One Jason Harper not enough for you? Check this out:
Despite what you've heard, the closest I come to being "dreamy" is when I wake up at 5 a.m. from a startling nightmare and spend the next four hours in and out of a sleep-dream state that plays out imaginary real-life scenarios, like what happens when I walk into the Mexican market down the street while it's getting held up by a man with a gun (I would, of course, attempt to disarm him and get shot in the process, and as I was dying, I'd buy a tamale, because they're so good there it might take the edge off, you know, death). I somehow doubt Dreamy Jason Harper -- who in addition to being a Little Rock newscaster owns a "new music/coffeehouse ministry" -- experiences this kind of thing.
One of the scenarios I've probably half-dreamed in the past month was meeting the girl who beaned me with a beer can at Doris Henson's final show. Oh yes. I was rocking out down front to one of my favorite bands that Friday night, weeks ago, and I drained a PBR can and casually tossed it forward. It bounced off a monitor and rolled about a foot away from trombone player Mike Walker, who sort of kicked it dejectedly, but he was dejected the whole time because of the band breaking up, not solely because of my littering. It caused no disturbance, really, but it pissed off a girl next to me. She scolded me trashedly, and I waved her off.
After the show, however, she came up to me with a crushed PBR can and asked me something to the effect of, "ya want yer can back!?" I reached to take it, but she pulled away, took a step or two back and WHAM! It struck me in the left temple. It was shocking to me and to the few who witnessed it. When I told the doorman, Kartoon, what had happened, he wanted to throw her out, but the place was closing down anyway, and I wanted to talk to her. I went up to her and tried to emit the bitterest sarcasm I could, saying, "Thanks, I really learned my lesson." But she was hammered and righteous and wanted me to repeat what I had learned. I then just tried to get away. It ruined my night and I still felt bugged the next day. I resolved never to forgive her.
Then, last Saturday, my friend Scott and I were at a fine Midtown restaurant for brunch, the kind of place where, Scott said, "everyone is preternaturally nice." So, when a friendly young blond server (who was not our server) brought us complimentary brioche, I thought it was just to tide us over and keep us happy while we waited. I looked at her and said, "Hey, don't I know you?"
(following dialogue approximated)
"Yes, but I don't want to remind you why you know me," she responded.
I was intrigued, of course, and pressed her, and she said, meekly, "We met at the Doris Henson show."
I thrust forward my open hand and introduced myself. After we shook, Scott (not realizing who she was), joked, "Hey, I'm his lawyer, so whatever it is, you can say it in front of me." (He's not my lawyer, of course.)
"I'm worried you might have to meet my lawyer," she said, laughing nervously as she walked away.
I tried to be reassuring and nice to her the rest of our stay. Because -- and you may find this shocking -- I've done a few things when drunk that I, too, regret.
All together now: 'sall good.
Tonight, I plan to hold my beer as I judge the costume contest at the Brick. Come on down! Come for the bands, Crazytalkand the Golden-Hearted Whores! Come for the judges and the parade of slutty costumes! Come for Dreamy Jason Harper!