Belly Rubs, Butt Rubs: a typical night on the town

On Friday, I went to see Nashville Pussy, Hank III and Rev Horton Heat at the Peel.  Well, the band(s) I went to see is a bit o’ trivia that’s neither here nor there.  What’s important to note is the wildly entertaining men that were sharing space with me in the front of the Peel. 

One gent had his shirt yanked up with his generous slightly-furry belly on display.  He asked if I wanted to rub his belly for luck.  I declined ever so politely like the delicate southern belle I am.  He told me he was due in just a few months and the man behind him was the Baby Daddy. (yes, that’s Baby Daddy, not Baby’s Daddy—watch enough ‘Maury’ episodes about finding the Baby Daddy and you’ll understand).  I congratulated them on their bundle of joy.

Another fellow happily declared to me that lots of people were rubbing and touching his butt in the elbow to elbow crowd at the sold out show.  I said they should at least buy him dinner, that he shouldn’t be so easy. 

I didn’t get to interact with the last fellow on my list: top hat man.  Top Hat Man decided that not only should he be annoyingly tall in front of my not tall self, but that he should also don a hat as tall as he for the show.  This velvet topper towered over the crowd.  I wondered if there was a monkey in there.  Or maybe a cooler filled with snacks.  I wished he would take his monkey and snacks elsewhere, and because I am me and the world revolves around me and my every whim, he was soon moshed away and I could see the stage unobstructed.

 I just love the friendly demeanor of a fun crowd, a group happy to be all smushed up together in a pile.  Maybe next time I’ll reach out and rub that belly for luck, but I can’t promise any butt rubs.