With My Rooster Out

There are many things that have been missing from my life in recent times. A bevy of supermodels in my bed, a fortune in gold dubloons stashed in my ceiling, spectacular acts of death-defying heroism and female interaction to name but a few.

Those things? Maybe not so easily rectified without delving into flights of fancy or large quantities of chloroform. But there was something of which the absence could be easily rectified, all it required was a time and a place. In fact, time and place are prime components of this particular thing, of which I will now dispense with the vague and evasive references and admit to be Live Music.

I am a musical man. Not The Music Man, I do not come from far enough away for that, but music is definitely something I tend to submerge myself in. If I'm not listening to it, I am likely to be found singing some kind of tune that is likely to be as off-key as it is completely made up. But it has been a while since I have been to a concert. Rapidly approaching its way towards a year, in fact. On one side, I can trace this phenomenon to the fact that two of my friends who I would be likely to go to see a show with have relocated themselves to parts of the world which create great difficulties in organising a musical rendezvous. If you can find a friend who's willing to fly back from Poland just to attend a concert with you, they your friends have way too much disposable income and I hate you.

So I've been getting the itch. I've been getting it for the past few months. I even went to the doctor and he assured me that it was in no way related to an STD, which was informative, yet odd, considering I went to see him about a cough. But first, there was no one worthwhile touring. And just because I wanted to see a show does not mean I'm shelling out cash for someone like James Blunt just because I now have a job, and therefore the income to do so. Then there was the issue of finding someone to go with. While I am willing to do things like movies on my own, a concert is something at which I require the company of others. There's something about it which makes me feel as though it should be a shared experience. So you can talk about it afterwards, which songs you liked, how there was that drunk, hot chick you saw wandering around in the crowd and, of course, you always need someone with whom you can make fun of all the people who are making their most sad and desperate attempts to convince everyone at the concert of how trendy they are. Plus there's always that safety blanket I need of having somewhere there to drag my tiny and frail body out if I somehow manage to get sucked into the mosh pit.

Then, tonight, the musical Gods aligned in my favour. I found the concert and the company, so on August 2, I am going to see Ok Go, at the Zoo, with Caragh and Amy. High Fives all round (which translates to an only mildly depressing self-five, considering there's no one else here). The chance for me to once again rock out is nigh! While playing Guitar Hero a lot of late has helped to sate my hunger for rocking myself retarded with great enthusiasm, there is only so far bounding around your living room with a plastic, imitation guitar can get you.

Now all there is for me to do is pick out my best concert outfit - which just might include a pair of pants - practice all my awkward, disjointed dance moves and hope that the band bring their treadmills with them. Because, let's face it, my last concert night started with me drunkenly headbanging to The Living End - so much so that it could have easily been mistaken for a particularly vicious seizure and had people trying to stop me choking on my own tongue - and ended with me falling asleep in a strip club. That's a raising of the bar right there. I'm personally setting Ok Go the challenge to beat that. Of course, they will never actually be aware of this challenge, so I'll be happy enough if they show up with their guitars.