1:37 a.m. // 12 August 2004

I was there to see the first band and the third band, no more. So it was grudgingly but politely that I sat through the second band. I have reason to be creeped out by the singer. The singer, who graduated high school a year or two ago, once said to me: "You know, ever since I was ten years old I've wanted to know what it's like to make love to an Asian woman."

The place is packed with recently ex-high-schoolers, thick with underage kids and the occasional potential MIP. A few seconds into the first song, the portly singer's shirt disappears. The next song, and his pants somehow whip themselves off, revealing thong underwear and oh so much more. (D.R., very distressed at one point: "Why doesn't he put his balls away?!") Then, the last song, and the finale, and by now D.R. is long gone: The underwear too bids adieu.

I freak out a little bit, mostly because this is on the wrong side of the law. There are so many people at the bar that radical faerie the bartender hasn't even noticed what's rattling the audience. I grab him by the shoulders and go: "I think something illegal is going on."

I didn't know if we should kill the sound; I forgot about flicking the lights or setting up a talk-back mike from behind the bar. I worried enough for all of us and the song ended without incident (other than the table of girls walking out mid-song) and the pants miraculously reappeared. THANK GOD NO COPS. I hope to never see such a minor heart-attack again, at least at M.P.'s.

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