A Fool's Errand

Welcome to the gates of Hell

Anyone who has known me for some time, say, two hours or longer, understands my affinity for Diet Pepsi.  I admit, with moderate shame, that it is a vital part of my existence.  Actually, Caffeine is a vital part of my existence.  Diet Pepsi is my preferred delivery method. Coffee drinkers have tried to convert me, offering a bigger bang and an elevated sophistication.  

I wish I liked coffee. It smells nice. There is a pseudo-intellectual air that goes with coffee drinkers and coffee shops. People read in coffee shops. Work on laptop computers.  The music is a steady diet of momcore, but that’s what Airpods are for. Coffee is also more acceptable socially than a 20oz. soda at 7am. I’m not sure why, but it is. Coffee mugs also allow for more personal expression than an aluminum can or plastic bottle.  

This makes coffee almost attractive

The first and last time I tried coffee was at my grandmother’s wake when I was in second grade.  It was a cold, gray, somber day and the sound and smell of coffee brewing offered warmth and comfort.  The beverage itself tasted like hot water with dirt mixed in. The decision was made, and I’ve held fast since.

In the ensuing years, the coffee industry has branched out, ostensibly to expand market share. It’s not Grandpa’s Sanka or Taster’s Choice anymore. Even a stalwart like Folger’s offers something like fifteen varieties of coffee in various forms. These days, there is coffee that scarcely qualifies as coffee. They’re more like liquid confections.  If I were to give it an honest try, I’d likely find something to my liking.  Then again, I don’t need another liquid vice. 

Since I don’t like coffee, I really don’t like Starbucks.  Starbucks is coffee with amour propre. My animus is likely a product of the time my sister showed me a copy of the official Starbucks guide to ordering, a Cliff’s Notes, of sorts, that she’d picked up from one of their shops. It was a primer on how to order coffee without sounding like a simpleton.  This is because Starbucks can’t be bothered with bromidic terms such as small, medium, large, and extra-large.  Instead, they encourage the use of the more sophisticated terms, short, tall, grande, and venti. 

 It could be that perceived pretentiousness, the cadged language, or the mass popularity. I’m also likely harboring resentment from the few times I’ve stopped at Starbucks for hot chocolate, which unfolds as follows.  

 I’m immediately reduced to a second-class citizen after stumbling through the ordering process, having failed to familiarize myself with the ordering guide and being unable to employ the preferred nomenclature. 

 The guy in line ahead of me rattled off esoteric verbiage as though he was an offensive coordinator sending a play to his quarterback.  The person taking his order scribbles frenetically across the man’s cup.

 The well-read glance up from their out-of-state newspapers to cast disparaging glances my way. The members of the mini-think tank rub their elevated chins and study me with equal parts contempt and sympathy.  “Public university graduate,” their disappointed eyes say.

After paying, I am dispatched to the corner to wait; the baristas can’t be bothered with such menial tasks.  The cashier will mix up my kiddie drink once she clears the line. There are no scribbles on my cup.  There is a smiley face, which I interpret as the Starbucks equivalent of a balloon.

At least with a hot chocolate, I get that fun cup clitellum that makes my drink appear to be potentially dangerous. 

My daughter has become ensnared by the coffee monster and has developed a bit of a Starbucks problem, which I suppose is better than meth.   As she doesn’t earn any income outside the home, her coffee problem is my problem.  That she likes frilly coffee isn’t a huge surprise; she’s always had sophisticated tastes.  She’s been eating oysters since she was three while detesting spaghetti.  She likes sushi, gyros, and Tika Masala, but won’t eat stir fry, tomatoes, or casseroles.  Of course, being a teen, she loves McDonald’s too. At her age, I considered McDonald’s to be haute cuisine. I assume she’ll grow out of it as I did.

 

Recently, she participated in a volleyball tournament with her school team.  Being a day-long Friday event, I took the day off from work to watch.  If only it could have been that simple.  It never is.  

The first match started at 8 am but my day off was impeded before then.  My daughter texted me from the locker room.

 Can you go to Starbucks for me pls

I’ll pay you back.

If there are two places on Earth I have no business being, they would be any campsite and any Starbucks.  I’m equally inept in both locations, though the latter is mercifully shorter-lived. I considered pretending I didn’t see the text, but she is truly her mother’s daughter.  There was a follow-up.

 

Vanilla bean Frappuccino 

and pumpkin cream chai both ventis

 

I realize this would constitute light work for most people and certainly any coffee drinker. To me, however, it was Greek.  Except without anchor words, like “gyro” or “tzatziki.”  A secret mission hidden in layers of subterfuge and code. The Starbucks nomenclature isn’t the only issue, however.  Some blame must be placed with the assault on the English language perpetrated by texters with hyperkinetic thumbs truncating sentences and abbreviating words to almost unrecognizable brevity.

 

At times, I still have the need to be the cool dad, and with my daughter stranded on campus for potentially eleven hours, it seemed like a small sacrifice on my part. The more I contemplated the favor, the more convinced I became that I could whip in and out of the closest Starbucks without incident. Besides, I had another errand to run that day.

 

My wife is an officer in the volleyball program’s booster club.  In essence, this makes me an extension of her.  As work prevented her from attending the morning session, I was enlisted to pick up the catering for the concession stand.  The assignment was simple enough.  Pick up 45 sandwiches at Chick-fil-A at 10:45. Get the receipt.  

 

The Chick-fil-A is a mile from the Starbucks, so I decided I would get my daughter’s coffee while I was out.  How bad could it be at 10:30 on a Friday morning?

 

Whatever confidence I had talked into myself dissipated with a look at the parking lot.  It looked like bumper cars at the county fair with more automobiles trying to turn in.  Most were trying to join the serpentine drive-thru line.  I wasn’t about to place my order through the ordering board.  I parked the car and practiced my order as I walked toward the door.  

When it was my turn in line, I didn’t even pretend to know what I was doing.  I recited the order as it appeared on my phone (I’d checked the pronunciation of chai prior to going inside).  I resisted the urge to turn the phone toward the cashier and let her interpret it.

The order was completed, and I slid down the counter to the pick-up area.  I was sure the worst was over until I studied my receipt. I couldn’t wrap my head around how two drinks without liquor could cost me seventeen dollars. Even at Starbucks.

A person going by the name of Larque was doing the barista heavy lifting in front of me. Larque appeared nonbinary, at least by my limited understanding. Tattoos battled piercings for epidermal supremacy. Larque had three cups at the ready.  This tipped me to the error.

“Excuse me, s–, I think there’s been a mistake.  Hold on a second.”

I returned to the cashier to clarify. “I think there was a misunderstanding,” I began. I could see the cashier reminding herself to be pleasant and patient.  “I only ordered two drinks,” I continued, showing her my receipt.  “This one and this one.”

At least I’d intended to order two drinks.  One had gotten doubled.  Of course, it was most likely my fault.  I’d been about as clear as Lake Pontchartrain after three days of heavy rain. I should have taken the ordering guide seriously years ago.  I should have paid attention.  It’s like algebra.  No, you won’t use it, but your child will.

“Oh,” said the cashier with a cheerfulness as synthetic as a pair of bowling slacks.  “Not a problem. I’ll refund you the difference.”

I thanked her profusely but refused to offer a glance in Larque’s direction.  I could feel the heat from the glare pointed at me. I’d caused extra work and may have come within two letters of misgendering an employee.  When it comes to the gender spectrum, I’m indifferent.  I do my best to be accommodating and courteous, but this was the Seven Bridges of Konigsberg.  I couldn’t detect so much as a clue.  I was providing conversation fodder that would carry them through the lunch hour. It seems the older I get, the more frequently I encounter these Larry David situations.  Except I didn’t have the gravitas of a Prius waiting outside.

The parking lot was only marginally better. Arrows painted on the pavement made as much sense to me as the order my daughter had texted.  It was 9:45 on a Friday morning, the drive-thru line was six deep, and more cars were turning into the parking lot.  Why weren’t these people working?  

The arrows led me toward the rear of the building, parallel to the drive-thru line. A female employee casually pushed a trash cart toward the dumpster without regard for oncoming traffic.  A pair of AirPods helped secure her state of oblivion. Reaching the back of the store, I realized there was no second lane for exiting. I threw the car in reverse, waiting for the girl with the trash cart who paused to address a matter on her iPhone before moving out of the way.

I waited and reversed out in a less than safe manner when I saw the opportunity.  All this

for a beverage you can get free at most tire shops. Unless you ask the counter guy for soy

milk.  In that case, you might get whacked over your venti head with a mounting iron.

An already bad parking situation had further deteriorated by the time I returned to campus.  The closest I could get my car to the door was about three hundred yards, which made carrying a thermal bag filled with chicken sandwiches and two venti coffees difficult.

 

*              *              *              *

 

Returning to the school with two cups of coffee and you would’ve thought I was Nicholas Chavez.  Girls’ heads spun as I walked by.  It’s disgusting and not something I would ever condone, but the perverts that troll schoolyards in white vans have it all wrong.  Forget the candy and use coffee as bait.  A stack of Starbucks gift cards or a Keurig and you’ll be a registered sex offender before you can say “Dirty Chai.”

Like the other girls, my daughter and her friend were pleased to see I'd successfully completed the assignment.  Several hours later, the team would be crowned champions, with the two of them leading the way. I like to thing I had a small role in their success.  Though they had no idea what I'd gone through to make it happen.

Wing Stopped

My wife was under the weather Friday as a result of medical testing that accompanies persons of her age.  This left my daughter and I to entertain ourselves for the evening.  This was not a problem; we’d planned on going to see the local university’s final home volleyball match of the season.  The only change was that it was just the two of us.

The home team lost, as they often do when we’re in attendance, sullying an otherwise solid season. Still, it was nice to get out and to have my daughter captive and engaged in something non-tech.  After the game, she phoned my wife to find out if and what she felt like eating.  Agreeing on takeout represents a disproportionate section of our family’s time-spent pie chart.  Add to that my wife not feeling well and our daughter’s general intractability, this evening figured to be even worse. I was shocked when we reached a decision in under five minutes.

My daughter had been hell-bent on Wingstop all week and was intent on realizing her obsession.  My wife and I would get something from Chipotle.  Both chains have locations between the university and our home.  Ordering ahead, I calculated we‘d be home and eating by 9:oo.

Our first stop was Wingstop where the parking lot was uncharacteristically crowded.  Not concerned, my daughter showed me her iPhone, which showed her order would be ready in three minutes.  

I don’t know what it is about our local Wingstop but invariably, the condition of the tile floor is as though gravity doesn’t exist.  Standing still for more than thirty seconds is like getting caught in a glue trap.  Walking sounds like Q-bert hopping on a cube to change its color.  With the additional traffic, the floor muck was even worse. 

When we entered, the counter area looked like that of an airline shortly after a canceled flight.  Confusion, anger, and mild panic reigned. A family friend who had spotted us as we entered came over to say hi and give us the lay of the land.  She’d been waiting an hour for her order, and no one could tell her when or even if it would be ready.  She’d been sent out for party food, as people were gathered at her house for the Mike Tyson-Netflix debacle boxing match later that evening.  

Even on a good day, our local Wingstop will never be commended for efficiency.  Furthermore, quickness and communication do not seem to be among the core values. The fight night spike was only exacerbating these deficiencies.  The kitchen crew appeared to be overwhelmed, confused, defeated.  Still, they toiled with their large metal tossing bowls and cardboard serving trays. There was plenty of motion, but not much discernable progress. 

As I scanned the room, I noticed a trend.  It was that crowd.  Low-rent hipsters.  Dudes with big earrings and thick gold chains. Spoilers and glasspacks on Toyota Camrys. I moved two steps back and came out of my shoes.

There was a small collection of orders in paper bags on the carryout rack.  Despite what the app on my daughter’s phone claimed, hers was not among them.  The chaos in the front of the house was surpassed only by that in the back of the house.  The crew worked steadily if not quickly, casting glances that clearly said, “I don’t get paid nearly enough for this shit.”  One female employee left the kitchen area and did not return while we were there. Every so often, an employee would go to the carryout rack to recheck the orders, looking like an eager child at Christmastime checking presents under the tree.

A college football game of low interest was on a television in the back of the dining area.  Closer to us, near the soda fountain, was another television tuned to an NBA game.  Half of the screen had turned black as if struck by a blunt object. I can only imagine what happened, but it added to the restaurant’s overall aesthetic.  

The girl working the counter asked my daughter her name with the intent of checking on her order. It still wasn’t on the carryout rack.  When the worker went to the kitchen to inquire, my daughter tapped my shoulder.  With wide eyes and her mouth agape, she showed me her phone after realizing she’d sent her order to the wrong Wingstop. The app defaulted to the location closest to where the order was placed.  With the counter girl on a wild goose chase, or chicken chase, rather, we slipped out inconspicuously. 

My daughter was uncharacteristically contrite.  I could empathize; I’d done the same thing in the past.  It was Friday night and driving to the other location figured to only tack another twenty minutes onto our excursion. Besides, there was some question as to whether she would’ve gotten anything out of the location we were leaving.

We opened the moon roof, turned up the stereo, and enjoyed the brisk autumn night.   

She thought it would be a good idea to call the other location to make them aware of our mistake and that we were on our way.  By that time, it could've been on the carryout shelf as long as forty minutes.  When the phone began ringing on the car's Bluetooth, my daughter instructed me to do the talking.  The phone was answered on the second ring, cutting the debate short with me on the losing end.  The girl who answered the phone seemed to have no idea what I was trying to convey but thanked me for the courtesy.  We whipped across the street, collected the waiting Chipotle order, and made the fifteen-minute drive to our second Wingstop of the night.

Though also busy, the second Wingstop was nothing like the first.  However, what it lacked in quantity, it compensated for in quality.  My daughter’s order, due nearly an hour ago, was not ready. However, seeing the condition of this restaurant offered hope that it might happen, if not soon. The floor was sticky but not as bad as the other store.  Both televisions were in good working order.  

Leaning against the counter was an older woman, late sixties, early seventies, perhaps.  Heavy set, short, tapered gray hair, liver spots, cankles.  She was wearing an oversized t-shirt, gym shorts, and Adidas slides on purple feet.  She emitted a heavy bitchy granny vibe. We assumed she was like the other dozen people in the room—waiting for her carryout order   When we arrived, she was haggling with the counter girls over fountain drink prices. I know the popular term for this type of person is Karen.  Think of this as Karen’s diabetic mother, Granny Karen, perhaps.  

“How much for the large?” asked Granny Karen.  “And the small?  I mean, the cups aren't that different."

Both proved to be more than she was in the mood to spend and after a half-assed attempt to get it comped, she amended her request to water.  Water was complimentary.  She asked for the largest cup they had.

We assumed this was another customer waiting for her order.  It would take time for the picture to develop but we watched her try to get a large drink for the price of a small.  This didn’t work but she was offered a cup of ice water.  She requested the largest cup they had. Moments later, she turned her attention toward the inventory of toilet tissue in the ladies’ restroom.

“You know, she huffed, someone’s gonna come out here with their pants around their ankles looking for paper towels if you don’t get that filled.  You don’t want that, do ya?”

“We might be out,” said one employee, looking to her coworker for assistance.

"Well, said Granny Karen, "I always keep 24 rolls in each of my bathrooms.  Twenty-four downstairs and twenty-four upstairs."

Evidently this woman has very active bowels.  I'm no dietician, but I'd guess her fast-food regiment is likely at the core of the issue. 

The drink negotiation managed to alert customers to Granny Karen’s presence.  By the time the toilet tissue matter was broached, everyone was watching and listening.  My daughter and I looked at each other with smiles that threatened to become uncontrollable fits of laughter.  The issue was unresolved when Granny Karen turned her focus to the state of the floor behind the counter.

“You’re gonna slip and fall if you don’t clean that grease up back there,” she cautioned. 

“It gets pretty messy back here when we’re busy,” said one of the workers. “That’s why we wear shoes with good traction,” she added, pointing to her Sketchers.  

“Not that good,” said Granny Karen, ostensibly just to be argumentative.  She would’ve loved the gravity’s seatbelt condition of the floor across town.  

On the other side of my daughter was a young woman waiting for her order.  Our eyes met and we exchanged expressions that were somewhere between this is hilarious and someone should tell that woman to mind her own damned business.

My daughter’s name was called and after seventy-five minutes and two Wingstop locations, she received her order.  We went over the fountain to fill her drink cup, still on the verge of laughing.  When we returned to the front of the store, Granny Karen was gone. The show was over. Normal operations had resumed.

On the sidewalk, returning to our car, my daughter and I saw it at the same time.  Granny Karen, leaving Little Caesar’s next door with an associate carrying her large pizza.

“Hello?” said my daughter, spotting Granny Karen at the same time I did.

"No way," I added.  I could no longer contain my laughter.  At that point, the backstory of Granny Karen began to develop.

Her car was parked on the far side of the lot.  It was a mid-90s Cadillac Brougham with widespread body damage though nothing significant.  It appeared to have been involved in multiple sideswipes.  It fit the profile.

“Just put it in the front seat, honey,” instructed Granny Karen, moving the driver’s side with her large cup of water.

“Wow,” marveled my daughter.  “She couldn’t even carry her own pizza to her car?”  And what was she doing at Wingstop?” 

From the inside of our car, we had a clear view inside Little Caesar’s.  A handwritten note was taped to the bathroom door.  NO PUBLIC RESTROOM.

It all made sense.  While waiting for her pizza, Granny Karen was denied a complimentary beverage and access to the Little Caesar’s shitter.  This prompted her to waddle next door to Wing Stop, where, as a non-paying customer, she most certainly carpet bombed the facilities and subsequently had become disproportionately concerned with the store’s toilet tissue situation.  In the process, she managed to finagle a free cup of water for her trouble.

“Textbook Karen,” observed my daughter as we shared a tear-inducing laugh.  Pulling out of the parking lot, I noticed that both sides of the Cadillac had creased doors and quarter panels as though Granny Karen had been beating and banging at Bristol.  For fun, I beeped the horn at her.  By being a pain in the ass, she’d made my daughter and me forget what a pain in the ass the last hour had been.  And for that, we were grateful.  

No Hat, No Cattle

No boots to scoot.  Taking in Diamond Rio from the not-so-cheap seats.

It is safe to say that without my wife, my social life would be almost nonexistent.  She has been dragging me out of the house for 20-plus years and I still get butterflies of reticence each time.  Last week while watching our daughter’s volleyball practice, my wife casually mentioned having tickets to something called the Cattle Baron’s Ball and gauged my interest in attending.  It was that coming Saturday night, four days away.

Making autumn plans on Saturday is always dicey due to my devotion to a certain Burnt Orange-clad football team.  The game that day was set to kick at 11am, freeing my evening. Unless of course, my team lost, and I spent the rest of the day in a depressed state of pointless lamentation.  That didn’t seem likely, however.

The Cattle Baron’s Ball, as my wife explained, is a fundraiser for the American Cancer Society with an obvious Western theme. Urban Cowboy with hedge funds.  Appetizers, or hors d’oeuvres in this type of setting, would be provided along with dinner, an open bar, and live entertainment.  The band was Diamond Rio, not to be confused with Diamond REO, or REO Speedwagon (d. 2024, thank you, Kevin Cronin’s ego). Diamond Rio came on the national scene in the 1990s when country singers sported mullets and bolo ties. 

As with most social opportunities, I remained noncommittal.  My wife had a table to fill and put me on standby should other more interested parties prove unavailable.  

Saturday, I learned I was her plus-one.  As I mentioned, this was a Western-themed event, or cowboy after-five, as I refer to it.  I haven’t a stitch of Western wear and had less than two hours to cobble together something presentable.  I’ve often considered acquiring a cowboy hat, mostly for ironic pairings.  Given my passion for the Texas Longhorns, a pair of cowboy boots might be cool, but clearly not at the top of my priority list. With my daughter’s first club volleyball tuition payment having gone out this week, I would not be splurging. Nor will I before next summer.

When I was young, my mother considered a pair of boots to be an essential part of my winter wardrobe. To her ever-concerned mind, sneakers were not appropriate for cold, wet weather, and cold, wet feet, of course, lead to illness which nobody wanted.  As such, each November, she’d take me to a Western store for a new pair of Dingo boots that I would doggedly resist wearing for the next four months.  You can play football with wet feet; you can't in cowboy boots. My wife could at least borrow our daughter’s boots.  Devoid of options, I went with jeans, white shirt, sports jacket, and Jordans.  I’m not Phil Lynott, the cowboy life is not the life for me. 

The Ball was held on a ranch a few miles south of our home.  From the outset, it was evident that this was something of a big deal.  A valet took our car, and with it, six months of Costco gas receipts, an empty Diet Pepsi can, various fast-food napkins, and likely a pair of our daughter’s dirty volleyball socks. 

We received VIP wristbands and after a quick look around, I was certain this was not the average, run-of-the-mill, Coors Light-chugging, Saturday night shitkickers’ hoedown. The men dressed like Bret Maverick and many of the women resembled Dana Delany’s character in Tulsa King. Others paired short skirts with boots. The majority of guests wore cowboy hats. Guys end up looking either like country singers or used car salesmen of ill repute.  My wife and I had barely entered the tent when people started pushing booze.  There was a local lager with a drop-in.  From there, I was summoned to a table where a distillery was pouring whisky called Same Old Moses.

Cattle barons enjoy a good whisky in the evenings once the boots have been pulled off and gauchos have been escorted off the property. Unfortunately, I never developed a taste for whisky.  When it comes to liquids, my palate ceased expansion when I was twenty-three. Except for the occasional tropical libation, I never got beyond beer.

“What’s your gateway whisky?” I asked. 

There was such a thing, and I was told all about it, as a sample was poured.

It was smooth with a satisfying burn that traveled quickly.  Non-stop service to the frontal lobe with access to the decision-making lounge. I understood the appeal, but it was far too stout for me. I was out of my depth and needed to get back to the penny slots.  I went to the bar and ordered a Pennsylvania Budweiser, Yuengling.  

Outside the VIP tent, a circle had been cordoned off.  I found it occupied by a tag team of fire twirlers.  A country and western band played behind them, forming a peculiar experience.  I had excused myself to visit the restroom.  Guests stood around the circle snapping photos and video of the display.  By the time I returned, the crowd had dissipated, the fire twirling having exhausted its shelf life.  

Inside the main barn, the guests took their seats at assigned tables waiting to be served dinner.  As this was a fundraiser, buzzes were suspended while horrific stories of cancer were shared via video and in-person testimony.  It’s been said many times and many ways, but cancer does indeed suck.

After a fine dinner, the auction began. I knew from my surroundings that this was going to be more lucrative–and expensive than the typical fundraising auction.  We weren’t going to be bidding on three hip-hop dance lessons or automobile detailing packages. Cancer is not only a bastard, it’s an expensive bastard.  It was going to take some nice carrots to make these horses trot.

I find auctions fascinatingly irritating. They add an element of obnoxiousness to otherwise staid events.  Every auctioneer I’ve ever seen looks like Jeff Foxworthy, with maybe the occasional Kix Brooks peppered in.  These characters combine vaudeville with used car sales acumen to milk every dollar possible out of the attendees.  Their repartee is drawn directly from 1001 Dad Jokes. 

The most notable thing about auctioneers is the rapidity at which they can speak.  I don’t know if one is born with this ability, it is cultivated, or they simply take amphetamine suppositories prior to showtime.  Whatever the case, these dudes move their tongues so fast one would think they’d be popular with the ladies.  They should probably ditch the dad jokes. 

A live auction combines multiple variables impacting outcomes. They allow people to overpay for things they don’t need. Open bars help.  I once bought a very expensive hockey ticket when I’d had too much to drink.  Other than my own personal fulfillment, no charity was involved.  Live auctions also allow people the opportunity to flex their wealth in front of other members of their income tax bracket.  If this doesn’t work, a good auctioneer isn’t above shaming. 

“What are you, cattle barons or ranch hands?  Get dem dur paddles up in the air!”

I had borrowed a dollar from a ranch hand to tip the bartender.  My paddle remained flat on the table for the duration of the night.  Besides, I have no real desire to kill a large horned creature in Africa.

A line dance demonstration followed the auction.  I had thought–and fervently hoped–this trend had died, taking with it, Mo Betta shirts. Audience participation was stout, enthusiastic, and largely female.  After a brief lesson, the boot scooters were left to their own devices.  Men joined the fray, and the scene took on the look of a pharmaceutical ad.  Rheumatoid arthritis.  Probably Humira.

“Worst opening act ever,” I huffed to my wife.  This was no off-the-cuff remark.  I saw Limp Bizkit open for Primus.  I was convinced I’d witnessed the nadir. 

Diamond Rio took the stage to the delight of the crowd, many of whom, like my wife, were fans during the band’s halcyon days in the 1990s. Fueled by the combination of alcohol and live music, the dance floor in front of the stage was packed with revelers.  I watched from my seat at the table.  The band was tight, and I was surprised at how many of their songs I recognized from my days working in a redneck stronghold in college.  I have to say, it was good to see people enjoying themselves.

This is only the second country music concert I’ve attended.  From that small sample size, I can say country performers express a delight and appreciation for their fans that rock acts are too cool to convey.  The band didn’t force feed the audience new material, tinker with alternate arrangements, or withhold their hits. Diamond Rio understood the assignment.

The night air had turned cold by the time we funneled outside to await the valets.  Not surprisingly, they were efficient, and within five minutes we were in our car. During the drive home, my wife, proud owner of a guitar pick courtesy of Diamond Rio lead singer Marty Roe, commented on how much she’d enjoyed the evening.  Though I’d never come right out and admit it, I was glad that she, yet again, dragged me out of the house.