Frank is a good guy who came by my office a couple of weeks ago just to chat. He is one of those people with whom you know you have a connection, but in the ebb and flow of life and work, you never seem to make it happen. Recently, Frank wrote me and said we should go hear Cubensis, a Grateful Dead cover band, in Huntington Beach. It was last Tuesday night, and he wanted to leave at 8:30. That’s an hour to the bar, two hours or more there, and an hour back. We both had to work the next morning, and I was hesitant to say yes, but I did in the end because sometimes you just have to do something fun the way you do your work—plow ahead no matter how you feel. So I agreed, and after a long day, Frank showed up at my place at 8:30, and we headed toward the beach in his convertible. Two middle-aged men going to a Grateful Dead cover band concert in a convertible in southern California. The clichés hung over us like the smog in the valley.

But we were no cliché. We had a tremendous talk about life, work, and women on the way west, and by the time we found the Marina Bar and Grill, we were in fine spirits. The bar itself was worth the drive. There were certainly clichés there: old hippies with gray ponytails and tie-died shirts, young hippies with exposed bellies and tattoos, two college professors looking for trouble on a weeknight in California. We did not find any trouble, but we found Craig, the lead guitarist for Cubensis. He was affable and fun, but he had to see to a friend who was carried out of the bar by the bouncer (too many drugs of too many varieties). We spoke about the band playing at the Buffalo Center and speaking to Frank’s class, which is on The Grateful Dead. He left us with a quick turn when he heard his bandmates begin playing.

At the first chord the dance floor was full of clichés, but it was hard to be critical because everyone was having such a good time. Smiling, happy, people sang every word to every song and let their bodies channel the music. And the music was good. I know of maybe one or two Dead songs, but the ones I heard covered were terrific. At one point the band sang C.C. Rider, and I said to Frank that I didn’t know that was a Dead song. “It isn’t,” he said, but if they ever covered it, this band will do it.” Interesting. Everyone was in a great mood, and so was I, and I only had a couple of Fat Tires.

At the break Craig came back to close the deal with us, and we shook hands. Frank saw a woman he had danced with from a previous concert, and called her over. It took him a minute to remind her of who he was, but she eventually repeated some things back to him that convinced him that she in fact had remembered him. They laughed and shared stories of the evening. Then she turned to me and said, “And I remember you too.” I smiled and looked at Frank before I turned back to her and said “You do?” “Oh, yes,” she said, “you were at the House of Blues, and we had a terrific time. It was awesome.” “Yes, it was,” I said smiling. 

Frank and I winked at each other and decided it was time to head back. We had another good talk during the drive back, and I was in bed by 1:30. Not a bad night for a cliché like myself, with just a touch of grey. Rock on.