Rock 'n Roll Girls (and Scotty)

So I went to this rock show on Saturday night. The band was what Scotty described as "psychobilly." If that doesn't give you a clear enough picture, the band's name was the Flaming Cocks.

Not particularly my bag, but it was solid, driving stuff with a stand-up bass (I am pro-stand-up bass). It was also "posledni koncert," meaning the last one, which may or may not have given the Cocks even more energy. When I saw Phish on their "farewell tour" (a stretch of a comparison, I know), they played with no energy, so I guess it can swing both ways.

But rather than give another boring concert review, we're here to talk about something important, and it ain't the music. It starts, of course, with the opposite sex. At this punk show, I was amazed to find loads of females. Especially young ones. I bring this up not because I'm a pervert or a cradle robber or whatever you may think, but rather because it was nice to see. If there's one thing I like, it's tough broads. And if you're a 16-year-old at a show like this, you are tough. Not that they were in any danger, but this band does have a poster of a naked, Barbie Doll-proportioned cartoon woman bending at the waist and, over her shoulder, beckoning you with a finger.

American girls (in general) don't go to shows like this. They're not into the music, and even if they were, it's too intimidating of a place for them. I say man up, ladies.

Maybe I'm being unfair, and of course it's an over-generalization. Maybe American dudes are more aggressive than Czech dudes, which would make these events particularly unpleasant for young ladies. In fact, this probably is true. But it is also true that American girls don't listen to much rock 'n roll. And that's a damn shame. I see a direct correlation between a female's interest in rock and her toughness.

Scotty is lacking in neither of these things. Though he works the same pansy job as the rest of us (English teacher), the guy parties hard. He looks very Italian. Unrelated you may think, but we often say he'd be a good extra on the Sorpranos, and accordingly, he looks like he knows how to handle himself. He also used to front a ska punk band, thus is his commitment to the sub-genre and it's related subsidiaries.

After the concert and as people slowly filed out of Rock Cafe, the two of us hung around with a third teacher, Conrad, and drank ourselves some beers. Scotty Bertucci likes to drink. Eventually as the muscles in his neck went slack, essentially putting his head on a slinky, we knew it was time to go home. The feeling was stamped with an exclamation point when Mr. Bertucci really lost control of his head and it came down on the corner of a metal counter. He must have caught himself before full impact, but it did leave a small bleeding mark below his eye. Having been drinking myself and looking somewhere else, I didn't notice until I turned back.

"What the fuck is that?" I said in a not angry but distressed way as I noticed a few small tears of blood dripping out his cheek. Conrad explained, and we left.

Outside we parted ways. Conrad headed for the metro, and Scotty and I to Lazarska, the night tram hub. On the way I picked up a "kureci rizek" (friend chicken sandwich), always swimmin' in mayo, which I must hold away from myself and shake some of that sloppy sauce off before eating. The mayo is good and quite necessary, but I prefer a light spackling rather than a gallon. You may now feel a bit queasy, but at 2 a.m. after a few beers, it's damn good.

Scotty made the inferior choice of some dry chicken legs, and chomped on those babies like he was goin for marrow. I briefly lost track of him as I checked the schedule once at the stop, but then found him again when he yelled at a youngish gypsy prostitute, who had been hassling him, to "fuck off." He sounded like a snarling, drunken bear.

My tram came first, so I peaced out and left him waiting. He got on his a few minutes later, and (as I later found out) woke up at the end of the line. You'd be surprised how often this happens to us.