When I was a snotnose, just learning to play (and using "band practice" as an excuse to get out of the house and party), I always dreamed of belonging to a community based around music, like the 'orrible 'oo's Mod claque, or the Detroit kids at the Grande Ballroom. Maybe the Wreck Room was as close as I'll ever come, but standing in the parking lot of the Chat before we went in with my sweetie 'n' all of the cats from my two favorite bands I've ever played in -- some of the smartest, funniest people I've ever known, with whom I share a deep love for certain musics -- felt damn near like it to me. I'm a lucky asshole to have wound up where I did.
Teague correctly and humorously characterizes our performances as "geezers sharing a stupor," and that pretty much sums up how it went that night. Ray and I both enjoyed ourselves so much that we forgot to stick around for our payout, even though Brad Hensarling had made a point of telling us we'd be paid. Teague told the bartender to give it to the headlining band, which is fine; they've got travel expenses to cover, and it's not like we do this for the money (although it's nice having some dough in the kitty for pizza and beer). Going forward, I need to remember that it's not necessary to drink every beer that's bought for me after we finish. Brad mentioned that going forward, the Chat will be booking bands once a month. Hopefully, we'll get another chance to play there in less than four years.