Last night, I went to the Harmony Bar with my friend Sherry and her BF Tyler to watch my old country band, DRIVEWAY THRIFTDWELLERS, perform. It was a good show, although I was led to believe it was a CD release party for the band, which proved untrue. Deborah despises country music and any genre within two or three degrees of separation from it, so she did not attend as a consequence of that and also of having spent the day at some sort of Kentucky Derby related gala that tired her out. I can respect, even if I don't quite understand, Deborah's disdain for country music, because I have an irrational hatred myself for the genre known as folk music. I can't give you any objective metric for why I cringe at the sound of folk music other than a quantifiable feeling of pity for the human race that it must sometimes be subjected to this travesty. Some people claim to like folk music, but in my mind that is akin to when sub-Saharan African girls say they like genital mutilation. They may subscribe to the cultural tradition, but it is still morally reprehensible and wrong. See how irrational that sounds? Yet it accurately describes my feelings toward folk music. Not explainable, but absolutely true.
In any case, we watched a couple sets of the show before heading home. At that point, I was fairly spent myself from an action packed day of social bike riding in southeast Wisconsin. The three of us had congregated at Sherry's at 8 AM that morning to carpool in my car with our bikes to Dousman WI, where we joined about 60 other cyclists for a 28 mile round trip ride to the Glacial Drumlin trailhead in Waukesha WI. There, we feasted on Mexican food and drink. We didn't get back to Madison until about 5 PM and my futile attempt at a power nap was forestalled by Deborah's return home and some subsequent socializing with her family (to wit, her parents had returned from their winter hiatus in Florida and we went over to their house to welcome them home).
As we pulled out of the parking lot of the music venue in Tyler's car, we saw a commotion on the sidewalk in front of the establishment. A pitifully intoxicated woman, covered in her own regurgitate, was collapsed in the gutter struggling and failing to regain her feet as her comrades futily attempted to assist her. Notwithstanding this bit of pathos, the day had been fantastically enjoyable and I was thankful that the inebriation fueled drama happening outside the car was happening to someone else. Is that cold? I don't know. But that is a consequence of having one of the strictest drama free policies in the world. If more people exercised strict prohibitions on drama, the world would be a better place, generally speaking.