Coors-tastic

There's nothing like a great rock and roll show to break up the monotony of the work-week.

The New Pornographers performed tonight at the Henry Fonda Music Box, and it was stellar. This band has enough pep and pizzaz in them to last through the apocalypse, I tell you. Check them out, their first two albums are killer (I'm just getting used to the new release, give me a break...).

I have to admit that this isn't the blog I wanted to write tonight. I wanted to sit down after some hot lovin' and verbally expand upon my adoration for quickies. But, damn the concert, the kids were on fire tonight and it ran too long for HellCat to be sated in ways other than aural.

Now I find myself texting frantically, eating some vegetable chips from Trader Joe's, and nervously eyeing the clock.

I am a wreck when my nights don't end like I think they should. We've touched on this before.

But we're all adults here, so instead I am going to admit that sometimes, Coors can really add to your evening. Color me shocked, kids, and sign me up for the Afternoon Delight this weekend (and hey-no worries, darling heart of mine).

Anyway, one warm day in early summer a couple years ago, my man friend at the time and I were in search of foodstuffs before our film. I knew I was running low on gas, so I was going to stop at the next gas station on the next block. Unfortunately, I had gone too long and the car sputtered and died...right on the corner of Fairfax and Santa Monica.

For those of you living in a goddamn cave, that is a hugely busy intersection with lots of people driving through it at any given moment during the day. So you know.

I sat, defeated, and eventually cast a helpless glance at my boy.

"I have to get some gas," said I.

"Wait, let me get it for you! I will abscond with gas and save the day, mylady!" He didn't actually say the last part, but he might as well have, since that's what the result would be.

I sat there, flashers a-flashing, waving people around me. I eventually just started laughing uncontrollably in the ole Jetta, because what the hell else could I do? I got sworn at, various hand gestures were made, and one woman made a voodoo doll in my likeness and stuck it in the face with a stray bobby pin she fished out from her ashtray. Everyone hated me at that moment. And I just sat there, listening to the Goo Goo Dolls on STAR 98.7 and giggled my little head off.

In the distance, I saw him. He was running towards me, even though running is against his nature as a human being and a screenwriter. I heard the Chariots of Fire themesong playing. Soon, he was at my passenger side, depositing the gas into the gas tank as though his life depended on it. As it turns out, it did, since a member of the Armenian mafia in his Lexus was nearing the intersection, and apparently he had some important drug deal to attend to.

Anyway, the car made it into gear and we rolled to the gas station. The first one we made it to was out of gas, and the pumps weren't accepting cards anyway. So, we said silent prayers as we bumbled to the next West Hollywood station, where my eagle-eyed ex spotted my back driver's side tire had a nail in it.

We picked up some Wendy's, got to the theater, and saw his insane ex-girlfriend's car in the parking garage. I readied myself for an ugly mark or two on the side of the VW as we barely made it into our film.

Now THAT was night I could have USED some Coors. But instead, I got it tonight, and had a lovely time. Thanks Hosscorn, and to all of you reading this, who thought there might actually be a point to my story.

Signed, Anxious in the Treehouse. g