A few years ago, on a hellishly hot Texas day, on a shadeless sidewalk, I waited in line outside a packed club behind a young woman. She was in her early twenties, short, and looked like she’d climbed hapless and confused out of a dumpster full of costumes from a B-western. We were in line to see Ty Segall, the show was starting, and everyone within earshot was informed that they were at capacity and starting “1 in, 1 out.” This was apparently a trigger for the woman to start shrieking and whining like a six year old.
“But I want to see Tyyyyy… Tyyyyyyyy… I want to go see Tyyyyyyyyyyyyy…”
I don’t know why I was thinking about this, I hate that girl.