The Bad Touch and The Spirit of Evan Dando*

Eventually we all reach an age where there is no reasonable explanation to offer a cop as to why we feel the need to be drinking in an alley behind a bar, and when we are similarly too old to be thrown out of a show for sneaking in corn whiskey inside an emptied out bottle of Nestea Cool.  I surpassed that age some time ago, so I was determined to finish drinking my ½ mickey of Fireball Whiskey** before arriving at the Horseshoe for the Cuff the Duke show.  However, I also had reservations re the idea of downing a ½ mickey of anything while alone in my apartment, so I was also resolved to do my drinking (I guess I should say pre-drinking) while en route to the bar. 

I had my first taste after transferring the Fireball into the aforementioned Nestea bottle (following which I had a sudden urge to change into a bra and underwear in a beige-pink hue, so as to match my wrist brace***).  My second and third sips occurred when I stopped for a moment on the front steps of Broadview Gospel Hall (the fact that it would also be very hard to explain to anyone why I was drinking on the steps of an evangelist church having eluded me).  I finished the rest while on the streetcar, pacing myself by drinking only when stops were announced. 

On an unrelated note, Sara has started to show just enough that strange people feel it’s appropriate to approach her and start rubbing and poking at her abdomen without asking permission – a perfect example of what will hereafter be known as the bad touch.  Another form the bad touch occurs when some guy on the subway uses the crowded conditions as an excuse to press his erect penis into the back of your leg.  Or when you’re in a gym locker room and a naked lady passes by you more closely than necessary, and you can feel some part of her body brushing against yours, but you aren’t sure which part.  It makes it much worse if said lady proceeds to dry herself off on the opposite side of the room and you know with certainty that she is staring at you as you struggle to get a sports bra over your head.  In summary, the bad touch can be most easily defined as the invasion of personal space – in which case I suggest that pregnancy is the most extreme of all bad touches – because can there be anything more invasive than having someone literally inside you?  I think not****.

In any event, I also find that trying to stand and watch a show in a crowded bar leaves you vulnerable to the bad touch, which brings us back to Fireball Whiskey.  I understand completely that at a full venue it is often impossible to avoid brushing against people when trying to get to the bar, or to a place where you can see better, etc.  But that doesn’t mean that things like courtesy have been suspended.  It’s just as easy to push past someone and say “sorry” as you’re going by as it is not.  Frustrated by the repeated bad touches, emboldened by the Fireball, and possibly possessed by the Spirit of Evan Dando, I spent a portion of the show positioning myself so as to accidentally trip selected people as they tried to push me out of their way (for the record, I permitted the even half-heartedly apologetic to pass by unharmed). 

Sara ended her evening by throwing up a little into a lowball glass and running out into the street.  Consequences of going to a show with a pregnant lady.

*Chris nearly got into a fist fight with Evan Dando at the Horseshoe one night after Evan played a show that lasted about 40 minutes and largely involved him playing recorded music from a ghetto blaster into the microphone.  Chris may have loudly exclaimed something like “That’s bullshit, it wasn’t even a full set!”; Evan may have countered with something like “No man, it was totally legit”; Chris may have insisted that it wasn’t; Evan may have insisted that it was; and so on until Evan stormed off the stage (I think with a mature exchange of accusations something like, “you’re an asshole” – “no man, you’re an asshole”).  The Spirit of Evan Dando has since been a phenomenon occurring at every show at the Horseshoe Tavern, when at least one person from the crowd is overcome by the urge to be kind of a dick.

**Imagine melting a quantity of cinnamon hearts and transferring the liquid into a shot glass and you will understand the essence of Fireball Whisky.  For flavour and viscosity, I can’t in good conscience recommend it as a drink of choice to anyone.  If it’s not flavour you’re looking for, then I can’t deny that it gives you the desired head start on getting all fucked up, and accordingly I recommend it to anyone who doesn’t mind announcing to their friends that they just drank a ½ mickey of corn whisky on the streetcar.  I expect I am too old for that that sort of statement, but such is the price that I pay for drinking for two.

***It takes a certain kind of person to severely sprain their wrist while sleeping.  There’s no cool story involved.  Unless you think it’s really cool for someone to sprain their wrist while sleeping.  Grrr.

****okay, okay.  Rape.  I said it.