The Road to Helldorado is Paved with Good Intentions

The next item on the scavenger hunt was to attend a show at Esther's Follies, a variety show downtown with music, magic, comedy, and plenty of political satire. We had a blast, although Z was absolutely petrified every time the actors would weave their way through the crowd, looking for some poor sap to pull up on stage. There must be a word for the fear of audience participation--participhobia? When choosing our seats, she made sure to bury us safely behind enough people that no one would take the trouble to climb over everyone and torment her. I found it endearing.

Since we were already downtown, we figured we'd knock off another item on the list: get an autograph from a live band on 6th Street. This proved to be much more difficult than we had anticipated. Our obstacles to obtaining these autographs were as follows:

1. I was a stickler for the rules. Z was dying to cheat and get it over with, by having some homeless guy playing a guitar on the street sign a piece of paper. Or someone playing solo on stage in a low-key club where no one would see us. "But it has to be more than one person or it's not a band!" I cried. She also pointed out a guy who was carrying an amp and said we could just have him sign it, since he was probably in a band. "He looks like a roadie, and he's not even playing anything right now. That doesn't count." Z was not impressed with my devotion to the spirit of the scavenger hunt.

2. None of the bands playing that night were particularly famous. You can ask someone famous for his autograph, but some local band who squeaks by on tips and free beer at seedy bars? It would feel so stupid. We might as well be asking bank tellers for their autographs. "Wow, you're the best bank teller in town. The way you counted out my change was awesome, man. Can I get your autograph here on my money order?"

3. Z did not like loud music. And if there's one thing that you can almost always say about live bands, it's that they're loud.

So, we kept wandering up and down 6th Street, looking for a quiet, semi-famous, more-than-one-person band. Some might criticize me for insisting that a band have at least two people, given my past musical career. My former band, Bad Foot Down, left me in a two person band alone, but at least Claire would sit next to me while I played and sang the songs, so I think we could still be called a band.

As we were walking around looking for a bar, some drunken dude stumbled out in front of us and started raving to us about a drink called the Helldorado in the bar in front of us. He said his friend Amy the bartender made it, and that we should mention his name to her and get one of the drinks. When I asked what was in it, he reeled for a moment, thought very hard, and answered, "Vodka." "That's it?" I said. "It’s just straight vodka?" "No," he replied, "There's other stuff, but definitely vodka. Yeah." I figured if it could get this guy so soused, it must be good, so went in and ordered one (Z thought I was crazy for taking recommendations from local sots). It turns out the Helldorado is a nine-dollar drink that comes in a martini glass the size of a bathtub. Amy gave us two straws longer than my arms to share the drink and left us to turn red as the entire bar looked at our ridiculously huge drink and laughed at us. We tried to escape into the shadows with our enormous drink, but we found a wobbly table that threatened to send the glass toppling over, thereby flooding the entire bar and most of 6th Street. We sat there for a long time, drinking the tasty bright red liquid through the straws a good three feet away from the table. So cool!

Did we ever find a quiet band? No. At some point, we gave up and just started playing word games as we walked around. Nerd alert! Nerd alert! We gave up and drove home around midnight, but I'm going to try and find a band tomorrow night when Z isn't around. I will still feel like a complete loser, but at least I can brave the high decibels for the both of us.