The Big Payoff

Thursday night, similar to most Thursday nights, was Help night (the Barranco club, to refresh your memory). I was fully recovered from my cold and decided to head out with the Casona gang and some of their Belgian and Peruvian friends, and boy am I glad I did! After waiting outside for a little while (normally we can waltz right in, Richard Grieco style), we walked in just as the last band was starting their set. I was expecting some sort of modern rock group with a nice brass section (the most common type of band I've seen since coming here) or maybe a hard rock or reggae act. Well I was way off, because we were treated to a band covering The Who exclusively.

Yes way.

And what a treat it was, for me at least. Now the demographic at Help tends toward the younger folks, so I was surprised to see a Peruvian, Spanish speaking band covering a British, British speaking band which enjoyed it's greatest popularity in the 1960s and 1970s. Sure, you'll see the local bands toss in a single Green Day track or maybe one from the Red Hot Chili Peppers, but 40 minutes of Roger Daltrey and company? And they even had a keyboardist jamming the organ parts (that wording is absolutely awful). I was able to get my Who fix, and my CSI: Miami and New York fix (The Who theme songs). Fortunately, things only got better from there. At about 3am I decided to call it an early night, and Kike, Jessica, Bruno, and I all headed for the taxi line outside Help (quick sidetrack: during the day on Saturdays, Help transforms into Mr. Fish. No, not the fictional supervillian or internet electronics supplier, a daytime cevicheria/bar. It is notorious because people consume copious amounts of raw fish with excessive quantities of alcohol. Now I like a nice seafood dinner and cold one as much as the next guy, but Mr. Fish seems to have the recipe for a messy afternoon.). Before we passed the final gate to enter the street I saw a fellow move towards me and say something while holding a bag of chips. I noticed that he was standing near a cart of candy, chips, sodas, second-rate wigs, and gum, so I instinctively told him "not this time, Jack" while giving him a strong "cut it out" gesture. He apparently wasn't deterred and spoke to me one more time. This time I realized he wasn't selling anything, wasn't speaking Spanish, and actually commented "nice mustache!" I suddenly was overcome with pride and gratitude for his appreciation of my soup strainer. While I like my "horseshoe" mustache, it has certainly involved sacrifices and trade-offs. For instance, try finding a girl who is attracted a mustache variety you'll find on the biker for the Village People or half of major league baseball players in 1982. All my friends (the non-female ones) have shown overwhelming support for the style, but I felt tremendously gratified to receive international recognition. He then told me he was from Melbourne, Australia, and they have an annual mustache-themed fundraiser during the month of November. Except they call it "Movember" (here in the US there are also many mustache-growing fundraisers in Movember and/or Mustache March, so I was familiar with the practice.). This tradition originated in Australia, so I was blown away to receive commendation from a true pro. I sometimes feel mustache inadequacy because of the blond hue, but I now know that I made the right decision to shun any potential female attention for the enduring glory of a horseshoe mustache. Did I have a slight hangover at work the next day? You got that right. Was I still walking on air? Brother, you better believe it.