Further Adventures In Dorkdom

I have got to be the only musician who actually believes a show is going to start at 9:30 when it’s advertised as starting at 9:30.

I went down to an open mic tonight, which I had seen started at 9:30. I decided to take the El since I wasn’t entirely sure I’d be able to find a parking space, so I left at about 8:15, since it generally takes forever to get to the Fullerton stop from where I am (the Dempster stop on the Purple line, i.e. way, way north of there).

I actually sprinted to make the train, and I don’t think I’ve run that fast in years (I’m somewhat heavyset…OK, that’s a lie almost as fat as I am). I actually managed to get the train to wait while I hauled it up the stairs, and plunked down, hyperventilating badly but satisfied that I’d be on time to my precious open mic.

I got to the bar that it’s at right around 9pm, expecting pre-drinking to be getting underway. I looked in and it was dark. I wandered in, since the door was open, and there were a grand total of three people: the host of the open mic, the bartender, and a friend of both of theirs.

I took their suggestion when they said I should go to the burrito place down the street (which advertises “Burritos as big as your head!” and are not kidding) even though I had already eaten. I ended up eating two (very good) quesedillas and reading two issues from my massive pile of back issues of Newsweek.

When I got back around quarter to ten, there were a few more people there, and no progress. I sat down and had a couple of beers and tried writing for a while, and it was 10:30 before the host actually got around to starting. It would have been fine if:

a) I had driven and didn’t have to worry about making the last purple line back to my house

b) I didn’t have to get up at 6:30 in the morning

c) I had actually played somewhere in the last year

d) I had managed to actually convince one of my friends (21 or older, natch) to come with me.

Alas, none of these criteria were met, and I was kind of pissed for a bit. But then I got on stage, busted a string, sang Janis Joplin’s “Mercedes-Benz,” and all was well with the universe.

Then again, it might have been the beer.

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