kiki asked how everything was going. I told her, "I don't know." She would go shake them. I showed up. I was told by Jonny and Jazz that there would be a try out. That never happened. Here I am.

Kiki, if a group of black and white masked bandits take you out back for a beating, you truly have my sincerest apologies.

Monday, July 28, 2008


After Saturday night’s incredible upset, San Diego was skating in an unexpected Sunday bout. To go up against the Lonestar Rollergirls, thee TXRD, reputation as well as experience would lead you to believe that San Diego would have their heads handed to them. This situation threatened to play out similar to The Charger’s first time to The Super Bowl. “We’re here. Now what”? The reality was that many of the players that made them famous had either retired, or were injured, so the team that San Diego faced was newer, and as history would show, within reach.

On Sunday, hours before the bout, San Diego would take the track. Coach Isabelle Ringer led her team through some drills to warm up. The night before, this team proved that they were ready to compete on a national level on the banked track as well as flat track; the only improvements needed were minor adjustments. After San Diego completed warm ups, Isabelle discussed penalty-avoiding strategies, and the team went on to practice those. Minutes later, ReferIan and Coach Ringer came together to go over the particular rules and regulations of this bout. This tournament combined banked and flat track rules, so it was important not to fall into flat track habits when they were playing on a banked track.

At 2:35, from the backs of the arena, a skater from another team shoots to the edge of the track, and asks about the procedure for getting in some warm-up time. Since no other teams had shown up until then, that San Diego made use of the available track until the next team arrived. From where I was seated, going by the ladies’ tone, the two seemed to be having a nice-off. Was that through clenched teeth, because that would soon change.

As the final San Diego skaters rolled out of the front of the arena and made their way to the dressing rooms, more than one of them made eye contact with me and gave me a facetious “your eyes on them” gesture. At that moment, I imagined Willy Wonka-esque security approaching me, demanding to know, “What are you doing here? This is a restricted area,” in that authoritarian tone. While moving my hand to cover the SDDD logo on the front of my shirt, I would reply, “Who? Me”?

At 2:30, only three skaters from the other team had arrived to warm up on the track.

At 3:00, a couple of skaters asked the question the skaters warming up had asked about track times. Once again, they used a very cordial tone. Was it Opposite Day?

So, sitting in the snooty, above-it-all media area, an announcement comes over the speakers that Team Awesome had requested “private time” on the track, and asked that all skaters from other teams please leave the area (making the track an even snootier area than the Snooty Media Area).

While Team Awesome practiced their fouling technique, San Diego referee Skurvy Pirate passed on the arena floor below. I waved to him, but it was too late. His back was to me; I could tell, because I could see a reflection of myself waving to him. Upon closer inspection, I can see that he is on the phone, but he is not saying anything.

Must be talking to Ginny.

Here is the problem with the Snooty Media Area, as well as snooty areas in general. They are built to be above everybody and everything, and in turn, away from everybody and everything. Hours early because I rode up with one of our refs, Lexxx, I was getting restless. One thing I noticed while watching warm ups is how much more difficult it is to ninja jump over a body on a banked track versus a flat track.

Wait a minute, is Miss Fortune not skating? I can tell that she is not skating, because I can actually see her, instead of the blur that I had come to know as Miss Fortune. (Sure, normally you could blame my drinking, but in her particular case, the description “blur,” is accurate.) She appeared to be walking without a limp or physical indication of injury, but there is a difference between being capable to walk, and ready to skate in a bout (unless you mean, walking in New York City). If Miss Fortune was not skating in Team Awesome’s bout, that would be a big coo to the other team.

After two hours of pen-wiggling, Swig Whiskey, cameraman of the Los Angeles Derby Dolls joined me in Camp Snooty. We talked about how he first intended to become a referee (LA calls them “enforcers”), but the time commitment to both skating and learning the rules conflicted with his personal life. (Maybe he saw 3.0 coming on the horizon, and bailed.) His desire to be involved led him to doing the filming work for LADD. He reveled to me that “There is something about roller derby. If I knew that someone [a stranger] was involved with roller derby, I would trust them more than somebody who was not.” In absolute agreement, it has always been my opinion that the sport attracts a certain level of character. There is an article in one of the early issues of Blood And Thunder where the writer sold his belongings, including his company stock options, and spends the better part of the year traveling the country, and writing about different bouts from city to city. At the end of the article, he describes the roller derby community as incredible and outstanding, and states that his journey would have been much shorter, if not impossible without their care and generosity.

At this point, the bout between San Diego and that team nobody has ever heard of was about to begin. That means a different kind of notes, and a different post.

This is The Ill Reverend Mike, pausing to catch his breath.

(Sure, this might be near its expiration date, but when we got back, everybody was talking about LA.)


Friday, May 30, 2008

Punk Rock Drive-In

This past Sunday, I went up to Montclair, CA. to attend Punk Rock Drive-In, hosted by the Mission Tiki Drive-In. Being from San Diego, I know squat about where anything else is, because we don’t care. In geography tests in the southern California school system, there is Where You Are, and then there is everywhere else, called Doesn’t Matter.

That day, it mattered. The ad said that doors open at 4:45, and that bands kick off at 5:00. After a short dance with internet directions, I find out that it is a two-hour drive, but the webpage suggests to leave time for traffic. It is not like I have not driven to Los Angeles in the past. The difference being that this trip was, with the exception of a short stint on the 60 west, all on the 15 north. Unless you drive to Vegas, you really have no need for that much 15. As far as I was concerned, the 15 ended at some microbreweries in North County.

According to my math, the trip was two hours, the first band goes on at 5:00 PM, I needed to leave early to account for traffic; I’LL LEAVE AT 2:00! (Please, somebody stop me.) At the time, I suspected that it might have been a bit too early. I accepted the fact that it was my first time, and that there were choices I would make and actions I would commit on this trip that could have been better, but that I could only learn that through experience.

An aside, I was going alone and my LA map book was somewhere in my old car. I had wanted to go to Punk Rock Drive-In for about a year, but my old car needed to stay as close to home as possible, and nobody bit when I sent out inquiries. Now, bought a new car and I did not have to work the next day. I talked to one person, invited a couple I know that enjoys punk, but they never answered. Early in life, I figured out that for some things, if I ever wanted to experience them, I would have to go at it alone. I would just go, and after I knew what I was talking about, then they could figure out (at my expense) whether or not it was something that they would enjoy.

What Punk Rock Drive-In offers is two movies, but before that, two or three punk rock bands (they have a DJ for the in-between periods). What a genius use of a drive-in parking lot. There was a vendor selling her personally made jewelry, and a taco rig. There was a raffle sponsored by The Guitar Center Music Foundation, which is a charity that educates children in all aspects of music, from appreciation to application ( The best part, though, is that they had a burlesque act.

So, I arrive two hours and fifteen minutes later, and that is with two bathroom breaks on the way. It seems that we San Diegans, despite the distance, have a nice advantage of being able to avoid the 805, the 5, and all of the congested capillaries that branch off of them. It was a very smooth ride. Not one bit of traffic. The theatre is one road off of the 60 west. I think I was just outside of Riverside, to give the area a familiar name. I arrived in time for the ten or so cars to uh… drive in. I pull into line, and see that the guy up front is checking for orange wrist bands. Yep, they were the entertainment. I jumped the gun. Sir, please turn your car around for fifteen more minutes. Seeing that the site says that they let in at 4:45, I considered 4:30 a gift. More so since there was no place to line up, just a place for autos to huddle.

I had been to the drive-in as an adult, but it had been at least ten years since the last time. (What was that Robert De Niro/Billy Crystal comedy? The second one, yea.) As I follow the snakey road around, questions that I never had to think about start popping into my head. Now that I have a Santa Fe instead of a Geo Metro, do I have to park in back? Would it be better to park backward? I found a spot in the third row that let the screen take up half of my windshield so it was framed by an inch of glass. Chair reclined back, headrest in place, pillow to prop my head up within arms reach, cooler next to me. When I got out, I saw that my perfect spot required me to take up six inches of the space behind me, but leave six feet of parking space in front of me. Was some asshole going to show up five hours later, and demand that his car point nose-first toward the ground and that he needed those last six inches of space behind me? Because the hump in the blacktop that pointed you at the screen was in the center of the parking space, there was no way someone would use those last six inches. (No one has ever used my last six inches. There is just no point.)

The first band, devious public, started at 5:30, and I really enjoyed them. I almost never go to live shows. To me, there is little appeal to “watching” music. Clubs are always too warm. (I am bald. That is too much forehead to let sweat.) In addition, no matter where I stand, no matter how safe I feel, there is always some twit that wants to stand RIGHT NEXT to me, and then scoot after me, as I try to scoot away. Have you ever been a scoot chase? It sucks as much as it sounds. In hot purscoot? That’s not even a word. A scoot-by shooting? It does not exist, but necessity, as well as an asshole, is the motherfucker of invention. Today, outside the drive-in snack bar, in a parking lot with 20 cars, *exhale*…

There was room. (Someonestillcameandstoodrightnexttome. Scootscootscoot.)

At one point, I went back to my car to get exact change for the taco guy, and began writing this. I saw that there were all sorts of boundary offenders parked around me. There was one thing I could check off of the paranoia list. I went back, and bought the two-taco combo plate. The tacos (al carbon, carne asada, and chicken) were very well made, and they included a condiment bar. While I am at it, I want to mention the theatre itself. It was VERY clean. The bathroom smelled like bubble gum. More than bubble gum, it smelled like somebody had baked a dessert that was bubble gum flavored. Like bubble gum pudding. I think it had eight stalls, with doors. The snack bar was like a well-kept fast food restaurant, as opposed to what I am used to, a yellow, waxy old plastic and florescent lit cafeteria line. They had many tables inside and out for eating, and had a great Tiki motif. The food prices were much more reasonable than your walk-in theatre, and the collector cup came with two free refills.

I go back outside to catch the burlesque act. It was nice. There were four dancers, and they each did one dance. In the past, when I have watched burlesque, they had a theme, an act, a scene that they performed. I understand that they did not have a real stage, but I figure that they came all that way with their dressing trailer, we had time, why not? Still, it was a lot of fun, and they worked the crowd well. The first dancer did a feather fan dance, which I had always wanted to see live. I think my favorite thing about burlesque is the audience interaction, the way the performers play with audience reactions.

So, while we waited for the third band, ADHD, to go on, I heard someone in the band say “Don’t worry. We’re not in a rush.” I would say that, if you can, once it starts, to keep things going as well as you can. It was a little cool, and very windy. Some of the crowd might have been lost in the wait. On the other hand, because you are in your car close by, you know right when the next band starts. The second band was very entertaining. I am not very knowledgeable about punk rock, but I do know that it has great energy.

Another benefit to the drive-in parking lot is that you can stand as close or as far from the bands as you like. Unlike a club or bar, because you have limited space from which to work, with distance, you have your own volume control. You shape your own experience. Even if you went around the corner of the snack bar, the noise level reduced by half. There were families there with children as young as three.

A side note to douchebags: seeing that burlesque is a visual medium, and seeing that the picnic tables provided come with benches for sitting, GET OFF THE GOD DAMN TABLES. The ladies did not have a stage to work on; we were all on the same plane. I had to negotiate some “rebel” that could not be bothered to sit where sitting was supposed to occur. Oh, yea. This goes for the 6’6” douchebag that loved the band so much, that he had to stand in front, in the center, and film with his cell phone. Fucking YouTube nightmare! The fact that stork-man could have gotten the same exact shot on his ass as he did standing in my way. My last mention, not parked near me, but as I went to the bathroom, someone insisted on leaving their engine running during the entire movie. What? Were you short a hamster to run your FM radio? In whole, drive-in movie crowds are better, but wherever you go, some representative from typical society will not let you down.

After the third band finished, I tracked down the organizer. She told me that this is something she started as something to do in her off season for her clothing line. She breaks even, and the bands play for free, for the advertising. They understand that this is just starting up, and will take some time and investment to get off of the ground. She uses the drive in and bands to bring two different groups of people together that, on any given day, would not ever cross paths. She said that there are people that say they came for the movie, but found themselves enjoying the bands. Regarding vice versa, who does not like movies? Everybody, including myself, agrees that Punk Rock Drive-In is a lot of fun, and much better than we had anticipated. I told her that if she pushed the “15 freeway only” aspect of driving to San Diegans, that she might reach an untapped customer source. (San Diegans have the same nightmares about LA traffic that the rest of the country has about our traffic.)

I could review the movie, but it does not matter. The movie was “Indiana Jones, In Search of the Golden AARP.” I just like the idea that she can get brand new blockbusters for this event. Nobody is getting shortchanged here.

She even provides ear plugs for the children.

June 21st is the next showing. The movie is The Dark Knight. You see? She makes it easy to want to go.

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