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31
S A T U R D A Y
When the Jakob Dylan–fronted Wallflowers take the stage tonight, I’m absolutely positive that lurking in the backstage shadows will be proud papa Bob himself. How I am so sure of this? How do I know that before the evening’s over, the Wallflowers will kick into “Tombstone Blues” and Zimmie will skirt the darkness and start wailing away with his darling boy? Because I can’t go to the show, that’s why. Because yet another college friend is tying the Godforsaken knot and just happened to pick this goddamn night for a piece-of-shit engagement party. Because my evil mother has instilled so much guilt in my head that any time I even think of doing the wrong thing, I start quivering and can actually hear her shrill threats of sending me to a “bad boy’s school.” That’s right: me, me, me. It’s all about me. As far as I’m concerned, everyone can just go fuck off. Except for Bob. I like Bob. With Maypole at 8 p.m. at the Bayou, 3135 K. St. NW. $10. (202) 333-2897. (Sean Daly)