(Only at a DMB concert could you record the very end of a song and it be 4 minutes long. Listen, and you can hear our mouth instruments.)
Present:
Patrick asked me from the kitchen bar window, peering over the counter at me as I was ripping into my Whataburger double meat patty-melt like I hadn't eaten in days, "What did you think was more fun? Tonight, or the Greek Theater?"
Patrick asked me from the kitchen bar window, peering over the counter at me as I was ripping into my Whataburger double meat patty-melt like I hadn't eaten in days, "What did you think was more fun? Tonight, or the Greek Theater?"
"That's a trick question, sir. They are both my favorites for different reasons."
"I agree."
Flash Back:
Being a Warehouse member as it's perks. We scored raffle tickets to a concert we will never forget, at an amazing amphitheater, during a unforgettable time in our lives.
I actually extended my travel nursing contract in Beverly Hills for the exact purpose of being able to go to a Dave Matthews concert at the Greek Theater in Griffith Park. We lived in the heart of Hollywood at Sunset and Vine, just a couple of miles from the venue, and thought it would be a genius idea to ride our bikes to the concert.
No drinking and driving. Just drinking and bike riding. I didn't think things completely through.
The trip there was completely up hill. We peddled hard and despite the perfect weather sweated even harder, but once we arrived, our faces showed nothing but smiles. We locked our bikes to a couple of trees, and found a small tailgate party.
Everything about the concert was fantastic, the outdoor venue small enough for every seat to feel close, with beautiful trees towering up each side, and steep enough bleacher seats to not need to strain over other peoples heads, nestled in the famous hills of the stars.
Everything about the concert was fantastic, the outdoor venue small enough for every seat to feel close, with beautiful trees towering up each side, and steep enough bleacher seats to not need to strain over other peoples heads, nestled in the famous hills of the stars.
We sang our hearts out, played our mouth instruments to the band jamming sessions, celebrated the Jazz Flute guest musician (pretending it was Ron Burgandy), all while I replenished my dehydrated body with the vodka Patrick snuck in, mixed with coke. Eventually my dancing started to get a little lopsided. And my lopsided, I mean I fell over, but Patrick and I assured the security guard that I was just a clumsy dancer, and he believed us enough to let me stay.
When the best concert of my life came to a close, I spent the walk back to our bikes convincing Patrick that I was completely competent enough to cruise a pair of rolling wheels downhill towards home. I didn't even have to pedal, how hard could it be to hold my handle bars in a desired direction? Besides, I hate it when someone tells me I'm not capable.
He gave me confining orders to the sidewalk, fearing I may commit accidental suicide in the chaotic post concert traffic, and I entertained him to calm his worries. Everything was dandy, the cool night wind caressing my carefree face as I relived the concert through my fresh memories, until we reached the road dressed with unfriendly sidewalks, bare of smooth gradual ramps for the handicapped or wheel bound. No, instead every few yards presented an obstacle I haven't tackled since I was a young Evil Kenevil tom boy of a child. Curbs.
Back in day, I never would have thought twice about jumping a curb, or an unsteady, poorly built ramp for that matter. In present days, I'd think long enough to find a smarter way around such hurdles. In my current described condition, I only thought shallow headed enough to prove that I could do anything I wanted.
I held my breath, allowed my body to recall memory suppressed skills from it's former years, and jumped the curb. "I did it!" I thought, "That wasn't so bad. I wasn't so hard. Why would I ever be scared of a little curb?"
I continued this, exponentially gaining more confidence with each accomplishment, until something unexpected happened. "Happy Happy Sad," we call it.
I still don't know if this curb was just that much taller, the area not as well illuminated by the street lights, if I got tired and my body failed me, or if I was just too drunk to use proper depth judgement, but the result would still be the same: I ate concrete.
I wonder what that looked like to Patrick, watching me fly over my handlebars and land face first into the hard manmade ground.
I jumped up fairly quickly, eager to hop back on and pretend like nothing happened. But my bike wouldn't work. I started to get angry as Patrick appeared by my side to the rescue. I brushed off his help and tried to get on again, but something wasn't right.
"You're chain popped off your bike, you bent your front wheel, and you have a flat tire. ARE YOU OKAY?," he said, ignoring my stubbornness.
I grabbed the front of my broken contraption of a bike, jerking it from his hands, and stormed towards home, marching as fast I my legs would carry me for the next mile and a half. I've been told I aggressively shoved my way through an entire outdoor bar full of people, with no regards to courtesy, yelling out, "Excuse me," without giving them anytime time to flee from my path. I avoided Patrick at all costs, including doing circles around a light poll while waiting on a crosswalk signal, just so I could keep my back to him while he pleaded to know why I was mad. When we made it home, I took a shower, went straight to bed and slammed the bedroom door in his face without saying a word.
6am came really fast. As I reluctantly arose to my alarm clock, and the groggy haze started to wear off, I noticed my face felt strangely tight. When I looked in the mirror while brushing my teeth, I discovered my chin had grown 5 sizes overnight, and was painted with black and purple tiedye. Only it wasn't paint, it was definitely bruises, and I had to show my face at work, to then come home to a husband that probably had yet to forgive me for my bad behavior from the previous night. Oops.
A lot of explaining and kiss-assing later, I still had my battle wounds to rat on my mistakes. Even a year down the road, I had a lingering sore knot on my chin, convincing me I must have fractured my mandible that night, but I'll never forget how much fun we had before "my big oopsie".
And to this day, we always laugh together about how dumb I was, and wonder how I didn't lose a tooth or do more bodily damage than I did.
I guess I really do have an amazing guardian angel.
We must always remember, "Stay Calm, Be Friendly."
I guess I really do have an amazing guardian angel.
We must always remember, "Stay Calm, Be Friendly."
What's your most ridiculous "oopsie" story?
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