Slim Randles

When you have a teenage relative, and the minimum age is 21 to go to a rock concert, and this relative has to go to the concert or die. Seriously. Die. Because life isn’t worth living if she misses it. And, if someone under 21 can go to the concert only if an adult accompanies them. And … if the only adult who will listen to the begging and the crying and the gnashing of teeth happens to be a semi-old cowboy, well … say hello to Starving Chickens.

I figured, with a name like Starving Chickens, this band probably wouldn’t have the strength to do more than a few numbers before breaking for burgers and fries.

Well, that was just about as wrong a job of figuring as was the rest of my figuring. You see, I also figured the music wouldn’t really hurt your ears, because they would want it to be a pleasant experience. I also figured that with three electric guitars on the stage at one time, at least one guitar player would hit the right chords. Furthermore, I figured there would be some friendly banter between the group’s leader and the audience. You know, hi, how are you, having fun tonight? Now here’s one of our most-requested tunes, things like that.

The older I get, the wronger I get.

Oh, the head screamer of Starving Chickens (I call him Tattoo Boy) came out to say something to all the impressionable minds waiting for his droplets of wisdom, friendship, and gratitude for coughing up admission. He looked around and then told them to do something quite rude, as well as anatomically impossible.

This brought down the house.

Impressionable Teen looked up at me with the stars of the universe in her eyes and yelled, “Oh wow! Did you hear what he said? And he looked right at me when he said it!”

Then it was two hours of throbbing before we got better. When it was over we asked each other in sign language if we’d had fun. One thumbs up, one thumbs down.

Sometimes you have to work to stay current with what’s going on in life.

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