SIS: AC/DC, phantom car thieves and psycho cabbies: Mr.& Mrs. Scarlette ‘shaken all night long’

     To celebrate our one year anniversary, my significant took me to an AC/DC concert in Tacoma. For some reason, many people don’t see an AC/DC concert for the romantic gesture that it is. For some reason when I tell people about our anniversary trip, many snort a laugh and then look deep into my eyes to see if I’m joking.  

     The snort always irritates me, so I offer no explanation. But since I can’t hear you snorting, gentle readers, give you a chance. Though be warned: If you’re not the kind of person who can find romance in the pounding, ear-splitting, breast-baring, bacchanal that is an AC/DC concert,  I’m not sure why you would read my column, much less ask me what I did for my anniversary.

     Now that we’ve got that out of the way, on with the explanation.

     To begin with, I have an interesting and complex relationship with Rock N Roll. There are many reasons for this. The main reason being that my mom is a closet rock ‘n’ roll groupie, though she’s always been very strict about her double life.

     She’d never be caught dead in public with out mascara and a proper outfit; but behind those sensible shoes and collared shirts she’s a hellcat. Her patented go-to parenting tactic was drowning out my brother and me with blasted doses of Black Sabbath or Aerosmith.

     I remember the music being so loud at times my nose would run. (To this day the sound of my ears ringing is inexplicably therapeutic to me.)

     Mother Dear started me on rock at an early age. She took me to my first concert when I was in sixth grade – David Lee Roth and Poison. She bought me a sweet black t-shirt, and for the following two years I looked like I stepped right out of a trailer park: permed hair, ripped jeans, eyeliner and Converse shoes.

     Granted it was an outfit I wasn’t allowed to wear to school, but I rocked the hell out of it on evenings and weekends. 

     I’ll admit there came a time in college when I turned my back on my Rock N Roll roots.  However, it didn't take me long to realize that there is no R&B or pop song that can deliver me from a bad break up or get me through a long car ride like a rock power ballad. So I returned.

     So, you see, when my husband took me to an AC/DC concert as an anniversary gift it actually made perfect sense. I shouldn’t have to explain it. I consider attending rock concerts an American duty, right up there with eating McDonalds to cure a hangover. 

     But back to romance and AC/DC.

     AC/DC is his favorite band, not mine. Sure, I like them, but I feel like honesty is the best policy when discussing music. Still, I wholeheartedly believe that there isn’t a (white) American who doesn’t know all the words to “You Shook Me, All Night Long”. What other song has the power to make CEO’s play air guitar, women bare their breasts and strippers make the rent? 

     After my anniversary experience I now know that seeing AC/DC play that song live is like seeing the Louvre, or petting a chinchilla. If it’s not on your “bucket list” then add it.

     Even better, experiencing AC/DC live sort of made up for the fact that our hotel was obviously the hub for a major drug cartel.

    Yes, this is the part when I tell you what went WRONG on the trip, because OF COURSE something HAD to go wrong. It’s me, after all. At some point in my life I angered the Travel Gods, and I haven’t figured out how to make amends.

     Our troubles first started when we decided to save a few bucks by getting a room at the cheapest motel we could find in Tacoma. Tacoma, Washington.

     Our plan was to cab to and from our motel and the Tacoma Dome Arena. So the cab driver comes to pick us up a few hours early so that we can go to the “pre-party.” As we get into the cab, Husband decides to make sure his truck – parked in the motel’s lot – was securely locked.       

     The cab driver looks back at me and asks: “Is that your truck?”

 I thought the answer was obvious, but I answered anyway: “Yes.”

     I was like: “What? Is this a bad place to park?”

 He just mumbled something under his breath, and mentioned that the neighborhood was known for car theft.

    SERIOUSLY, he said that.

     When Husband got into the cab I started relaying the story bit by bit for him.

     By the time we showed up at the concert venue he was a hot mess. Just so you don’t take us for a couple of country rubes scared by the Big City, I’ll explain: His feelings for his truck rank somewhere between obsession and unconditional love. How could he have just abandoned his truck there to be ransacked and stolen – just to get drunk, with his wife, at a rock concert? HOW?

     Finally I suggested we just take a cab back and get his big fuel-injected mistress. Needless to say, we got back into a cab and turned right around to rescue the truck.

     On the way back, our driver was just as comforting as he’d been when I first got into his car. He made several wrong turns and interrogated us on everything from why we were leaving the concert so soon, to where we were from. I answered politely because I hadn’t put on my hardcore rock ‘n’ roll bitch-face yet, but the man next to me was a ticking time bomb.

     Then the cabbie did it.

     He slowed down real nice and deliberate, and pointed across a bridge at a tall building.

     “Do you guys recognize that?” he asked. 

     “NO,” we answered in unison. 

     “Well you should, that’s the Mormon Church,” he said, forming the sign of the cross on his chest and shuddering in fear.

     Clearly this man was bat-sh*t crazy. He was moments from taking us to his lair and chopping our bodies into pieces.

     “We’re not Mormons,” I whispered.

He informed us that this was new information to him, because “everyone in Sandpoint is Mormon.

 We sat in silence. When he dropped us off we instantly regretted telling him where we were staying. THE MAN WAS INSANE.

Now to tie up the loose ends: The truck was just fine (of course). When we finally got around to attending the concert, it was great. Asleep at the motel, I fell deep into one of those half-waking dreams in which my mother beats a cab driver’s ass with a guitar. When the car alarms started going off I was jolted awake. By the fourth round alarms neither of us could sleep.

 First there was the jumping out of bed. Then there was the “carefully peering out the window.” Then there was the anxiety of psycho cab drivers and car thieves casing the joint. Sleep wasn’t really an option. We checked out early, but happy that the truck was still in the lot and we had seen AC/DC – live.

By the way, the first song that played after we said “I do” and walked back down the aisle as husband and wife was "You Shook Me All Night Long".

Who said we weren't romantic?

Comments

[John McLellan]

Honestly, it really WAS easier to get hammered back in the days of college. We didn't own crap, so you never worried about anything getting broken or stolen. The game has changed. Not only are we hung over for much longer periods of time, but we actually have STUFF. I've heard it said, "you don't own your stuff, rather, it owns you." Your husband's truck fits that description to a T. (Me too with my damn guitars...)

[Scarlette]

Well, I don't even like him to LOOK at my camera, so I suppose its all fair.