This weekend I went to a club in Santa Ana to hear a rock band called Three Thirteen.
Half of you reading that sentence are thinking, “Yeah, so?”
Half of you reading this are saying, “Bullshit, you would never go to a club and certainly not all the way out in Santa Ana—prove it.” Ok… maybe more than half of you. I texted Pen, and she assumed my phone had been stolen. Danielle insisted that I tweet pictures immediately. I’m pretty sure the earth shifted on its axis. So, if you felt that, I probably caused it.
The easy explanation is that my friend B’s husband Randy is the lead singer and plays guitar in the band. It was the first time this particular band had ever played, and despite knowing them for years, I had never managed to get out and see him play when he was with other bands. Apparently, the key to getting me to do anything is to send me an invite text at the exact moment I’m feeling slightly adventurous. Also, I didn’t really know where Santa Ana was.
What can I say? I like to keep you people guessing.
Believe it or not, I had a lot of fun. I did hang out in the pit taking pictures (in order to dissuade strangers from talking to me, naturally) and stood in the section informally designated as “for older people who aren’t dressed for this club, and don’t know what to do.” This was opposed to the front portion by the stage where people were rocking out and appropriately eye-linered.
Is this a new club-going phase for me? Oh, sure. That’s a given. I plan on being out every night. I’ve hired a stylist, and I’m now ready for every occasion.
Most of the time, I’ll still be asleep by 9:00pm.
But the next time you see me tweeting: “I can’t hear you–I’m tweeting from a mosh pit” you should probably go with it.
Eagerly awaiting our foray into Club 1984 and roller disco!