On Saturday, we went to see Walter Sickert and the Army of Broken Toys along with The Dead Milkmen and I wanted to write this amazing post about it. I had a few choice lines written out in my head about how intimate the club felt, and the way Rome pumping through the loud speakers added to the atmosphere, but …

Listen, unless you’ve been to a punk rock show in a small club, it’s not something you’ll understand. The feel of the music, the love of the crowd, the way my husband looks fuckhot when he goes into full on show mode, ready to protect me in the case a pit opens up too close. The experience is raw, erotic, and transcendent.

Instead, all I’m going to post is this picture of a ukulele. Sitting there, bathed in red light, provocative and lurid as it tempts and teases the potential for the night. This, this right here, was Saturday night. Wonderful beyond description, but only to those who can see it.

I will tell you that when Walter Sickert came out, he described it as a wet dream, and I cannot agree more. From the moment this pagan god of rock unleashed his first note, I was in another place and another time where everything was sensual and wonderful. My body was liquid. Music lived in my veins. The security guard who lived on the speakers was a predator stalking potential harm. Catlike in the way he mounted and dismounted his perch. Every member of the band was a deity made flesh deserving of worship. I fell in love with each one over and over again. My husband was, as I mentioned before, a fuckhot protector poised for action. And then The Dead Milkmen took the stage and I blacked out from sheer bliss.

If you ever have a chance, go see Walter Sickert and the Army of Broken Toys. If not for yourself, then for the ukulele.