A new standard for performers

It was a fab-o weekend. I mostly did a whole lotta nuthin' - watching football, reading, hangin' with my parents, eating good food and doing a little shopping. It was relaxing. I did go on one outing, though. Saturday night, I went to dinner at Threadgill's with friends and we watched one of my favorite bands, Mingo Fishtrap. Those guys are the greatest! Angela is the true devotee, but she's turned me into one. Miiiiiiingo.

Normally, I'm happy with both aspects of that night - Threadgill's and Mingo. But the service at Threadgill's on Saturday night was atrocious. I think the blame rests squarely on our waitresses' shoulders. I think she forgot to put in our order, because it took a full hour for us to get our food after we ordered, and other tables were not suffering this fate. That was bad enough, but she never apologized or offered any recompense, and when we asked her about our food at the 45-minute mark, she didn't say she'd check on it and then come back and give us an update; she just said she'd "bring it out as soon as it's ready." Well, duh. We figured THAT. We didn't figure it was just sitting there in the kitchen taking up space. She was pleasant enough in her tone - not surly or anything - but an hour wait is unacceptable. If we hadn't been trying to get out to see Mingo, I would've said something to the manager.

Mingo was, as always, awesome! And the venue was great. The stage set-up is in a courtyard outside the restaurant, and they have it set up as a lawn with a plastic chairs and stuff, like these guys have just come to your backyard to entertain you...except that there's green grass in this yard! I actually took my shoes off and let the soft green blades caress my tootsies. I don't remember the last time I felt real, living grass under my feet, what with everything being burnt into hay here. It was bliss. And at the end of the show, cutie patootie lead singer Roger Blevins Jr. achieved a new level of professionalism. The man redefined the phrase, "The show must go on." I'm not kidding.

Roger is up there, the band is playing, he's periodically commenting or singing into the microphone while continuing to strum on the guitar, and I see him kind of pluck at his shirt a couple of times, near the collarbone, but it doesn't really register. Then the trumpet player (or maybe the sax player - I don't remember) tells the audience that a wasp has flown into Roger's shirt! No shit! The thing is still IN his shirt...stinging him! It obviously stung him around the collarbone - I could tell from the way he was touching his shoulder. But then the damn thing moved down, stinging him again on the chest! You could see a blood spot. And Roger just kept going!!

He made reference to it a few times as we all stared in horrified fascination, saying things like, "This is the most uncomfortable I've ever been in my life" and "Aren't these things supposed to die after they sting you?" But the man kept playing. We were yelling at him to take off the shirt (okay, yes, that would've been pleasant for other reasons, but honestly, if it had been me, my shirt would've been on the floor about two seconds after Mr. Bee made his divebomb under my collar. And you wouldn't have needed the horn player to tell you what was happening. The screaming, flailing and pleas for Benadryl would've told you all you needed to know.), but no. The most he did was step to the side once and shake his shirttail to try to dislodge the little monster. He played through at least 3 more songs, did his PAs for the next night's show and finished a final little riff to wrap up the show, then tore off his guitar and WALKED (as opposed to the frantic running I would've been doing) to the bathroom, where presumably, he finally took off his damn shirt.

We visited the restroom before leaving and saw some wench who MUST have been drunk open the men's room door and shove a plastic cup toward him which she informed him was filled with tobacco which he should put on the stings. He thanked her politely, and I have to assume threw the nasty concoction in the trash. Who the hell knows where the tobacco came from - someone's mouth perhaps. Yeah, wouldn't be touching my body. Thanks, lady.

(Two final notes. I'm very sad about Steve Irwin getting killed this weekend. He was quite a guy and getting killed by a stingray like that is a freak thing. The world is a little darker today without his light. And to the two UT football players who got arrested this weekend: You're idiots. And thanks alot - the team really needs this crap this week. Way to go.)