I've been depressed. I inadvertently deleted two of my favorite posts. A post on Patrick Kavenagh (which I found on google and re-posted above) and another I was working on that chronicled a trip to Israel. (I was was briefly suspected of being a terrorist at the airport). The post tied in nicely with the lost post Patrick Kavanagh and my IRA grandfather.) I was so mad that I decided never to blog again. I can never re-write the one on Israel. But I'll try, later.
I had agreed to attend a live concert with Evil on Friday night. Yes, we broke up. But I had promised. He took me to dinner at a restaurant suggesting it was the best in town, "The Orange County Mining Company". It's the kind of restaurant you'd remember (if you could remember that far back) that you visited on prom night. This restaurant featured the, always popular, decor of a mining shaft.
He ordered his New York Strip "well done". I gently advised, "you know, the chef is probably going to spit on it." "Huh?" he said with irritation. "They hate it when you ruin a perfectly good steak, that's all I'm sayin'". I was a waitress in college. If a chef was not sailing a saucepan over "the line" in a trajectory designed to make direct contact with my forehead (after requesting a steak "well done") he was spitting on it.
Later I realized, there was no "chef" at all. It was likely an affable immigrant merely supporting his wife and kids. I don't slam immigrants. I'm the daughter of immigrants. Further, I don't care how you got into the country. If it was too easy, we made it so for a reason.
We arrived at The Grove Theatre and took our seats in the 7th row.
The last concert I was at featured, I believe, the Jackson Five. Yes, it's been a while. This concert featured Lindsey Buckingham. The attendees would all me middle aged fans of Fleetwood Mac, like me so it would be a tame evening.
Seconds after the show began I noticed the distinct splitting of my right eardrum followed shortly by the cracking of the left. An invisible man was pelting, apparently with a sledge hammer, the rhythm of the base beat upon my chest leaving me gasping for air.
I plugged my ears for the duration so that I could hear the music. Otherwise, I heard nothing except pain. (Is pain a sound?) Evil Surfer Dude stood up, whistling and making a devil mark gesture with his hands which, evidently, communicated a silent message to Lindsey that he "understood the secret message" being communicated.
Later, a bearded man seated to my right offered me some drugs. He offered them in the same manner (extending the tin) that one offers Altoids to one's colleagues in a meeting.
I shook my head, "no thank you". As he pulled the tin away I noticed they were actually a small assortment of earplugs.
"Wait", I screamed. "I've changed my mind". He didn't hear me.
When the concert ended, Evil said; "You're not a rocker are you?".
"You're legally deaf, aren't you?" I replied.