at one point we took a weird left and ended up at this punk-rock bar. i use the term "punk rock" loosely as there were a bunch of like purple haired, lip pierced grunge monsters walking around all surly, but after unanimously identifying themselves and their aesthetic as "punk rock" open mic night, these kids got up and started playing sister hazel. im not kidding. like dc 101 in 1998. i was expecting at least a little rank and stank but these kids were raised on a diet of green day and pink. they didn't know chip from dale.
things were getting bleaker in new brunswick. i tried my hand at the fucking family guy-themed pinball machine. lost my laundry quarters. it's close to 2 so the bar is closing, open-mic night nearing it's emo end. "one more act" they announce, lo and behold it's jimmy the bartender, he chugs a little bud lite and throws the dish towel to the bar back. he's a little nervous and i would be too - this man has to play what, some emotional tunes and then head back to crack skulls and herd all these dummies out the door?
jimmy and 2 other dudes step up to the mic - jimmy's on drums, there's a bass and one electric. so far so good. and suddenly. jimmy.is.wailing. drum rolls, pops, scrubulous, magnificent. i wish i remembered what like classic rock led-floydian jam they were banging out, i was busy spilling beer all over my melted face. jimmy got the lead out. after 6 ecstatic minutes they were done, immediately done, pulling plugs and strings and jimmy just leaps up and heads back to the bar. that's it? i ask, ungrateful as a mule. that's it, jimmy says, but you can come back tomorrow for like, vampire karaoke.
no jimmy, i will never come back. but fuck, jimmy, thanks for giving us a show.
good things are everywhere
