He had said, “Hey, my band is playing tomorrow night. You should come check us out.”

Always up for live music, I took note of the band’s name and the bar they were playing at. I mentioned it to Emmy, a fellow live music fan, and it was set.

I’m not sure what we were expecting, but that wasn’t it. The first song was… bad. Something about what you get when you love a real man and a lot of fondling of a football. Backup singers in bikini tops and pigtails who spanked each other. The next song, after an elaborate costume change, was about a former cowboy who opened up a lingerie store. I was hesitant to look over at Emily. Would she ever forgive me?

During the third song, I leaned over. “We don’t have to stay. Anytime you’re ready….”

“Maybe it will get better…”

We persevered through two more songs. At which point she caught my eye, laughed, and said, “Ready?”

As we walked out the door, ever the optimist, she noted, “Some of the riffs weren’t so bad. And you can tell they practice. Each song has quite the choreographed routine to go with it.”

“If only they put as much effort into the music…”

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