Sunday, January 11, 2015

The Shirt Bong

Photo Credit: Robert Altman
A swirl of fake fog slithers over the stage, lit by glowing blue lights. Under the cover of twinkly  dimness, Future Islands trots out and the crowd goes wild. We’re at Terminal 5, and our view is top notch from where we stand leaning against the balcony railing. Beside me, I hear Tom begin squeaking.

The squeaking does not concern me. I’m more fascinated by the lead singer’s dance moves. The man is a powerful dirigible. It would be something to get him into a cage with Shia LaBeouf for an interpretive dance-off.

 Meanwhile, Tom executes a set of eight little jiggles. Then he tells me he’s getting woozy and his chest hair might be a bit crisper than it was when we arrived.

Finally I notice the people sitting between Tom’s legs. They come to my attention mostly because they lit up a bowl three feet under my nose. 

I think these people, the ones comfortably curled between Tom’s legs smoking pot, crawled down there in search of the view. Of the stage. Presumably it is unobstructed from where they are nestled. Tom talks at some length about the pot smoke going right up his shirt and drying out his chest hair.

(Also, I'm in love with the bass player. )
Post a Comment