The Lovely Red Peppers

My boyfriend and I are eaters who will not go for your typical fast lunch. Things like processed turkey meat, sliced white bread and pre-sliced cheddar cheese are basically not allowed in our kitchen, period. Our stubborn approach to food can make lunchtime difficult and we often find ourselves headed out the door for a decent noontime meal. But I have found a recipe that lends to easy, delicious, fast lunches at home.

I cannot take credit for the newfound golden ticket. The recipe was published in the first issue of Saveur I ever received which was delivered to my mailbox about 2 ½ years ago. I cherish this publication and read it front to back several times. While the recipe in question, Nimês Red Peppers, in the “A Meal in Nimês” article caught my eye I put off making them until a few days ago (when I had the plethora of peppers).

The recipe is simple. You put 6 ripe red bell peppers in the oven at 400 degrees. Roast for 20 minutes and turn them once sometime near the 10 minute mark. Then turn off the oven and let them rest inside the cooling vessel for one hour. Remove them, peel, stem and seed them, then let them drain in a colander for one hour (I let them drain overnight). Put the peppers in a bowl with 3 cloves of coarsely chopped garlic, 2 tablespoons of red wine vinegar and a Mario Batali sized pinch of salt. Pour some good olive oil over the peppers until they are completely submerged and mix them gently. Sit back and wait for the magic to happen.

After 3 hours of marinating these peppers will blow you away. They are plump, juicy and slightly tinged with a delectable taste of pungent garlic that blends perfectly into the tangy vinegar goodbye-flavor. The peppers are so delicious yet subtle, they add the perfect texture and flavor to almost anything.

I ate them on a thick heel slice of sourdough batard with a couple slices of artisan salami on top. So easy and so good. My boyfriend had a sourdough sandwich with thinly sliced red onion, Mahon cheese, salami, spicy whole grain mustard we picked up in France and some mesclun greens. Both were delicious and completely satisfying. There are some recipes that deserve a front seat in the refrigerator and these peppers are my new favorite culinary copilot.

Salsa Witch Doctor

So in the end I made salsa. For a first try I think it came out fine, but nothing compares to Jorge’s salsa. His is the best and he adamantly refuses to share his recipe. When I was at the restaurant I relished the salsa making days. I would see him, Jorge, collecting ingredients in the walk in, then inspecting and preparing them meticulously. Browning dried small chilies on the stovetop, getting the massive cauldron ready, he was like a witch doctor.

Next thing I knew the cauldron would be bubbling away, green onions, tomatoes, and fresh chilies bobbing to the surface. Because I was usually so busy tending to my tables the salsa creation was like a puzzle; one time I would see him do something, the next time something else. I was stuck in a thick salsa mystery. Jorge loved my frustration and refused to divulge a damn thing.

Even though I am pretty sure I have everything, tools ingredients and all, to make salsa identical to Jorge’s I am lacking the courage. I can honestly say that I have no idea, even though I saw pieces of the salsa puzzle put together many times, how to make that salsa. What ingredients are browned and which are boiled? How long does the boiling process take place?

Truthfully, I am not afraid of messing up the recipe. I am absolutely terrified of producing something lacking the deliciousness, thickness and perfect spiciness of Jorge’s salsa. Once it hits your toung tounge your senses stand at attention, saluting the perfect spicy sauce. It is overwhelmingly good. And usually before you know it, it is covering everything on your plate. Behold the power of the salsa witch doctor.

A Rare Breed

I sit here, at the old l’ordinateur, and wonder exactly what it is I am doing. Typing…? In front of me to the immediate southwest sits a delightful cocktail. Homemade. Now, this is a rare occurrence. Rare because typically, in my world, cocktails are good only if they are not homemade. Nothing makes a drink more delicious than a powerful mixologist standing in front of you with cheap bottles of booze, for sale at a cost. Whether the cost is your dignity or the bulk of your wallet is dependent on you somewhat, and the other two quite heavily.

But I digress. The issue at hand is the pile of fresh organic chilies that sit behind me in a large, stainless steel bowl from IKEA. Not the chilies of course, the bowl is from IKEA. The chilies are from my dear friends mother. She is a woman who is living the life of my dreams. A staunch German breed, this family’s humor is found in the more jovial (younger & feminine) generation. I have known the father for over ten years, have exchanged less than 20 words with him, never seen him smile, and find him miserably attractive. I don’t even want to attempt the mental reconstruction of the grandfather. The mother, however, lives on a vineyard, which her husband molds into expensive, exquisite wine while she annually invests herself in all sorts of rare and idiosyncratic projects. The dinosaur nativity scene is my personal favorite.

But she has of late been growing rich, luxurious, waxy chilies and has given me more than I can handle. Salsa? Marinated chilies? Chile rellenos? Salsa? I have no clue as to what to do with this bounty of the harvest.

I think maybe I will try the salsa. FYI, I am of French blood (it might go badly).

Jobby, Job, Job

How strange it is; the search for a job, employment. What kind of hunt is this? It is certainly not equivalent to the pursuit of food or shelter (in the caveman sense), or love, or a perfect physic, a great outfit, the perfect cocktail…or is it?

I feel that I spend my days trying to convince people that I am a smart play, a safe bet. I am something like a long-term solid hand at the poker table. Why is it that it is such a risk, to choose the 5 cards that comprise me as an employee? Others have taken it and won the game at hand. Where is the breeding ground of this reluctance, the tuber of this bizarre employment discord?

Perhaps it is my age. Yes, I am 24. Yes, I have something of an “any-sort-of-girl”—“probably-not-very-special” look going on. But, come on, just have a freakin’ conversation with me. Maybe even read this blog. Doesn’t blogging count in this modern world? I had the understanding that blogging, myspacing, friendbooking or whatever is “up-to-date-cool” was the thing to do, the best way to make friends, the object worth staring at all day.

The fact is, it’s not. The thing to do, obviously, is to know people. The goal is to have connections that are as strong and bulky as a shipyard steel rope. Please, just meet me. One day, down the pipeline of this life (job), maybe you will win the poker game too.

Rumbo

Oh the sweet, gassy smell of Venezula. Oh the succulent sounds of humming engines and blasting sound systems. Oh the arepas, hot and thick. Where is the rest of the world?

La Bruschetta

There is something to be said for the quality of a restaurant when the road leading to it is so curvy and long, you feel more like throwing up than eating when you finally arrive at its front door. This is the path to La Bruschetta for me, through the town of Santa Cruz and up the twisty, redwood tree lined highway 9 to Felton. It is when I pass the sign that reads “Curvy Next 26 Miles” that I start getting nervous. One mile later, my window is down and my head is out of it, attempting with all of my might to calmly, slowly inhale and exhale.

The magic of La Bruschetta is revealed when you walk through its decisively idiosyncratic front door, adorned with a life size, cross-legged, nude, wooden woman, into the dining room and the misery of carsickness seems to float away on the tail of an olive oil infused breeze. As we entered, a warm, smiling hostess immediately greeted us and honestly instructed us to choose the table we would like to sit at so that it could be cleaned and set. By the looks of the place we had obviously arrived shortly after a massive rush of customers had seized the place. We chose a quite table in the corner, were seated shortly and left to ponder the traditional Italian menu.

Wanting to adhere to Italian custom, our choices were based in the plain desire for a family style antipasto, insalada, pasta and dolce. We began by ordering mussels in a tomato broth and a daily special, the roasted beet salad. To accompany the light and easily digestible genesis of the meal, we selected a white Sicilian “Grecanico” wine to whet our palates. The wine list was, like the ambiance of the restaurant itself, simple, quaint and appropriate to the menu. The wine arrived shortly before the food. It was buttery in color and taste, hit the palate with soft, easy acidic bite and ended with a quick, creamy finish. It was a perfect accompaniment for the meal we ordered.

The roasted beet salad was quite nice. The red beets were tosses with large pieces hard-boiled egg, which lent a necessary richness to the dish. The tasty mixture was served atop a bed of fresh greens with some crispy bell pepper slices to contrast the softness of the salads premiere ingredients. The mussels were cooked to a perfect plumpness and I was left wanted to find a chipped or empty shell. Although the thick tomato sauce was flavored nicely, it was a little too heavy and hearty for the delicate mussels. It worked better as a savory dip for the foccacia bread served with our antipasti. Both dishes were of a generous size, not overly large, but not too small to share.

As usual, thinking we could eat more than we ordered, we decided to supplement our meal with an order of “Bruschetta del Buongustaio”. One of about the 10 house specialty bruschettas, this was a happy over-indulgence. It arrived on a large serving plate, which shone with the glory of a bruschetta to end all bruschette. Four thin, fire toasted slices of foccacia circled the plate layered with a paper-like slivers of Italian salami, topped by a slender carved piece of brie adorned with two fluted diameters of vinegary pickle. Separating the bruschette were generous half circles of freshly carved pineapple. It was decadent, it was tasty, and it was interesting. I loved it, a new favorite. The flavors went great with the wine. It was so good, the meal was over for me.

Soon followed the “Rigatoni Alla Norma” an al dente tube pasta with a roasted eggplant, tomato and olive oil sauce topped with crumbled ricotta salata. It was good, but my heart was taken by the bruschetta, so I ended up taking my pasta home for lunch the next day. We then found ourselves to be the last people in the restaurant, marked by the new Eminem song making an appearance on the I-pod play list. This, to me, was funny and made me feel like I was in my grandma’s house, just as Mario Batali would want it.

We finished our meal with a Tartufo Classico, a deeply flavored chocolate snowball, with a center of zabaglione and a dusting of hazelnuts and chocolate powder. How could it be anything but delicious? We left the restaurant feeling satisfied and comfortable. Not only was the food cooked, served and eaten well, but La Bruschetta exuded three qualities I have grown to respect from any good restaurant: 1) you can see the kitchen from the dining room, 2) the head chef came out and spoke to us, 3) (this is only for Italian restaurants) there was something delicious besides tiramisu for dessert.

It was well worth the drive there, and even the exceedingly uncomfortable drive home.

Best Bad Man of the Year

Every year, the only decent, free weekly newspaper that exists in the semi-small town in which I live, publishes an anticipated “Best…Of” issue. Now, because of the size and business dynamic of this quaint town-by-the-sea, if your business is voted “Best…Of” for anything, you have gotten a big boost in the right direction. As I have discussed already, I work as a waitress in a small café that has an equally small staff. This humble establishment has about twenty tables, a staff of two cooks, one prep cook, one dishwasher, two bussers (the dish boy and the bussers only work on weekends) and three waitress, has been open for 35 years, has never expanded from its tucked-in–the-corner spot and barely has seemed to change the menu in the entirety of its existence. That’s right, all of the biscuits and gravy you dare to eat.

I am one third of the wait staff and I have been employed at the café for a little less than a year. As far as the other two thirds of the wait staff go, one is a little younger than me and has worked there about 4 months less than I; the other is a little older than me and has been working at this restaurant for seven years. It is the only job she has ever had, she has worked there longer than almost every other employee by a long shot. So, even though it is not really true, she is owns the place. People eat there to see her, customers ask her to housesit while they go to Europe, she knows almost everyone’s name and their kid’s names too. Neither I nor the other waitress can hold a candle to her popularity. We are merely by-standers watching someone else’s ship sail by.

Her ship really came in this year though. Guess who was the “Best Server Of” 2007---you don’t have to guess too hard. Not only did her victory prompt the owner to make several huge chalkboard signs proclaiming her amazing abilities in serving the best-meal-ever, but it’s basically over in all totality for me and the other "normal" server. We can no longer even pretend to think that we are good at our jobs. So—currently we (this is not the royal “we”) kinda wander through our day, heads down, confirming to our tables that----no, it is not us, it is the other one who is the Best Server Of The Year.

I am left to wonder, is this how George Bush feels? Does he look at Vice President Cheney and feel that, no matter how hard he tries, there will always be a politician who is eviler than he? No matter what, he will never be the “Best Bad Guy Of” any year? He is, and always will be, defeated in his mission to be the worst. Or, is he like me and whole-heartedly realize that, even though it is a bummer to be beat at your job hands-down, someone else really and truly deserves it.

Singer, Sing Me a New Tune

At this point, there is more than a murmur in the air and a whisper in the ears of grocery store customers as they cross paths in the tangle of store aisles in the multitudes of American grocery shops. Their comments hint at, mumble towards and hesitantly discuss the subject of organic, sustainable foods. What are these confusing mystery foods? Where are they? What does organic mean? How can you be sure the food’s labels are telling the truth? Is local better than organic? Is organic better than sustainable? WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?!?

Good question. Unfortunately these questions are much easier to ask than to answer. This is for a least two very apparent reasons—1) there is a limited and difficult to find any functional, non-partisan literature on the topic; 2) the answers found are almost always far from black and white, much of the organic debate takes place in that complicated grey-zone shared by politics, religion and the like.

Luckily, I have found a lantern to help guide me through the dimly lit path of confusion that is the organic mental muddle of grocery store bafflement. The beacon I am speaking of is Peter Singer and Jim Mason’s, “The Way We Eat and Why Our Food Choices Matter”. This 296-page wonder of a non-fiction offers a fully-fledged discussion of organic issues including but not limited too--animal husbandry, agricultural farming, food labeling, seafood farming, and more, more, more. Happily this informative book does not bog you down with facts or inaccessible data. It is written in a familiar, friendly style, similar to the way you would hope an extremely knowledgeable university professor would speak to his class.

In “The Way We Eat and Why Our Food Choices Matter”, the co-authors follow three families through week or more of food choices; what they eat, where they shop, what they buy, and the reasons behind their food choices. One family is, what Singer calls, “the typical American diet”. They eat meat, shop at your typical American mega-mart, munch on fast-food chicken sandwiches, etc. The second family also eats meat, but “tries” to buy and eat only sustainable or organic meats and organic produce. They shop at what is considered to be ethically mindful grocery stores such as Trader Joes and Whole Foods. The third family is totally vegan and has raised their two daughters vegan. Throughout the book’s entirety, Singer and Mason very honestly, fairly and non-judgmentally follow, interview and discuss the choices made by the families and the ultimate impact of these choices.

This is what makes the book much more interesting than the average “Eat What’s Good For You” one-sided and obviously single-minded food book. Not only did the co-authors explore three diets-lifestyles, they also traced all of the foods bought and eaten back to its original source and then examined how it was produced. Along the way they explore the real meaning of organic, the way that words like “sustainable” are used and the truth about the environmental impacts of importing foods, green house foods, and local/seasonal foods.

Most people probably hear the name Peter Singer, role their eyes, think of “Animal Liberation” and assume that they know exactly what this book is about. This would be a mistake. Although, at times the content is gory, horrific, and reminiscent of Upton Sinclair’s, “The Jungle”, Singer and Mason reach some unexpected conclusions to say the least. Logically, and to be frank, the book’s overwhelming resolution is one which urges the reader to make more conscious choices about the foods they eat. At the book’s conclusion the reader rests assured that the authors did an amazing amount of research, traveling and studying with the mission of writing a clear, honest, accurate account of the foods in America. Foods which ultimately reflect not only the people who eat them, but the culture that produces them, the companies that sell them and the way they are enjoyed—by us.

Solidarity of Chauvinists

The other day I was having lunch at the sushi bar down the street. It is a come-si-come-ca restaurant, the air smells a bit fishy and the fish doesn't always look so fresh. On this happy day it wasn't the fish that smelled up the place as much as the patrons. One guy in particular. He walks in with his cell phone earpiece in, maybe talking a little in the restaurant (always pleasant to hear, someone else’s broken conversation with a phantom, and with the ear-piece of course, he sounds like a manic). He takes a seat at the bar, orders a beer, a large amount of sushi and proceeds to get comfortable in his ill-fitting shorts.
Altogether not too bad yet.
Then as a group of early twenty something girls finished their quick lunch, stood up and walked to the door, Joel the Mexican sushi chef said good-bye to them. This also is not too bizarre. It is a local, neighborhood restaurant, most people know each other. The earpiece clad man then looked at Joel and said, "Le mujeres, que bueno," in probably the worst Spanish accent I have ever heard. Joel, who certainly heard the man, registered he mans remark with the least reaction possible. He simply looked to the side a little, and then looked down, back to his work, with a very annoyed look on his face.
How strange it is that a man who clearly has no previous experience with another, no friendship, no relationship, no nothing, thinks it is OK to perve out on some girls who are way too young him, and then make a comment about it to this total stranger. Like 'this is what he is thinking too'? I know that I think the same as everyone in my gender? Please tell me where this bizarre thought process come from, it does not make sense. I hope that every woman I pass in the street doesn't think that she knows what I am thinking because we share a gender. Please!!!
Not much later a news story came out in my hometown about a city councilman who clearly felt this solidarity of chauvinists. His ride along took place in the middle of the night when the bars were closing up downtown and, to top it off, the police officer he was with was brand new to the town. In the middle of the ride along he starts spouting inappropriate comments to the police officer. "Look at that fat ass, that's great," and comments such as this erupt from the councilman. The poor police officer just sat through it thinking that he was getting set-up, (which makes sense) and tells his boss the next day. A couple months later, it is the front story in the daily news and that councilman is apologizing to everyone in town.
Looks like the solidarity of chauvinists is actually a one-way ticket to some bad self-marketing.

Jorge

There are many things that I love and hate about my job. One of the things I love is Jorge.
I never expected that in my life I would form any sort of friendship with a 40-year-old Mexican immigrant. But I have, and now my Wednesday, Saturday and Sunday would not be complete without an appearance from my beloved latino friend Jorge. Every morning when I show up to work, blurry eyed and trying to muster the strength to face the somewhat grueling and often difficult day ahead, and am greeted by my amusing friend. He waits to make a joke about my hair, if it is up in a ponytail then I have brushed it and I look pretty--I get a compliment from Jorge. "Oh, bonita Yacky," he chirps. If it is down, and delicately messed up from the previous night of sleeping I do not receive a compliment. "No se pieno Yacky, you lazy," he laughs and makes fun of me (for no reason) and lives on in a black and white world.
He just turned forty and has been repeatedly approaching me and asking concernedly, "Soy viejo? Si Yacky?" "No, no Jorge, you are a spring chicken," I tell him, I don’t think he knows what I am talking about. He barely speaks English and I barley speak Spanish. Despite his age, Jorge works seven days a week, everyday he opens the restaurant at 6 am, and basically without him, the delicate balance of the little cafe will fall to pieces. He has a strange, gristly mustache and the pores on his face are deep and troubled, perhaps telling the story of his past.
He came to the States from a beach town in Mexico years ago, but almost everyday he tells me a romanticized story about his hometown. He delights in recalling the magic of Mexican women salsa dancing, moving fluidly, unlike the gringas, “muy stiff," he says with a smile. Then he does a little impression of a woman dancing mannishly, moving like a robot, hinges hungry for oil.
Jorge seems to always be in a good mood, decidedly marked by the all-to-common mischievous grin buried under that rough mustache. He has more energy in the morning than anyone I have ever met. He always greets me with a big embrace and a laugh, he knows how funny it is--him, an exuberant 40 year old Chicano and me, a 24 year old gringa--two separate worlds and states of mind, getting ready for work together.
Sometimes, Jorge escapes into his own perplexing inner world. He becomes quite, somber, and unsmiling. He does not want to joke, or laugh, or tell me who is loco and why in our very broken Mexican/English conversations. Then a week will go by. He will cheer up, and make my day at work a little sunnier.

Organic Whaaa?

I am a waitress. It is not my proudest fact, it is not the accomplishment I want to scream from the mountaintops, it is not even something that I want to whisper to a person that I have cordially met on the street. Although this dirty little secret of mine does not exhibit a proud example of my mental abilities, at least it is a means by which I am able to pay my own rent. A feat often accomplished haphazardly by most in my age group.
The restaurant I have claimed as the den of my comfortable employment for the last couple of months has from time to time aroused something of a moral dilemma inside of me. I am a person who strongly believes in eating organic, sustainable, locally grown (when possible) produce, meats raised, treated and slaughtered with respect. I support farmers markets, restaurants that serve organic, raw, vegan and vegetarian foods and markets that do the like (Wahoo Trader Joes). Now the place I work at does serve organic and local, but not always, and not advertised or even hinted at on the menu. This is a tragedy in my opinion. So—my remedy is to inform people when they have made a sustainable food choice.
It seems that one justified true belief any semi-conscious person has been assaulted with during his or her time on Earth is: just because you believe something doesn't mean that anyone else does. Hell, you're lucky if everyone else doesn't think your a looney-looney. But, of course, there are exceptions to every rule, and in my mind, the golden exception is found in the lair of organic foods. Who doesn't want to eat organic? Sure it is more expensive, and sure, it is harder to find, and decidedly less available. But if you are doing the every-other-day grocery shopping (which we all do) and the produce section of the day offers an organic banana for $1 and a normal banana for $.75, who doesn't buy the organic one? I am a waitress for a living and I buy the organic one!!! We all saw "An Inconvenient Truth", we know about the devastating effects of irresponsible farming, faulty irrigation practices, harmful pesticides, wishy washy GMOs, etc? Who doesn't want the organic banana? If you are George W. Bush and you are reading this, please, do not bother to answer, but any other well-rounded logical person! Please, help me out here.
So, here is the story. I picked up a weekday shift for one of my favorite co-workers. A woman came into the restaurant around noon, she was a cool breath of fresh air in the middle of a dry 2-hour period where not one new customer was to be had. I was busy inside cleaning the windows (a task that is common for people in the service industry and employeed at slow restaurants). I went out, gave her a menu, she ordered an Ice Tea and I brought it to her. "Thank you,” she said, “my friend is coming, she will be here soon, so I will just wait for her until I order," she assured me. "Okay," I responded with sisterly charm, "the tea is organic and I will come out as soon as she shows up."
I went back inside to continue the task at hand, and several minutes later her friend arrived. This woman's personality was decidedly different from her friend's. "Hi--I'll have an Ice Tea," she demanded as soon as I went onto the deck where they sat. "Oh, okay, I'll bring you one right away. It's really good, it's organic," I exclaimed.
You can imagine my dismay when her response to my comment (one which I thought anyone would be happy to hear, especially since the tea is $1.50 with endless refills) was, "hahahaha, ha, ha, chuckle, I don't care about organics."
My face must have revealed what my heart was screaming, which was--'what! You don't care! Who the %#@* doesn't care, certainly when the caring in question is $1.50.’ She looked at me, I looked back, she said, "oh, you know honey, it really doesn't matter to me." Well, I certainly learned something that day. I went inside, reduced to the dillusional window cleaner, defeated.
Whether the lesson to be learned is that more people need to wake up about organics or that I am lost in an idealist dream world of fanciful farming, I do not know. But I am still as confused as a lost bubble bee.
I served the two ladies the tuna melts they ordered and watched them leave, with $5 fluttering on the table. A generous offering for a waitress/window cleaner soon to be in a mental ward (or so the one thought).
I am still confused, but what to do? Shouldn't I advertise the tea? It is organic, after all.

An Ironic Journey Into the World of Metalheads

My boyfriend is something of a music connoisseur. This means he has an extensive record collection, has decorated our apartment with music related posters, and of course, relishes the chance to get out there and go to a live show from time to time. While for the most part I certainly enjoy his taste in listening pleasures, he does have a couple LPs that I never listen to when I am hanging out in the house alone. The bulk of the genre I choose to avoid is found in his small, but neatly organized Metal section. However my reluctance to put on the occasional "DarkThrone" album was not enough to hold me back from accompanying him to the Heaven and Hell Metal show that was going to be had in a town nearby.
Now, "Heaven and Hell" didn't seem all that bad to me. After all, it is basically "Black Sabbath" minus Ozzy and plus Deo. Honestly, who doesn't love to heart the powerful, beating synthesizer that distinguishes Rainbow in the Dark on stormy night while you dare to turn on the classic rock radio station? But---my, oh my, I didn't have any idea what I was getting myself into.
I have never been in a room with so many extra-large tee shirts in my life. I felt like I was at a biker rally where no one can come in and save you, you're gone, dead, destroyed. I had the distinct feeling that someone wanted to beat me up. Everywhere I looked loomed large, perhaps angry, perhaps violent, perhaps posing, men. It was like going to your high-school reunion on the set of Michael Jackson's Thriller video and the only people who showed up were the ones who dropped out of high school. This was a bit intimidating for me, especially since I was basically wearing my "If you want to beat up a pansy college graduate who loves to read and bake" shirt. I was scared.
This show was at a large venue with seating ranging in price. In order for me to go to the show, I pleaded that we save our money and purchase the cheapest ticket possible---bad idea. When I saw our seats I wanted to cry/pee my pants/run. We were squeezed in between a 250 pound, 6 ft. 2 inch skin head in his mid-to-late thirties and a screaming lunatic that looked like he was kicked off the set of Hawaii Five O and was still screaming, upset, and quite dry mouthed because of it. To top it off, we were in the back row, with our backs against the wall, nowhere to turn, nowhere to run.
So--we did what people like us do. We stole someone else’s seats, next to a nice, meek looking couple. This plan of deception didn't last long, we were soon found out by an employee who was leading a lost group of drunks to their real seats. This kind and gracious employee then led us to our "in the back corner of hell next to Satan's screaming idiot" seats. Thanks buddy.
So there we sat, nervous, unimposing. Things would have remained stiff-lipped until something amazing happened. I began to watch the band from my distant position in my cheap, pathetic seat. "Megadeath" was playing, and although I know very little about them and do not particularly enjoy their music, something beckoned me to watch. The three front men, flanked by a massive backdrop of some half-dead satanic being, drew me in. Something became clear to me. All three front men were wearing jeans that fit them perfectly. They all had neat, bohemian rocker-type outfits on. They wore matching black wristbands. Very much unlike the audience they brought in, screaming obscenities at them, pounding their working-class fists into the air, the members of this band all looked like nice boys who you could bring home to your grandmother. As their set came to a close the lead singer approached the microphone and said, "I hope you've had fun, because we sure have!"---Was I leaving Disneyland, was that Mickey talking to me. This guy in a band named MEGADEATH just said, in a cheerful and happy, cake eating voice that yes, he sure did, he sure did have fun. Yeaya. What? Where am I, am I having an out-of body experience?
Of course "Megadeath" was called back on stage to play one final song. As they rocked out, surely having fun, surely thinking about what to wear later in the evening, they began to head bang. I have to say, they might have had the most beautiful hair I have ever seen. They stood their, beating their heads in their air, as their soft, blond mid-back length hair eclipsed their heads like snow hallowing a snowman. It was lovely and would make any stylist proud. They ended their song, said, "You've been great, we've been Megadeath," and left the stage. The lights came on and I turned to my boyfriend and said, "I don't want to ruin any Metal band member fantasies you have, but all of those guys blow-dry and brush their hair. I am certain, I know blow dried hair when I see it." He smiled at me and we got up to leave. But not before the huge skinhead next to me, looked over and said, "yes, yes they do." He knows what blow dried hair looks like too.

***I just want to say that I had a good time at the show and respect and appreciate Metal and Megadeath, the show was good and I do not think that if you like Metal you didn't go to high school.