Last Night, I Met One of My Heroes.
Last night when I got off work--not my teaching job, but the other one--I went to the Double Wide to see Mescalero play. I'll admit I sort of dragged my feet changing my clothes and getting cash from the ATM. It was one of those times that I resigned myself to the fact that I would either get there in time to see them or not. I didn't get there in time, but it turns out that I would've missed them even if I had hurried.
It was the Warped Tour after-party, and the Double Wide--usually a place that attracts a pretty authentic crowd in spite of its over-the-top white trash camp aesthetic--was packed with more emo kids than you could write a crappy poem about. I've rarely seen so many preternaturally long bangs and guys in girl pants in one place.
It's also been a long time since I've seen the Double Wide so packed; sizing up the crowd and mentally timing my wait in line to get up to the vinyl-wrapped bar, I decided it would be in my best interest to go ahead and get my next two Tecates-with-lime now, rather than try to fight my way to the front again. If you've never been to the DW, let me tell that cheap Mexican beer (with lime no less) is high toned for this joint--the Double is maybe the only place in Dallas where you can get an honest-to-gosh Pabst or Lone Star without the risk of getting in the way of some biker's game of pool.
I wouldn't really call the Double Wide a dive, but it certainly wants to be.
The Double Wide is also a place in stiff, if unspoken, competition with the Grapevine for the "smallest and most ill-placed restroom in a bar" category of next year's Dallas Observer Best of Dallas Awards. The closet-sized unisex toilet (and that's all it is) is conveniently located directly in front of the door between the patio and the barroom, the most highly trafficked area in the place.
I was mentally weighing my chances of being able to get past the drunks standing in line for the head without spilling my beers when I saw the unmistakable blue-green-brown dreads of Eric Melvin in the corner. He was standing behind a table with buttons reading "Guitar Hero" littering the top, chatting affably with anyone who stopped by. Mostly this consisted of girls, punks, and other hangers-on. All of them talked and talked while Mel smiled politely. You just know he's done this before.
You don't get many opportunities to meet your heroes, so my advice is always to meet them whenever you get such a chance. It's entirely unlikely that he would remember me any more than he's going to remember any other yahoo that walked up to him last night or any other night; that doesn't change the fact that you want to say something that--to you at least--is authentic and heartfelt. You want to say something that you can look back on later and say to yourself honestly, "I didn't make an ass of myself. And maybe, just maybe, I said something he doesn't hear from the same drunk assholes over and over."
I took my time and thought it over. I mean, what do you say to a guy whose band has been the supreme example of ethics, honesty, and courage? This is Eric Fucking Melvin, guitarist for NOFX, the band that wrote "The Decline," "Linoleum," "Irrationality of Rationality," and "Punk Rock Elite." This guy doesn't have to hold down a day job to live for his art; his art supports him and he can sleep well at night knowing the money he makes is his own. He didn't get it by selling himself, his audience, and his art to an evil corporation that exploits fans and artists alike. He's never turned his back on DIY or on the fans--in fact, he's a fan himself (just check out his side project Punk Rock Karaoke).
What do you say? What can you say, I mean.
I finished my beers. I walked over and waited my turn.
"Melvin?"
"Yes." I shook his hand.
"Thank you."
It was the Warped Tour after-party, and the Double Wide--usually a place that attracts a pretty authentic crowd in spite of its over-the-top white trash camp aesthetic--was packed with more emo kids than you could write a crappy poem about. I've rarely seen so many preternaturally long bangs and guys in girl pants in one place.
It's also been a long time since I've seen the Double Wide so packed; sizing up the crowd and mentally timing my wait in line to get up to the vinyl-wrapped bar, I decided it would be in my best interest to go ahead and get my next two Tecates-with-lime now, rather than try to fight my way to the front again. If you've never been to the DW, let me tell that cheap Mexican beer (with lime no less) is high toned for this joint--the Double is maybe the only place in Dallas where you can get an honest-to-gosh Pabst or Lone Star without the risk of getting in the way of some biker's game of pool.
I wouldn't really call the Double Wide a dive, but it certainly wants to be.
The Double Wide is also a place in stiff, if unspoken, competition with the Grapevine for the "smallest and most ill-placed restroom in a bar" category of next year's Dallas Observer Best of Dallas Awards. The closet-sized unisex toilet (and that's all it is) is conveniently located directly in front of the door between the patio and the barroom, the most highly trafficked area in the place.
I was mentally weighing my chances of being able to get past the drunks standing in line for the head without spilling my beers when I saw the unmistakable blue-green-brown dreads of Eric Melvin in the corner. He was standing behind a table with buttons reading "Guitar Hero" littering the top, chatting affably with anyone who stopped by. Mostly this consisted of girls, punks, and other hangers-on. All of them talked and talked while Mel smiled politely. You just know he's done this before.
You don't get many opportunities to meet your heroes, so my advice is always to meet them whenever you get such a chance. It's entirely unlikely that he would remember me any more than he's going to remember any other yahoo that walked up to him last night or any other night; that doesn't change the fact that you want to say something that--to you at least--is authentic and heartfelt. You want to say something that you can look back on later and say to yourself honestly, "I didn't make an ass of myself. And maybe, just maybe, I said something he doesn't hear from the same drunk assholes over and over."
I took my time and thought it over. I mean, what do you say to a guy whose band has been the supreme example of ethics, honesty, and courage? This is Eric Fucking Melvin, guitarist for NOFX, the band that wrote "The Decline," "Linoleum," "Irrationality of Rationality," and "Punk Rock Elite." This guy doesn't have to hold down a day job to live for his art; his art supports him and he can sleep well at night knowing the money he makes is his own. He didn't get it by selling himself, his audience, and his art to an evil corporation that exploits fans and artists alike. He's never turned his back on DIY or on the fans--in fact, he's a fan himself (just check out his side project Punk Rock Karaoke).
What do you say? What can you say, I mean.
I finished my beers. I walked over and waited my turn.
"Melvin?"
"Yes." I shook his hand.
"Thank you."
posted by Drew at 10:37 AM
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