"I love your shirt," the big eyed, curly headed girl said as I was making my way toward the stage to watch a local band (Cowboys and Indian) impersonate ZZ Top complete with beards. "It's fucking awesome."

I'd been at the Launchpad for over four hours, my band had played a set performing They Might Be Giants covers, and no one (outside of my band) had even mentioned my rather subtle costume. I knew it might happen this way. I even had to get one of the guys in my band to read the shirt ("I just saw the black eye, but now I get it"). My brother said, "You look like a guy in jeans and a t-shirt," not condescendingly, just as a reminder that most people don't look too hard at the not so obvious.

Earlier in the night, my band was about to go on. We were following a band that did David Bowie circa Ziggy Stardust, everyone in costume and make-up. They also had a couple of hot chicks as backup singers. It was a big BIG production.

"We have to follow that?" All four of us said at least once as we were setting up. "Fuck."

Full Speed Veronica was about the change the mood.

We opened with "Dead", two singers (I sang lead), a guitar, and melodica. No drums. No bass. And none of us were wearing an over the top costume. We were uber-subtle.

But the crowd cheered, sang along, and propelled us through what felt like a fifteen second set (it was probably more like 15 minutes). It was the biggest crowd we've ever played for, and it felt great.

I had to be there all night. My drums were performing on stage as part of the backline. So, the entire night, the bass drum proclaimed "Full Speed VerOnica" for anyone who wanted to read the silver Sharpie lettering.

We have video of our set, and I'll put it up on YouTube sometime this afternoon. I'd describe what my costume was, but I'm not supposed to talk about it.

I was the driver, so it was water, a couple of beers, and nothing else for most of the night. I still felt dehydrated and beat by the end, and I wouldn't get to bed before three. As I walked to my car, ready to go home (it was around 1:45), a car took a 270 degree left turn and crunched into a parked car. The drunken car had its hazards on (I guess if you're drunk, putting your hazards on warns everyone...but doesn't do much for parked cars), sat there looking at what it had done for about fifteen seconds and then screeched off (luckily hitting no more cars...at least for the block or so before it was out of my sight).

It was the big Halloween party night, even though Halloween is on Monday. There were tons of people downtown, but the cops had put up a roadblock the night before. Saturday night, I'd find out on my way to dropping off my gear at the practice space and then onto home, was about house parties.

I'd seen a couple of cops on the way to the bar, but none on my way out of downtown. Our practice space is in a rather remote location near the airport (so no noise restrictions). There is a large apartment complex spread about a block away. As I turned two blocks away from the space, I found all the cops. Okay, not all of them, but about seven cars and a canine unit. They lined the street. Some officers were standing in the street. But nothing was happening, I didn't overreact, and they let me pass on my way.

There must have been a party or three at the apartment complex, and, I guess, the cops were waiting for drunks to start driving away.

After dropping off my gear, I drove through the neighborhood. Cars lined streets that were usually empty. People stood in the middle of the road (I guess having conversations), looking at me like I was driving through their living room. Many cars were "parked" (lights on, engines running) along or in the road. Some people were puking. Some people just talking, maybe arguing about who was going to drive or which way to go. If anyone wonders why zombies are so hot right now, the scenes of somewhat apocalyptic drunkenness and desolation I saw on the way back would explain a lot. And I live in a nice neighborhood.

I dodged them all. I got home, took my makeup off, poured a shot of tequila, drank in silence and climbed into bed.

Matt Worley slept for about six hours Sunday morning.