Every Day is Like Sunday

One shot and probably only the hardcore crowd cared anyway.

Movieland was doing one screening of the concert film, "Morrissey 25: Live," tonight and since I've never seen the Moz live (there's a story there because I was secretly given tickets, but didn't find them until after the show), it seemed like the thing to do.

Taking a night off from dating I invited a Smiths fanatic to join me, thinking that he would blend in with an audience of what I was sure would be entirely middle-aged men.

Actually, there was a handful of my gender represented, but Y chromosomes abounded.

The film was shot at a show at Hollywood High last spring and it must have been a show advertised only through a fan site because every person in the crowd was an over-the-top Morrissey fanatic.

Hell, it looked like most of them had some sort of Morrissey or Smiths tattoo (including the friend with me).

For that matter, a surprising number of people in tonight's audience had on Morrissey t-shirts.

The fan fawning sometimes went over the top when the Moz would hand his microphone to an audience member and let them gush about how great he was, but it was hardly surprising.

If he'd handed the mic to me, I'd have told him that he was totally rocking his bold-patterned shirt with no hint of a paunch, despite being 50-plus.

A worthy accomplishment.

He was in fine voice, but then he's really aged from a melancholic youth to a melancholic crooner.

Does the body rule the mind?
Or does the mind rule the body?
I dunno.

He didn't look especially happy or into performing despite the adoring crowd, but he never really did.

And because he is who he is, he repeatedly changed shirts, all of them showing off his fine physique until he eventually just rips his shirt off.

Well done, sir, especially for a 54-year old.

After being reminded that it's my life to wreck my own way and that meat is murder, the show ends and the faithful are turned out into the night, both onscreen and off.

The lesson here? Every day is silent and grey.

But rather than dwelling on misery, we make the short drive to En Su Boca to eat, arriving to hear Interpol playing.

Waiting for the hostess, two armed cops in vests arrive, looking grim.

Just as I am about to ask if there's going to be a raid, one puts his hands up and says, "We're just here to eat."

When they take bar seats, we choose the patio.

The weather is perfect for it and the music mix is to my taste - Twin Shadow, Cat Power and Grizzly Bear.

I order queso fundido cheese dip, which is more like a layer of melted chihuahua cheese over Chorizo and peppers than a dip, but I'm starving by this point, so it serves its purpose.

Anyway, it wouldn't be right for me to feel too happy or satisfied after an hour and a half of Morrissey's moaning about how bad his life is.

To quote the Moz, what difference would it make?

And, to answer his question, the mind rules the body, but only for so long.