Home | Editors | Features | Columns | Photos | Regional | New Groove Road Trip | Tour Journal | Venue | Levels | Ghosts | Homegrown | Inaudible | CDs | Charts

DownerMan Revival
Stairdweller

by Alek Grabinski - alek@best.com

There's a time to be nice, and there's a time to speak one's mind. Miss Manners and minions, please leave the room. And don't nobody forward this to my mommy.

I'm here to rail against cluelessness, and maybe even rail for civility. Stadium shows tend to bring out my misanthropic tendencies - probably it's a straight matter of statistics, as with a crowd of twenty thousand you're more likely to get the distribution tails.

I queued up at the Thomas & Mack on Halloween night with a jovial crowd of Phish revelers, about 2 1/2 hours before the scheduled showtime. We were herded into the venue with reasonable efficiency; once through the doors I made a beeline for the seats, selecting an aisle seat for easy access and maybe a little extra space for my elbow. The seats filled up rapidly; I have to say that I admire the optimism of folks who ask, ten minutes before showtime, "Are those four seats [with sweaters draped over them] occupied?" - sometimes asking does pay off, as when the six guys next to me vacated their seats for nearer ones. But most of the time it's sweetly annoying. Memo to seat optimists: We, the seated, are just like you, except we realize that there is a direct relationship between how early you get to the venue and the goodness of your seat. If and when it strikes you, may the blinding flash of the obvious not cause permanent vision loss.

So everyone got happily situated in their seats. Clever and inventive costumes paraded up and down the stairs. The lights went down. The aisles filled up as the folks who'd been hanging out in the hall decided that now was the time to make their way to the floor. News flash: At showtime, the floor is full. See last sentence of previous paragraph.

So the aisles turned into ersatz dance/trance space. At T&M, the aisles are a little less than six feet wide, with tube-steel bannisters running like road stripes down the middle. Two people between a handrail and the seats will completely obstruct passage. One person makes passage difficult, though not impossible. As the night progressed, I watched the band, and I watched the stairdwellers, and I have these things to say to them (the stairdwellers, that is; what I have to say to the band is, You sure have big hearts to want to come out and play to a horde of glowstick-throwing futhermuckers):

• Mr Stairperson, even though it may make you feel all tiny and inconspicuous to sit down on the stairs and huddle up against the side of my seat, you are not invisible. You are a speed bump. You are a trip hazard - and I mean that in the most sincere, nonpsychotropic way.
  
  
• Ms Stairpersoness, we sincerely apologize, in our most groveling and ingratiating way, for asking you to move out of the way as we pass. Your withering gaze has left us powerless with fear. Next time, we will choose a different set of stairs, for we have so mightily offended thee, and to again face the wrath of your mighty glare is to stare into the maw of hell itself. Please, forgive our naive notion that a stairway might be used as passage - not as a bleacher for your late ass.
  
  
• Stairdweller Couple, golly, your swing dancing during Lawnboy brought tears to my eyes. No, wait, that was smoke from the end of your cigarette. Anyway, your love transcends all. Beams of radiant light glow from your halos. You are light. You are joy. You are in the way. Don't be so upset that someone broke your embrace with their clumsy pushing. Think instead of the anticipation that built up when you were apart, and the sweet, sweet reunion when once again you touched. Tito, bring me a tissue.
  
  
• Stairdude, we are not that different, you and I. We are manifestations of energy, vibrating with the cosmic oneness. Music is the language of our souls. When we groove to the beat of our favorite band, we lose our egos and soar into the bright nothingness. But that doesn't mean you can crash in my seat; next time, may I suggest professional help? BuzzKraft, Inc. provides all types of support for the tireless partier who just can't be bothered to keep tabs on his chemical ingestion - and for a small premium, they'll even hold a seat of your very own, when it all gets too overwhelming and you need to slump in a catatonic daze.
  
  

Mmmm... cluelessness...

I approach the aisle. I can feel the cluefulness ebbing, leaking out of me and flowing down the steps. I lose regard for others. My jones is all-powerful. My need for musical satisfaction is paramount. My place in the universe is here.

On the stairs.

In your way.

---

Las Vegas is a sad, desperate place. My friend Ed hinted at the reason why, which is this: Perhaps more so than any other place in the world (except maybe where the infernal rodent does the work of his corporate demon masters), Las Vegas builds itself up as a place where dreams come true. The abundance of wedding chapels points to happiness forever. The glowing marquees advertise lurid games with flimsy morals ("Loosest slots in Nevada!"), millions to be made for a single pull of the handle. The lobster dinner is only two dollars, and the cornucopia overflows with the bounty of the land. The novelty casinos are as glitzy as their glossy brochures, with volcanoes and pirates and real art (oh my!). Hell, the place is crawling with Elvi, and if the return of the Sideburned One is not a dream come true, then what could be?

But, sadly, it is not to be. The divorce rate in Vegas can't be too far off the national average of 50%; I sat next to an angry man on the bus down the Strip, as he muttered, "We were married right there...The bitch took me for $375,000... if I ever catch her..." For every million- dollar winner, there are ten thousand hapless souls who paid that jackpot. The lobster is rubbery and the rest of the buffet tastes like crap.* Treasure Island, the Mirage, Luxor - elaborate Potemkin villages, whose architects have gone through additional trouble to outfit the interiors of the facades, but they were unable to paint over the soullessness that permeates their cheap stucco constructions. And the only Elvis I saw was inside T&M on Halloween, and I know he wasn't the real article because he was skinny.

At each turn, Las Vegas disappoints. Las Vegas puts dreams in your head, and shows you photos of grinning winners as evidence that they can come true. Jeez, you say, if somebody as plain and ugly and stupid as that can be visited by Lady Luck, then surely I am next. But you are not next. Not only will you not win the jackpot, you will leave without any cash at all, and a larger credit card debt taboot. You will feel queasy from the Grade F prime rib. You will have blisters from the trek between the door of the casino and the Strip sidewalk. Your eyes will burn from the smoke that pervades all. Your dream will turn into yet another bum trip.

Viva Las Vegas!


DM


* Reminds me of a great line from Frank Zappa's The Real Frank Zappa Book - "For the record, folks: I never took a shit on stage, and the closest I ever came to eating shit anywhere was at a Holiday Inn buffet in Fayetteville, North Carolina, in 1973.