One night back in the 90s, when at the top of my game, I was playing darts with friends at a bar. I covered my eyes with one forearm, and threw three triple bulls while reciting this song. Very Zen archer-like, but applied to an electronic darts game!
Pity I never played for $.
I gave, and still give Primus all credit.
Hung out a few times with a friend of a friend who constantly stared at my chest. It was infuriating, and made me more than uncomfortable. I hated it when he was brought along by a friend we really liked, but, hey. I couldnāt tell our friend whom he could and couldnāt bring to concerts, etc.
Once I actually had warning that weād see him. The night before I saw him for what turned out to be the last time, I formulated a plan. I told my BF about his endless staring, and he got mad. Then I told him my idea, and he laughed, and said it was great.
When the guy showed up, he stared as usual, and I checked to see if my BF noticed. Oh, he noticed, allright! He was clenching his jaw and one fist.
I put my plan into action.
I STARED at the guy ā a couple inches below his belt buckle.
To my joy, he began to squirm, looking around nervously, putting his hands in his pockets and taking them back out; his hands shook, and his air of anxiety increased by the second. I caught my BFās eye, and he was stifling laughter.
I stared like that whenever he was standing up, the entire time he was there. His reactions remained the same.
I just hope he learned his lesson.
My BF (who lived in Brooklyn, NY at the time & had made a surprise visit) and his best friend appeared on my doorstep one evening, announcing they were taking me to see The Residents perform at a nearby venue! It was during their tour for Demons Dance Alone, which was released in 2002. I quickly got my act together, and off we went.
The show was incredible, of course. There was camo netting everywhere, the singer wore fatigues and a weird half mask. The other members of the group were swathed in such vasty heaps of sheer black material it became opaque, and they had black, gray, white, and silver tubular crin cyber braids
in varied configurations stickinā out the tops of their heads. Slits musta been cut in the fabric over their eyes; they each wore different strange goggles.
The only dancer I remember was in a devil costume, mask and makeup, like on the cover of the album
He was excellent.
I hadnāt heard the album, but the sound was so great I could easily make out the lyrics, and I was dancing my ass off. Far as I could tell, when Iād occasionally open my eyes, only one or two other audience members were dancing. I shook my head, sadly smiling. Dunno how anyone can just stand still when the music is soā¦moving - rhythmically, lyrically ā emotionally, but I was raised by a dancer.
There I was, about Ā¾ of the way thru the concert, still dancing like mad, eyes shut, transported, when there was a sudden tap on my shoulder. My eyes flew open, and I spun toward whoever it was, only to be met with the devilās face maybe three inches from mine! We locked eyes, and I grinned. Everyone around us was smiling and laughing, too. I immediately began dancing again, as did he. I closed my eyes again and we danced together for almost the rest of the song.
That was the night I danced with the devil in the pale moonlight.
Or pale stagelight, as my wag of a bassist BF had it one afternoon.
Thank you, Liebchen!
It was a very strange night. Many women tried to pick me up, including one who pressed and slid her entire body up against mine while I was trying to get a drink at the bar.
I do wish Iād said, āCouldnāt you have at least bought me dinner first?!ā So damn creepy.
At least three other women had tried, and I finally got a great idea. I went up to my BFās friend, and some other buddies of theirs weād met at the bar after the show, and said, āHere!ā as I rubbed a shoulder against their most convenient arms. āWomen keep tryinta pick me up, so Iām hoping it will rub off on you guys!ā
They loved and welcomed that.
I have two very good flat tire storiesā¦.no, threee! Here they are in chronological order:
During the late 80s, an often quite bitchy friend was driving us to his place on the East Side of Detroit when we got a flat. He quietly swore once as we got out of the car. He opened the trunk, got out the tools and the dibby dibby tire (an onomatopoeic Jamaican nickname for undersized spares), and set to work w/o another word. Though normally talkative, I also remained silent during the entire operation, not daring to risk one of his many dramatic meltdowns. I was amazed that he didnāt throw a screeching fit, and how efficiently and quickly he changed the tire. We easily made it to our destination. He didnāt even whine when telling his roommates, one of whom drove me back across town (also w/o complaint) when the time came.
During the mid-90s Mom and I were crossing Woodward Ave at Mack, which at the time was a much-potholed intersection. It was a bitter cold January evening. We hit something just the wrong way and a tire blew. Mom pulled over right after weād crossed the intersection, and turned off the car. As she was about to get out, the valet parking chap from the hoity toity music center (itās on the corner) appeared at her window. He told us he saw what had happened, and offered to change the tire! He even told us to stay in the car so we wouldnāt freeze, as mom popped the trunk. He began changing the tire, and apologized when he had to stop and park a customerās car. Mom told him there was no need for him to apologize for doing his actual job. The two of us discussed his tip when he was almost finished (he was V quick!), and I suggested $20. She said she was thinking $10; I pointed out how cold it was, he was so solicitous & kind as he rescued us, that there was all this traffic on the street, and how quickly he was changing it. She agreed, and insisted when he politely declined the offered tip.
[Ed. Note: This one is the longest, but it is also the best one.]
A month later, mom, her then-BF and I were driving from the airport in Montego Bay on Jamaicaās West Coast to the small place on the North Coast where we stayed. Mom had been warning him about the jagged edge of the road, but he would keep drifting over, and he hit the edge. We naturally got a flat. W/o a word I slid across the back seat & jumped out as mom bitched at him. I leaned in his window to hit the button to open the hatch, then began pulling out all our big heavy luggage so he could access the tools and spare. I was smiling, intuitively knowing everything would be fine. Only one suitcase was left when he joined me, and he was shocked that Iād done it at all, let alone so cheerfully & quickly. (My surprising upper body & arm strength back then was belied by my slight frame [those were the days!!!] and small stature.) Mom sat in the car and fumed for a few minutes, then got out so she could yell at him some more.
I walked a little ways and happily looked around at The Bush surrounding the road. An expensive all-inclusive hotelās expensive bus fulla mascots (tourists) drove by, a little more slowly than the other traffic. A woman inside it gave me a horrified stare, so my smile quickly melted and I gave her a horrified stare right back. I laughed once the bus had passed, knowing the woman was horrified by The Very Thought of getting a flat in a third world country; I was (and am) horrified by The Very Thought of being on a bus loaded with mascots on its way to an all-inclusive!
I walked into The Bush alongside the road to escape the road and momās yelling. I went a short way and found myself on a lovely rocky outcrop overlooking the bright green/blue/turquoise Caribbean, the road noise and mom all but silenced by the lush growth behind me. I breathed in the warmth, the sunshine, the breeze, the bliss - and winter left my bones. I went back to the road after a few minutes, and mom said sheād just been wondering where Iād gone. I smiled, took her hand, and silently led her down the road and into The Bush, ignoring her questions and complaints. When she saw the sea, she gasped at the beauty of the scene before her. All her anger left her, and I said, āYou know, of all the places to get a fucking flatā¦ā then added, "This sure beats hell outta Mack and Woodward!ā She laughed, and after a few enjoyable minutes we went back to the car.
A cop car pulled up and stopped behind us as we returned, and two gorgeous young men hopped out. One had on the uniform trousers but a polo shirt; the other wore a uniform shirt and a pair of his own shorts. The one in the shorts had a yo-yo. (I swear to God/dess Iām not making up any of this!) They greeted us, and immediately one of them took over from momās BF, and rapidly finished putting on the dibby dibby tire, as he called it. We laughed, loving the silly slang. He also hipped us to the much sillier term foo foo tire, which made us laugh even more. When he was done, we warmly thanked them for at least the tenth time. After asking, āWhich one of you is the boss?ā mom insisted on giving him a sort-of tip, and said their first post-work drinks were on her. 
Those are great stories!
I especially love the serendipity of finding such a beautiful spot you wouldnāt have otherwise discovered. (Oh, and the ādibby dibby tireā bit made me listen to Snow Informer again since thatās the last time I heard that phrase. 
)
Hereās my flat tire story:
After years of chatting online (first on AOL, then internet), I took a leap of faith and got on a Greyhound cross-country to meet this lady. After 1024 miles, 24 hours on buses, I finally arrived and she picked me up at the station, took me to her home and introduced me to her cats. We got along great right away.
Her daughter had been staying with her ex when I arrived (he had custody on the weekends). So at the end of the weekend we went to pick her daughter up. All the way there, she was super worried weād be late and her ex would bitch at her about it. That was all she could talk about, we canāt be late, because sheād been late before and it hadnāt gone well.
So of course we got a flat on the highway on the way there.
The next few minutes are a blur to me, but according to her, I jumped out as soon as we stopped on the side of the highway. Had the car jacked up, the lug nuts loosened, and was taking the wheel off by the time she had walked around the car. Got that tire changed like some kinda pit crew person. All I remember is someone else pulled over behind us so that weād have the light of their headlights to help.
Tire changed, we got there on time, picked up the then 13-year-old newly teenager who was really uncertain about me at first, but who now calls me Dad, and Iāve been married 20 years to the lovely lady whose tire I changed that night.
For context, Iāve never had a car myself. Luckily my dad taught me to change a tire when I was a kid, and it was just there like instinct when I needed it. In fact, that might be the only time Iāve ever changed a tire since my dad taught me.