went to a rock show and got drunk and felt powerful and later that night, after the lights came up and no one but the groupies were left, I blathered on to my friends about how we were alive and we had to grab the world with both fists. These are the things I say when I'm drunk and excited. I talk about doing things with both fists. Punch the world's teeth in, claw at the earth, smoke two cigarettes at once. It's like some routine I'm honing, only I can never quite remember it the next morning, when I am twisting in bed, regretting things.
But wait. I was going to tell you about the music. The band's name is Li'l Cap'n Travis, and they've played around Austin for years, a twangy, guitar-friendly, hook-heavy, cute-lead-singer type of band that I've heard called (so clever) "y'allternative."
They're popular, too, so all these good-looking twentysomethings cram into the quirky bar, the bar famous because they filmed part of "Dazed and Confused" outside and because there is a statue of an elephant on the stage. The bar where you bring your own liquor and the set-ups cost $2.75. The bar where it doesn't make sense to just drink Coke for the night, so you might as well get good'n'ripped and enjoy the music, which is what I do, alternating between the beers and the liquor bottles at our table.
"Are you having a good time?"my girlfriend yells at me, her hand on my shoulder. This is the point in the evening when we touch everyone unneccessarily.
I nod. "They're great!"
"I wish I were a music rep. I wanna sign these guys!"
I place my hand on her knee. "I wanna marry these guys!"
I keep seeing people I know. There's the guy who wrote for me at the paper. There's the girl from my college acting troupe. There's the guy I went on that blind date with once. People I know, people I'd like to know. I can't stop staring at the guy in the suit. Not so much because he's cute, although he is cute, but because he is wearing this business suit, with a striped tie and a gray jacket, and he has this great rumpled hair and shy smile. I could love him. Could I love him?
I am smoking like I had some goal in mind. I am smoking like there's a reward at the end of the pack. Suck-wait-exhale-repeat. Just a few more cigarettes and you're finished! I don't really like smoking, that's the insane part. But I like that it gives me something to do. I like the motion, the activity, the passion I throw into it. "Hey, I'm not just smoking for myself. I'm smoking for mankind." I pour myself another drink.
A few couples dance up front, near the band. In the corner, a guy swings a bottle of whiskey. Has anybody mentioned how there are so many good-looking girls in the world? Girls in the black tank tops and the Wonder Bras, in the cool leather jacket and the sloppy, calculated hair. Where do they come from, these natural beauties, slim and pink-cheeked and smiling? My God. Onstage, the lead singer is singing his sad funny song. "I gave her my heart and she gave me a whuppin, woo-wuh-woo." Only that's not what he sings, it's a kind of lame imitation of what I remember him singing, since I don't remember many specifics beside that pretty late into all this, the bassist (I think) sings a Beach Boys tune that finally gets everyone swaying their hips.
"They're great," my friend says.
"They're amazing," I say.
"I want you to write about this show," my friend says. "That's my request for your website."
"I'll do it," I say, pounding both fists on the table.
And so I do.