I think I’m officially going to wuss out. A friend is co-organizing a comedy revue tonight at 7:30 at Comix, and I may actually pay to go to that instead of going for free to that David Byrne concert in Prospect Park. Sounds crazy, I know — especially what with it being my “Month of Rock!” and all, but I just can’t face the, uh, prospect of thousands and thousands of people packed together without pre-assigned seats. Yes, I’m paying to avoid excitement, a sure sign of aging. Tough.
Of course, in an ideal world, devoid of trade-offs and cost-benefit analysis — the world the government thinks we live in, in other words — a man wouldn’t have to choose between rock and comedy because he’d always be able to experience both at the same time. I managed to achieve that state two months ago by going to a Richard Cheese concert, and I must say, of all the events Helen and I have gone to in the past several months, I would have thought that would be one of the least likely to be written up in the Wall Street Journal, but it was. Good for Mr. Cheese.
If a guy who often sings obscene rap songs in a Sinatra-like lounge style is too gangsta and not enough gangster for you, though, you’ll be pleased to hear that a song by Al Capone about his mother (or his wife or the Virgin Mary) was also discovered around the time of that concert. I’ve heard David Byrne is a lousy tipper, though, so who’s the real criminal?