Social interactions are more difficult to write about. There’s the whole notion that whatever I put down might not be 100% true; if someone else is involved I might actually be brought to task over the gross inaccuracies that paint me as more normal/intelligent/physically arresting than I am.
Plus there’s the whole “That’s what you were thinking about that afternoon? Jesus.” Or “Ewww. Are you blogging this? ” The navel-gazing approach in easier for the most part.
That said, the scene is the Temple Bar Music Centre. Saturday evening. We have just arrived and are beelining for the bar. A fresh-faced young man approaches us, sporting what appears to be a glass of Bulmers and a post-coital glow.
Young Man (YM): Lads, Willy Mason is just around that corner!
Me: Ok.
YM: Seriously. Just sitting there with some friends. Seriously.
Me: Alright.
YM: D’ye not believe me?
Nigel: No, we believe you.
YM: I’m Serious.
Me: Ok, ok…
YM: I asked him how he wrote Save Myself, he said… *Several seconds of confused static here, it’s possible my brain shorted out in order to reduce potential damage*... most profound moments of his life.
A friend approached the Young Man.
Friend: C’mon, let go have a smoke.
YM: I’m just telling them about Willy Mason. D’ye not believe me?
N: No, we believe you. (Placatory)
Friend: Leave them alone. They’re probably in the band. (Joking?)
YM: You’re in the band? Are ye in the band?
Me: We’re not in the band.
N: We’re not in the band.
YM: Ah? Are ye in the band? Lads, he’s there. D’ye not believe me?
N: We believe you. We have no reason not to believe you.
YM: Seriously, lads…
Friend: C’mon. Lets get a smoke. (Dragging friend away.)
Now, while I enjoyed the gig, this would not have happened if we’d gone to see Tycho in Thomas House. Instead everyone would have quietly drank/danced through the set and, had they encountered Scott Hansen in the toilets afterwards, would have politely nodded before averting their eyes. As God intended.