bracelets.

When you go to a show at a bar, they mark you. This is to signify that you paid your entrance fee and that you're old enough to pay more money to the bartender. Getting marked is always a high priority for me, one that I make my prime mission after we've unloaded the equipment. See, since I never appear on stage with an instrument in hand, there's nothing to prove that I have a right to be there for free.

Different bars have a different way of marking you. Sometimes it's a stamp mark, or if it's a really high tech establishment, a Sharpied 'X' on one or both of your hands. I've woken up with these X's all over my face, after having slept with my cheek against my hand. I look like I had a much weirder night than I really did.

But some places use bracelets. They're always neon jobbies, the kind that come in huge stacks of strips, and you peel off the adhesive of one side, wrap it around your wrist and stick the opposite end to the sticky side. They're made of whatever material exists at the intersection of paper, fabric, plastic, and glue. I hate these bracelets. Whoever is running the door puts the bracelet on for you, and it's always too tight, which is restrictive and annoying, or too loose, which means it threatens to come off and lose you your bar privileges. At some point, I had to put one of myself, and I discovered that there is no right tightness. The bracelet is just irritating no matter how much it snuggles you. It reminds me of when I used to put Scotch tape on my cat's feet just to see it try and shake the tape off.

Last night, Josh's band had a show in downtown Raleigh. But we didn't go. We went somewhere else instead, and as I was holding his hand, trying carefully not to touch any of the many scratches, I thought about bracelets.