Calling Clinton and Stacey

Last week was a rough one. A couple of highs — Nick Lowe and Ron Sexsmith at Variety Playhouse, dinner with Favorite Boy — but most of it was soul-sucking minutes dealing with car problems and work blandness and crap. What better way to close those 168 suck-ass hours than hitting a concert?

And so I went with Scrivener to see Tapes ‘n’ Tapes. Drained and limp, I donned the most comfortable clothes I could grab: faded jeans and Avias, R.E.M. T-shirt over a longsleeved white one. Popped the lenses, put on my glasses, slung my orange Nepalese messenger bag over my shoulder, and I was off to The Earl.

Ready to groove … casually

The opening act was White Denim, a garage band from Austin. Scrivener and I kept trying to guess the age of the bass player — who looked like the bastard child of Mike Mills and my friend Renae. If he was twenty, I want the name of his moisturizer.

Tapes ‘n’ Tapes hit the stage around 11:20, and I hit the bar. While ordering my cocktail of choice (bottled water; did I mention it was a rough week?), a guy grabbed my arm and told me he loved our opening set. When I looked at him quizzically, he said, “Aren’t you the bass player?”

Um, no. I have two decades and two tits on the bass player.

Mama’s right, I guess. I need to wear lipstick whenever I go out.

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