I went to The Blind Pig this weekend to hear a band. Unexpectedly, I had to confront two of my greatest fears.
The Blind Pig, if I haven’t mentioned it before, is a smallish bar on the northeast edge of downtown Ann Arbor. There’s a raised platform at one end used as a stage, a bar for drinks, and an area to one side that is two steps up from the floor, offering a slightly better view of the stage.
I met my friend (I’ll call him “Brian”), and we took up a position in the raised area. He pointed out that we’d been there, in roughly that exact spot, 35 years ago to see Sleepy LeBeef1. I had to take his word for it.
In fact, about nine months ago, that long-ago trip to The Blind Pig came up in conversation with my other friend (we’ll call him “Stu”) but neither of us could conjure who who we’d seen there.
One of my greatest fears is to forget. I’ve been pushing to write things down for the past forty years, trying to come up with a great story that will make me a “success,” whatever the hell that means these days, and I know some of the best stuff from my youth is fading. Things I thought were important at the time. Things I would never forget.
No, that trip to The Blind Pig 35 years ago was not a life changing event, a flashbulb moment that I’d never forget. It was just going to a bar to hear a band. I have the memory of going there with Brian and Stu but the event itself was lost to me.
So what else am I forgetting?
It’s a Human Thing
Forgetting, along with forgiving, is how we stay together as a society. If we all held grudges things would get ugly. We’d eventually annoy each other so much that we couldn’t get anything done together.
You can’t disregard illegal behavior and pretend everything is fine when someone is a full-out selfish asshole. But at some point, like once justice has been served and restitution paid, you have to move forward. So it’s not necessarily bad to forget some things.
My other friend (I’ll call him “Jay”) can recite the batting averages for the 1986 Mets, and can tell a convincing rendition of every single Jets game for the past thirty years. The Mets part I get; that was a fine team. But the Jets?
On the other hand, I’m a Browns fan, and I’m haunted by “Red Right 88,” the play that cost them a trip to the Super Bowl in 1981. I wish I could forget that one.
The Scary Pockets
We were at The Blind Pig to see a group called Scary Pockets. They’re a cover band who does funk versions of popular songs. They’re a hoot and a half, and I’d gotten into them during the pandemic, watching YouTube videos of them. I’ve since added two of their songs to my funeral playlist.
The bar was crowded during the warmup band, and our little group of four adults had carved out a space on that raised area. But by the time Scary Pockets got going, the crowed pushed forward and we were packed in tight, with just a few inches separating us.
The couple standing directly behind me brought their baby to the show. At first, it was a hoot, this little kid wearing over-the-ear muffs and marveling at the strange noises.
As we packed in tighter, the cute little kid couldn’t help but kick me in the kidneys as her mom moved with the groove of the music.
I thought, “Okay, we’re all in this together and there’s going to be body contact.” I was never bothered that much by pressing together in subways or in Turkish bath houses, so I’m not going to start being bothered now.
But as the funk kept funking, and we all moved and twitched, the kid was kneeing me in the ribs. At some point, I’d put an empty beer can in each of my back pockets (no where else to go with them) and the kid started stepping on the cans, pulling my pants down.
Again, I’m a good sport, but I was being pushed forward with no where else to go. After ten minutes of this, I braced myself and held my position. Having played hockey in my youth, I still know how to be a presence in the slot2 and gave no more room.
The mom holding the kid shouted at me, “Stop leaning back into my baby.”
And here we are at my other greatest fear. Despite playing hockey and being generally obnoxious, I don’t like direct confrontation. I want everyone to be happy, but when they’re being an asshole I hope someone else sets them straight. Without turning to look at the couple with the baby, I shouted back, “I’m not.”
Pretty lame on my part, but the tension eased.
The kid went back to kicking me in the kidneys instead of kneeing me in the ribs. A few more songs into the set, the cute little family left our space. Maybe they went home, maybe they went downstairs to nurse by the dart boards and pool tables. I guess I’ll never know.
But I probably won’t forget that one.
Meanwhile, at My Writing Desk…
The new novel has been sent to beta readers to provide me some feedback. That was a relief, and I’m scrambling to catch up on other stuff.
Maybe You’d Like
I’m joining in with some crime authors for a giveaway called the Crime, Detectives & Noir Giveaway. It’s one of the most diverse set of covers I’ve seen, yet.
https://storyoriginapp.com/to/mTpPXK8
Next Picayune
Thanks for reading the Mickey Picayune. I’ll be back in a couple of weeks with a story about my upcoming Moth GrandSLAM event.
All the best,
Mickey
Notes:
- If you want to see what Sleepy LeBeef was all about, here are two fine songs that might brighten your day: Polk Salad Annie & Good Rockin’ Boogie
- “That’s what he said.”