After retiring from the grind that was a busy band, to start the year, I have been gigging infrequently, this year. My right middle finger doth protest, but I digress.
July 3, Lake Pleasant Marina; it was a nice hired-gun gig, with a fireworks display in the middle of it. The g/f was along, and doing copious photography, since the guys in the band all know to give her their mobile phones, for that purpose. Mine was untouched, but her phone has a treasure trove; check the CAS thread, later on.
It's the final number, just after midnight, and the dance floor is packed. A group of young hotties "adopted" my g/f for dancing, and it had been a good friendship, for the prior 2 hours. Suddenly, some young meathead is getting very handsy, as he tries to dance with my girl. Her body language is telling me the wrong things, then she made eye-contact with me.
My G&L "eye-gouger" headstock found the crack of his ass, and I leaned into it, all without missing a beat or note. It knocked him a few feet forward, but my girl saw the thrust coming, and slid out of the way. As he arose, the other girls all interposed, allowing me to return to the performance area (mind you, I was tethered; no wireless; just my trusty 25" Monster Bass cable to my pedalboard, which allows me a wide range of movement). I mouthed a "come at me bro," which he did, as soon as we ended. By this time, a bouncer was aware.
The punk came at me, and said that, where he was from (Boston), what I did would not fly. My response was to ask if he knew who else was from Boston.
Silence.
I continued: "Emily Post was from Boston, and you would do well to find out about her. She wrote the book on etiquette, but I can see that her successor might need to include a new chapter for millennial meatheads about not playing grab-ass with the bassist's girl."
That had the desired effect, as I had aware bandmates, a bouncer, and a bass ready to weaponize again. Dude tried to come in swinging, and the bouncer swooped in from nowhere. "I coulda handled it" was my thought, and the look on my face, as I met the bouncer's gaze, but he had a better idea. Within a minute, the punk was in cuffs. He's lucky. I would have made him bleed.
The name of my sunburst JB-2 is Cecil, and there was certainly a "help Cecil help" moment. People of a certain age should get a chuckle out of that.
July 3, Lake Pleasant Marina; it was a nice hired-gun gig, with a fireworks display in the middle of it. The g/f was along, and doing copious photography, since the guys in the band all know to give her their mobile phones, for that purpose. Mine was untouched, but her phone has a treasure trove; check the CAS thread, later on.
It's the final number, just after midnight, and the dance floor is packed. A group of young hotties "adopted" my g/f for dancing, and it had been a good friendship, for the prior 2 hours. Suddenly, some young meathead is getting very handsy, as he tries to dance with my girl. Her body language is telling me the wrong things, then she made eye-contact with me.
My G&L "eye-gouger" headstock found the crack of his ass, and I leaned into it, all without missing a beat or note. It knocked him a few feet forward, but my girl saw the thrust coming, and slid out of the way. As he arose, the other girls all interposed, allowing me to return to the performance area (mind you, I was tethered; no wireless; just my trusty 25" Monster Bass cable to my pedalboard, which allows me a wide range of movement). I mouthed a "come at me bro," which he did, as soon as we ended. By this time, a bouncer was aware.
The punk came at me, and said that, where he was from (Boston), what I did would not fly. My response was to ask if he knew who else was from Boston.
Silence.
I continued: "Emily Post was from Boston, and you would do well to find out about her. She wrote the book on etiquette, but I can see that her successor might need to include a new chapter for millennial meatheads about not playing grab-ass with the bassist's girl."
That had the desired effect, as I had aware bandmates, a bouncer, and a bass ready to weaponize again. Dude tried to come in swinging, and the bouncer swooped in from nowhere. "I coulda handled it" was my thought, and the look on my face, as I met the bouncer's gaze, but he had a better idea. Within a minute, the punk was in cuffs. He's lucky. I would have made him bleed.
The name of my sunburst JB-2 is Cecil, and there was certainly a "help Cecil help" moment. People of a certain age should get a chuckle out of that.
A bass enema, thats got to be uncomfortable.
