By Terrence McCoy
By Scott Fishman
By Deirdra Funcheon
By Allie Conti
By New Times Staff
By Ryan Pfeffer
By Deirdra Funcheon
By Kyle Swenson
Irish pranksters? Far more dubious tales have been told. But I wasn't sure if I entirely believed her excuse.
That's not why I moved on. Though I wasn't officially the hostess of this ladies' night party, I sort of felt like the matriarch. I decided to check in on the couple over in a cozy spot. The young woman was a wholesome beauty from Indianapolis. She was in West Palm with a children's theater production of A Christmas Carol. The most difficult part of her role as Tiny Tim was the post-performance questions when the wee ones wondered aloud about whether she was a boy or a girl.
"I just tell them, 'I'm Tiny Tim,'" she said, her sweet baby-doll face smiling innocently.
"Do you think that will cause gender confusion for kids later in life?"
"I like to think that they're too focused on the entertainment to worry about that," Becky rationalized and then made a quick addendum. "At least, I hope."
When the band took a break, I excused myself. It wasn't just my appreciation for boys with nimble fingers and a keen sense of rhythm. I sorta liked the singer's ability to volley verbally, and I was still intrigued by the band name.
The singer, Matt, explained: "It came from pure frustration. It takes tremendous powers of concentration to bend a spoon and we put all our power and energy into getting someone to listen to notice: Hey, there's a band up here."
I understood completely. I've been a fan of local music and traveled enough to other local music scenes to know that South Florida audiences are notoriously unappreciative and inattentive. I let Matt know I could relate; his pain was mine. Yeah, I might have laid it on a little too thick, a fact amplified by my behavior when the band reclaimed their instruments it was only a matter of minutes before I joined oblivious masses too consumed by their own agendas to listen and sauntered off to start a conversation with two chicks in the pool room. Mea culpa.
When I found out that Kristen (a former O'Shea's employee) and Rachel were regulars (and rocking kickin' buzzes from the 2-4-1s), I decided to get their best stories. Rachel offered one that included her own heckling of a band.
"The singer was totally molesting the microphone, so I held up a sign that said, 'Let me be your microphone.'"
Her chutzpah resulted in the singer serenading her. I appreciated her brazen approach.
"So what do you think of the band tonight?" I asked, trying to stir things up.
"Wednesday is open mic night," Kristen replied.
"Tonight is Wednesday," I said, confused by her response since the Spoonbenders had been playing all night.
"I think only one band showed up," she shrugged, causing me to laugh out loud.
I decided not to pass the story on to Matt and the guys, since it was clearly the BOGO beverages, rather than their skills, that elicited the comment.
Before the night was over, Kristen shared her best story about the place: the time two O'Shea's bartenders chased down a purse-snatcher and returned the bag to its owner. I'd heard the tale before. Kristen, too, admitted she'd heard it secondhand. I guess that sorta made her kin. Part of being a clan, after all, is the common histories they share, the stories that get passed on: it's how legends are made.