The trip to Tucson was amazing, and despite my better judgment, the whirlwind of activity over the weekend made me miss living there. I saw six different bands, went to a party in honor of a US congressman, watched my friend Bruce run a marathon around a strip mall, played pool in a roadhouse smelling strongly of vomit, shopped for records with Al, and ate at the Mexican restaurant where The Keelhauler once stole a napkin used by Jonathan Richman. And much, much more, largely fueled by the Pabst Blue Ribbon sold in cans for $1.50 apiece at the Congress.

The show at the Congress on Friday night was packed. I got to the lobby early and waited for twenty minutes at the bar for my friend Pamela, drinking free Diet Coke poured by a cute bartender who called me "sweetie." She figured I'd been stood up, and sympathized by revealing that as a child, she'd been ostracized from her girl scout troop for bringing "packaged cookies" when it was her turn to provide refreshments.

Pamela arrived, and following extended indecision on my part regarding whether or not I should change my outfit, we went to dinner at La Indita with three friends.

The show itself was amazing, including the fact that Al had followed through on his promise to put me on the guest list. There were three bands, all featuring Al (it was his CD release party). He is like the king of Tucson, or the ambassador of goodwill, or something--beloved from Tucson to Berlin if not farther, and a damn fine musician, to boot. He describes himself as shy, which is disingenuous, as while he is unassuming, he also manages to command the center of attention.

I was happy to see Gila Bend, whom I've loved for a long time via their two CDs, but never seen. They were loud and hilarious and surprisingly tight for a band that almost never plays together. Tommy Larkins, who normally drums with Jonathan Richman (laconically, and at the volume level of a drinking fountain) was spectacular and flamboyant. I was later disheartened to learn that Loren Dircks, their amazing, hick-style singer and author of such great, great songs as "The Ballad of the Postapocalyptic Pig Farmer" and "Dogs with Bandanas" is in fact Republican. And so are my illusions shattered one by one...

Anwyay, the audience loved it, but by the end of their set, Pamela had had enough, and was sitting down, taking notes for an essay about the evening, noting details like the enormous nude painting above the bar, and the acid-washed jeans on the guy behind me. (SO HOT.)

At her request, I followed her to her hotel at Speedway and Stone and watched until she'd rushed inside and slammed the door. I observed no miscreants, but it's better to be safe than sorry.

I went back to see the rest of Al's show, which is apparently where all the miscreants were, and stood in the back, near the sound booth, drinking PBR from a can. Feeling a tap on my arm, I turned to find a strange young man with long, unkempt black hair, extending one weak-looking, pale hand. He asked me if I had a pen. Avoiding his gaze, I opened my purse and looked inside, finding the pen I'd swiped the week before from the swanky hotel I stayed in while attending a wedding. I gave him the pen and turned back around toward the stage. I hoped he wasn't writing down his phone number. Moments later, I heard an alarm go off, and realized that he must have leaned against the exit door despite a prominent "EMERGENCY EXIT-- ALARM WILL SOUND" sign. I turned, and sure enough, he was standing there, a white scrap of paper in one hand, looking slightly self-conscious. I turned back to the stage, rolling my eyes. The alarm droned on, to everyone's dismay, although Al (pro that he is) continued playing undisturbed. Suddenly, someone grabbed my arm and pulled me almost off my feet. The creepy guy, a firm grasp on my forearm, backed up against the emergency door, opening it, and dragging me along with him. Shaking my arm free, I said, "No!" (good comeback!) and stepped back as his momentum carried him through the door. (With my pen!!) The door slammed shut, effectively locking him out, as there is no hardware on the exterior.

This being Tucson, I wasn't really surprised by the encounter, but I was slightly annoyed that no one even noticed it, more annoyed by the freak-magnet implications of his interest in me. It doesn't pay to indulge in "what-if"s, but a number of scenarios did cross my mind as I stood there, in the dark, in the back of the club. I considered approaching the doorman and describing the guy, but figured that the chance of him returning would be low. I also figured that, this being the Congress, the doorman would likely ask me what I expected him to do about it, and snicker audibly as I walked away. As it turns out, I didn't see the guy again.

I drove to my friend Carolyn's after the show, a mile away. There was a police cruiser on every block, lights blazing. The car behind me was pulled over on Stone by a motorcycle cop. Ahead, as I turned onto Speedway, lights flashed as far as I could see. I imagined it was a road block set up to catch my would-be abductor, and I wondered about what he'd written on that scrap of paper. All's well that ends well, of course, but I'm stuck on one thought: I sure do miss that pen.

Star of the day. . .Patty Hearst