Surely He Means CHICK Magnet ...

Apparently I’m something of a “crazy magnet,” or at least I’ve been labeled as such.

I went to see a musical concert last week which featured Teh Rock And Teh Roll as performed by The Drive-By Truckers (with opening band The Heartless Bastards). A friend (I’ll call him Don, because that’s his name) and I were given Very Important Person tickets by another friend of ours, which allowed us access to a private balcony overlooking the stage, and which afforded us the opportunity to feel pretentious and smug, condescedingly looking down upon the unwashed mass of commoners as they fought for air and struggled to find a server to bring them lukewarm domestic light beer, while our delightful private attendant, the lovely and ebullient Skyla, ensured that our champagne flutes were never empty, an opportunity that we declined, as Don and I are jes’ plain folk.

We arrived well ahead of showtime, and were among the first in the VIP lounge. We struck up a conversation with Milo, who was there by himself and who explained that he was a life-long Truckers fan but that never before had he seen them perform live. Milo was very excited! He sat down with us on the balcony, and it became evident fairly quickly that Milo was one strange cat. Within a few minutes, he had explained how he was from Northeastern California (I’m pretty sure that’s commonly referred to as “Nevada”), how he had once owned a 1952 Les Paul Fender Stratocaster Flying V Limited Edition 7-string Guitar (or something like that … Don knew what he was referring to), how he had once, in high school, punched a guy and broken his eye socket, and how he had a custom hot-rod Volkswagon Rabbit that could go 150 mph (241.401 kph).

Seriously.

Milo stuck around for about half of the show, then wandered down to the main floor to get the full concert experience, I guess. A new crowd of people moved forward next to us, and within two minutes (2.53 centihours), I had been informed that Stan was from Ashton, Idaho, had been married twice, had a set of twins with the first Mrs. Stan and two others with the second (and current) Mrs. Stan. I tried to communicate to Stan that as happy as I was that his life seemed to be going well, I was a bit more interested in the band at that particular moment by not looking at him, and instead staring intently at the stage. Stan was a talker.

There were a couple of other encounters with "interesting” strangers throughout the evening, causing Don to make the observation that “we’re like magnets for teh crazy!” I concurred, and we both had a fine chuckle at that, and our night turned out be one of superb music, interesting people, and an awkward but politely rebuffed attempt at wooing the lovely and ebullient Skyla.

So get this: I’m recounting the evening a couple of days later to the friend who had so generously supplied the tickets, and he mentions that “yeah, Don told me that 'The Dead Acorn is a fucking CRAZY magnet!'”

Not “we were fucking CRAZY magnets.” Nosirreebob. Apparently it’s all me.

You know, I’m not quite sure what to make of that. I’ve been called far worse, and not without cause, but I’m pretty sure Don’s got some crazy magnet going on as well. He tends bar at the pub, and I’m in there every night, so I have a pretty good sense of the whack-a-noodle nutjobs that frequent THAT place.

Crazy magnet indeed.

[Note to denizens of the Emerald Isle and other exotic non-US places]: The Truckers make some dang fine music, and they’ll be in Kilkenny on May 1st, Dublin on May 7th, and various other locales in your neck of the globe around that time. The tour schedule is here.