Let me regale you with one such tale that occurred about a year ago. My dad, your typical straight-laced, principal type that he is has a strange obsession with the band Metallica. I really don’t understand his taste in music. It’s all, “hell yeah, biker rock” type stuff when he sits behind a desk all day and balances budgets and reprimands children. It’s beyond me. Perhaps it’s the mid-life crisis knocking on his door talking, I DON’T KNOW. When it comes to him, I live by the “Don’t ask” rule.
Anyway, he bought tickets to the Metallica (Lamb of God was also playing) concert in Oakland. Granted, I hate Oakland with a passion. Since my dad is also a cheap-ass, he makes us stay in the cheap, unsafe part of town. Not really sure if there is a “safe” part of Oakland anyway, but you get my point. The hotel we usually stay at when we’re in Oakland… someone actually got murdered in the lobby. This is the kind of hardcore shit that little white girls such as myself shouldn’t even venture into. I’d end up in a ditch if I was by myself.
So here we are, in an area that makes me visibly nervous, to go see a metal show with my parents. Sounds fun right? Oh, it was a blast. We all stuck out like sore thumbs. Luckily I had the good sense to wear my See You Next Tuesday shirt with the bloody cat on it (don’t ask), so I blended in for the most part. We get our seats. My dad is really getting into it, it was scary. And scarring. Halfway into the show, some biker dude behind us takes out some weed and starts smoking. My mom all the while is having a fit because 1. she hates that kind of music and 2. the dude is tokin’ up behind us. So she told me, and I quote, “Meghan, don’t breathe. You’ll get high.” Don’t breathe… okay, mom, I’ll get right on that. Then my dad left and was gone until the end of the show. And sorry mom, I did breathe.
Top five most awkward nights of my life.
