I’m not often mistaken for other people – oh, sure, there’s the occasional “hey, check out Bozo The Clown there …” comment, but in general, I’m not one that’s confused with someone else. Last Saturday night, however, proved to be an exception, and one with most unfortunate consequences, as it turned out … I was apparently mistaken for someone who had over-imbibed.
A couple of friends and I had ventured downtown to take in a musical concert, one in which several bands were to play, the third being a group called Cash’d Out (who performed faithful renditions of Johnny Cash songs) and of whom I had heard very positive reviews. I’d like to be able to confirm that the entire show was a magical re-creation of a true legend; unfortunately, I can only authoritatively say that about the first four songs, as we were inexplicably asked to leave the venue around that time.
I’m still not quite certain what events led to our ouster; normally, such things happen when one, oh, say, stumbles into a large table of state-level politicians, spilling their cocktails every which way (umm … hypothetically speaking, of course). And while two of us were enjoying many a tasty beverage that evening (and, admittedly, after something of a lengthy “pre-funk” that day), our fellow concert-goer maintains that we held to acceptable public behavior, and even now remains somewhat baffled at the night's goings-on.
Disirregardless of the lack of grounds for ejection, ejected we were, after a somewhat comical series of events. One of my friends and I had gone to the bathrooms, and upon exiting, I found her in a discussion with one of the employees. “Well, good evening, sir!” I said as I approached them. “A fine show it is, don’t you agree?” It was at this point I was informed that alcoholic beverages would no longer be available to us (though he could provide no rational basis for that decision), and he proceeded to try to shame us by drawing large Xs on our hands. As my friend and I were there primarily for the music, we weren’t overly distraught at this, and we returned to where our other friend was waiting, after finishing what drinks we had left (the gentleman was kind enough to grant that request).
In retrospect, we really should have known that they just might keep an eye on us, because when my friend picked up the spare beer she had strategically placed under our table (she’s deservedly regarded as something of a professional in social drinking circles), several seemingly displeased gentlemen quickly descended upon us and escorted us toward the exit. We had a brief conversation with the manager, received another hand stamp (apparently being disallowed from drinking and being asked to leave are coded differently), and found ourselves out in the cold evening, marked and musicless, but giggling nonetheless.
We decided to make our way over to the Neurolux, a bar where they don’t have such puritanical standards – this is the conversation I had with the bartender when we got there:
Bartender (noticing my hands): “What’s with the X?”So that was the evening – plans derailed by a tragic case of mistaken identity, but enjoyable anyway, and good for a chuckle. One never knows what will happen when one ventures downtown.
Dead Acorn:“Cut off.”
Bartender: “What’s with the Idaho stamp?”
Dead Acorn: “Kicked out.”
Bartender: “Nice. Well, what can I get you?”
[UPDATE]: It occurred to me that I was wearing my cowboy boots that night, which I haven’t worn in years, and that my choice of footwear may have been a triggering factor in being flagged as a potential rabble-rouser. I’ve included a side-by-side comparison below – I don’t think either really says “here comes trouble,” but I’ve been wrong before.