It would make sense that after a gruelling week at work, a person would want to go home and unwind, perhaps with a bottle of Pinot Grigio or some other uppity foofoo swill. However, it seems I have a very different way of unwinding.
I am pleased to report that after putting in 52 hours in four days as a Pizza Slut last week, I was still able to rush home and make myself excessively presentable on Friday night in order to take my Rockstar out to see L.A. Guns perform.
It matters not that L.A. Guns first got together as a band when I was yet entertaining myself with My Little Pony and Sesame Street. It is true that my when thinking of the music of my youth, my reminiscing first goes to New Kids on the Block and Michael Jackson. That being said, this is one of those times when I wish that I were ten years older, so that I may properly recall fondly the days of 80’s hair bands in the style of my Rockstar and my much-older brother.
Because of their passion for all things 80’s rock, my brother and my Rockstar both have instilled in me the love of hair and heavy metal bands, shirtless lead singers, and heroin-hooked bass players who don’t necessarily recognize the groupies they banged back stage. While I don’t necessarily remember popping a top at a high school party to the high-pitched voice of Vince Neil singing Ten Seconds to Love, my ears perk up when tunes of such ilk make their way through the radio to my aural devices. Oh, to have such energy as Dee Snider when he announces the House of Hair on Sunday mornings. You certainly don’t see that sort of reaction when Ryan Seacrest mentions Justin Bieber’s Girlfriend song.
Anyhoo, I found out that L.A. Guns was coming to town, and I knew my Rockstar very much liked them, so I stated that we must go, no matter how tiring my work schedule has been. So I donned my new teal and purple heels, and off we went to the Red Carpet.
The Red Carpet is a historical nightclub in downtown St. Cloud that is best known to me as a magical money-sucking machine. As in, I will enter the front door with $100 and within four hours, have nothing to show for it except an excessive buzz and empty pockets. The decor is hideous and in need of an update; the stage is miniscule and hardly large enough to support a stack of Marshall amps; and the bartender girls are deliciously adorable and adept at taking dollars from your hands. It’s great.
Being set in a college town, the Red Carpet is usually filled with the over-educated and underpaid younglings of St. Cloud. Happily on Friday night, I was pleased to find that for the first time since I became of legal age, I was the youngest in a crowd of mullet-sporting, stuck-in-the-80’s group of people. With my Peach Schnapps and water in one hand, and my own middle-aged Rocker in the other, I prowled the many floors of the Red Carpet intent on scoping out any hot chics that were present and awaiting the arrival of the Guns.
By the time the show started, my Rockstar was sufficiently drunk enough that he could no longer hide the child-like enthusiasm he felt at being able to see a band from his youth. He rambled on about the demise of the band he’d put together in high school, and about how frustrated he was when they hadn’t wanted to rock out to L.A. Guns. I assured him that when we finally start our band, we will jam to whatever floats his boat. Then the show started.
One of the disappointing things about a band that’s been touring off and on for some 20 odd years is that generally not all the original members are usually present. This is not necessarily a huge issue, as long as the lead singer is still around. I can say with fair certainty that though I never witnessed L.A. Guns in their heyday, I believe that Phil Lewis (the lead singer) was the heart and soul of the band. Strutting around in his bedazzled un-buttoned shirt, his performance lacked nothing despite the fact that his younger and obviously much-prettier days were past. In my inebriated state, I even noticed that he most certainly was making eyes at me during The Ballad of Jayne. Too, I was amazed to see that he had the power to make every fan there scream in ecstasy just by yelling, “Hey! Hey! Hey! HEY!” and pumping his arm in the air.
As I walked precariously back to my car while berating myself for stupidly wearing gorgeous heels to a rock concert, I thought to myself, “I’ m so glad I didn’t decide to stay home and sleep.”
P.S. I also decided I need to become a Rockstar.
Sparklebumpsthebookwhore 