On Friday night, I had a gig on Long Island with a band that I occasionally sing backup for. Believe it or not, a bar in the middle of Long Island is not the hip social mecca you might expect. No really. Anyway, the opening band was a group of late-30s dudes, trying to sound like Fountains of Wayne or something, called Joe Lies*. I immediately wondered how many late-30s local suburban pop-rock bands in America are named Joe Lies. There have to be like a few hundred, right? What better way to say “hey ladies of mid-to-late childbearing years, we’re nice, semi-artistic guys who live within a mile of our moms and totally get you.”
Following our set was a screamy, off-key metal band, complete with skinny, homely, mini-skirted, fishnet and spiked-heel ankle-booties-wearing groupie, taking pictures of the band and dancing suggestively with her fat friend. It was so 1983 Long Island Aerosmith video audition I couldn’t even believe it. I mean, I’m sure my half-assed white girl pseudo-funk choreography didn’t win me any stalkers either, but at least I was fully aware of that at all times.
Also, I had a dream last night that Batman was being chased down a steep mountain by a doppelganger in khaki bermuda shorts and a gaggle of 13 year-old boys on bikes ominously demanding their two dollars. Not to ignore the blogging taboo on recounting your dreams, but it was kind of amazing how literally my subconscious took the fact that my weekend consisted of watching Justice League, reading a J. Crew catalog and making observations about references to John Cusack movies.
*If you don’t instantly understand this reference, you are not in the target demographic for the inane quip herein. I will try to better meet your needs next time.