Good, good, show June 3rd in Portland. I hadn't seen anything like that since the 80's.
I had a little too much rot-gut whisky, maybe, behaved a bit depraved. Smuggled a flask in and tied it up in the sleeve of my sweater, so when I drank from it, I probably looked like I was snorting my sweater sleeve. Great.
Friends asked why I was rubbing my side the next day. I told them it was muscle weakness from my kidney donation a few years ago. Then I realized I'd actually pulled muscles in my side dancing like a deranged troglodite the night before, but I wouldn't admit it.
My good friend Connie asked if I could still whistle, the next day. I could, but it hurt; my lips were swollen and raw from being pressed against my teeth with my fingers. Years ago, Connie got mad at me for whistling so loud in the bar when our friends' band played. This time, she had egged me on.
And we screamed. I didn't think I could scream like that, honestly. Being deaf from the music might have had something to do with it. The next day, my voice was thrashed, squeeky and raspy, like a pubescent boy.
Connie says she took about 400 pictures and will give me a CD. Still waiting.
After the show, Connie wanted to wait out back by the busses for the band to come out. She's young and sweet that way; she wouldn't listen to my argument about the staff riding in busses and the band taking cars or the service elevator to their rooms in the hotel next door. I waited with her until she was tired enough to go get some food.
We were both satiated and happy that night. The next day was also filled with good feelings and many day dreams.
It was a good show.