Last weekend was not the first time I got duped into listening to a jam band. This has happened several times before. I need to start asking important questions earlier, like “do their songs have words?” Inevitably I find out this information too late. The show didn’t even start until 2 am, which is pretty typical, I think. Jam bands and vampires share this in common.
Don’t get me wrong, I love to dance. It’s just that I’m not sure how to dance to jam bands. When we got there I spent some time observing a few mancers (man dancers) and from what I can tell, you stare at the ground, let your arms go limp and rock from front to back. But when my friend started twirling, I checked out.
That’s when the guy behind me with a partially-buttoned plaid shirt tapped me on the shoulder.
“Where you from?” He asked.
“New York.” Then without a moment’s hesitation, he asked, “What do you do?”
I do not understand guys from New York. Why do they all really want to know what I do so badly? It’s always the first question they ask me, and makes me think there’s some back room bingo game going on and when I answer, “I’m in marketing,” he’ll yell BINGO! That was the one I was waiting for!
Anyway, I’m sick of it. So I said, “I’m in a drum circle. It’s awesome, but overwhelming–so many parks, so little time…You?”
He was so happy I asked him what he did, he overlooked my response. “I work for the Evil Empire,” he said.
“You work in politics?”
“No, I work for Goldman Sachs. You may have heard of it,” he said smirking.
“Nope. We don’t use golden sacks in our drum circles. Mostly hemp.”
“No, I mean, I’m in banking. I’m here for a bachelor party. That’s my friend,” he said, pointing to a guy in a button-down shirt with a neck full of mardi gras beads. “We’re about to lose him to the other side.”
“He’s turning gay?”
“No, he’s getting married.”
“That’s cool,” I said, “I support gay marriage.”
And just like that, I started to twirl.
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