Volume 6, Entry 27: Dinosaur Legs

It's all about seeing THEM live

When I see the pick-up lane blocked by a boxy van, I jerk the wheel left and pull up to the curb. Before I can text the passenger, a face pops up at my window.

“Michael?” I smile but keep it relaxed. Some passengers prefer subdued warmth at 3:00 am. They mumble and collapse like I’ve woken them mid-dream.

“Yes!” he replies, and yes, there’s an exclamation mark. No bleary-eyed mumbler here. “Brayan?”

“Yes, yes!” I meet his tone. “Good morning, good morning. Hop in.”

Michael plops a gray backpack onto the seat behind mine and shimmies in behind it. He’s carrying a Hilton Honors bag in one hand, something rolled up and tied in the other. He’s wearing a dark hat that lends him some youth, but his polo and pleated shorts say golf meeting.

“Thank you for driving me,” he says while buckling his seatbelt. “I know it’s early.”

I chuckle politely. Besides the clock and the darkness, neither he nor I seems bothered by the witching hour.

“Of course, of course,” I say, checking my mirrors. “It’s the only time driving to LAX is pleasant.”

“I bet.”

We’re off quickly. Getting every green is a blessing; shaving our 31-minute trip to 24 is possible. If I’m lucky, I’ll squeeze in an extra trip tonight.

But I try not to look ahead and seem aloof. This guy is too alert to snooze back there. I expect him to chat, and on cue, he speaks.

“Do you always drive this late night shift?” he asks. Glancing in the rearview, I see him gazing at the towering buildings surrounding us.

“Yes,” I say. “Only at this time. I love graveyard. No traffic.”

He gives a voiceless laugh. “Makes sense. Super stressful any other time.”

I nod as we turn left. “It is. I did roofing in Las Vegas before this. There, it was the heat; here, it is the traffic. Everywhere has something.”

“Very true,” he says politely.

Although he trails off, there’s no sluggishness to him when I check back. He sits tall, and his face is alert, bouncing between buildings and street signs. He seems peaceful, if not a bit excited.

As we reach the freeway, his eyes follow the Seussical silhouettes of palm trees. Rather than let the car stay silent, I engage him.

“So what brought you to LA?” I ask.

“Dinosaur legs,” he says. It comes out with no hesitation, his eyes never leaving the skyline.

Dinosaur legs? I have no idea what that means. Maybe I should know, maybe I should not, but I clarify anyway.

“Dinosaur legs?” I slide us into the fast lane. “Like for a museum?”

My question pulls his attention away from the window. He looks to the rearview mirror and meets my eyes.

“Sorry,” he says with a quick laugh. “That’s my head-speak. I’m sorry.”

“No worries,” I quickly assure him. I’ll pivot in case he’s uncomfortable. “What did you do here in LA?”

“Yeah, uhm, well, I did hit a few museums yesterday.”

“Which ones?”

He clears his throat. “I did the Oscars museum first, but after I’d looked at everything, I moved to the art one next door.”

“Ah. I’ve never been.” I signal out of the lane when a car races toward us going 90+. “Any good?”

“Definitely some great stuff. Really neat to see costumes and props from famous movies. I got to hold an actual Oscar, too, which was silly but also kind of awesome. I think I liked the art museum more, though. There were all these oil paintings, like a whole massive building of oil paintings. Sometimes the paint was so thick it popped off the canvas.” He pauses. I hear him sigh.

“That’s interesting,” I chime in. Gotta make sure he knows I’m engaged.

“Yeah. It was. I think of paintings as flat. The depth comes from the message, the meaning, the greater context. It’s interpretative depth from something pressed onto a flat surface. But no. There’s physical depth on the canvas. A guard politely warned me I was getting too close in the Picasso room, and I probably was. I just couldn’t believe the mounds of paint protruding from the artwork. You can’t see that on Google or in a book. They’re flat images in my head, but those things are three-dimensional. They’ve got topography.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. I didn’t expect to be so engrossed by oil paintings. But I was.” He shakes his head. “Even when the significance eluded me, which was most of the time, the process blew me away.”

“So you came to LA for the museums?” I ask. The guy’s a thinker. I expect an affirmative.

To my surprise, he chuckles and then releases another sigh. I can’t tell if it’s a happy or sad one.

“Nope.” He says it quietly.

“No?” I try to sound curious. I hope he’ll hear me that way.

“Yeah, that wasn’t it.” He taps the rolled-up paper he’s still holding against his leg. “The museums were great, but I only went to pass the time.”

“Oh yeah?” I sense a cadence to his comment. A part of me expects him to drop the conversation there. I decide not to follow up unless he elaborates.

I see his reflection nod. He’s elaborating.

“I came down for a concert.” He sits up a little taller when he says it.

“Very nice. Were you at SoFi?”

“No. Never been to SoFi. This was a much smaller venue.”

“Who was playing?”

“Them.”

“Who?”

“Them.”

“Come again? I missed the name.”

“No, no no. It’s my fault.” He pats the chair beside mine. “THEM is the name of the band. T-H-E-M. Like the pronoun but in all caps.”

“Oh!” I send out a laugh. “That’s confusing.”

“A little bit. Yeah.”

I check the rearview, and he’s smiling.

“I haven’t heard of THEM, I’m sorry.”

“No worries. They’re young, just starting out. This was their first time headlining a show in LA.” He says it like he’s proud.

“Very good,” I say. “Big crowd for it then, huh?”

“For the venue, sure. Probably 100 people? A little more, a little less.”

I’m too old for live music, but even I know 100 is small.

“You flew down for this show?” We’re approaching our first exit, so I start signaling over.

“I did.”

“For that small of a show?” I gently angle the wheel. “100 is pretty small, no?”

He glances out the window. His eyes stay there.

“Sure. But they’re not from LA, so I’d guess it was encouraging for THEM. They seemed really excited about filling the room. I think the event was a milestone for THEM. But the shows’ll get bigger from here, I’d bet.”

“Ah, I see,” I nod in case he’s back to watching me. “This was a more personal show then. Before they get big.”

“Definitely,” he says. “That was a major appeal of tonight. I saw Taylor Swift two years ago, and I was a fingernail to her. One tiny voice in a stadium of 70,000 is nothing. I added next to nothing to her experience in Santa Clara. But this? Every guest meant something to THEM. I cheered loudly, I counted with gusto during ‘Bad 4 U’, I sang along from maybe six feet away from Thompson’s microphone stand—it mattered that I was there. Every voice in the crowd mattered to those girls.“

“You got pretty good tickets then?”

“Yeah.” He snickers. “I was fifth in line behind some teenage girls, so I got to choose a prime spot. But the tickets were only $15. General admission.”

“Ah.”

“Yep. I wanted to be pretty close, though. It’s one thing to see THEM play on YouTube. The camera dictates where to look. In person, though? You’re in control. You can see the wizardry on the guitars, you can see the concentration and communication between THEM. You appreciate the craft even more when they’re right there making the music you love. It’s like…proof. You’re witnessing THEM build their music live, seeing their incredible skill and passion construct this thing you love right in front of you. They’re so great.”

“So you think they’re going to be big, huh?”

He hesitates.

“I think they have it, yeah. There’s creativity and charisma there, they share the stage well, and they write incredibly catchy songs, too. Oh, and their music videos have this cool aesthetic where they’re technically impressive but without losing this made-by-friends-with-amateur-equipment style. It’s super endearing. I don’t know how a musical act breaks out these days, but something they do will go viral eventually. I only found THEM because of YouTube, so I’m optimistic.”

“This will be a cool story when they’re famous,” I say. “You saw THEM before they were famous.”

“Yeah.”

“I get why you came down then.”

I see him open his mouth to speak, but then he pauses. He meets my eyes in the mirror.

“You know,” he starts. “That wasn’t why I came down, though.”

“No?” I say, surprised. “I’m sorry.”

His hand waves me off in the mirror.

“Don’t apologize. It’s cool. I just mean, that wasn’t my motivation.”

“What was it then?”

He glances back out the window.

“Well, okay, sure. Part of my motivation was the clout. It will be cool when they’re doing arena tours in the future and my students are talking about seeing THEM and I pull up my selfie with THEM and—”

“You met THEM?” I raise my eyebrows.

“I did.” I don’t need a reflection to catch his smile. “They’re super sweet and really generous. I told THEM I flew down for the show, and they got excited. Gave me some free stuff. And they came out from behind the merch stand to pose for a photo with me. It was one thing when they did that for the young girls there, but to do it for lumbering me? That was…well, again, it was generous of THEM.”

“Wow.”

“I know! I mean, I have these crazy good sensors for inauthenticity, sensors that are always whirring and forever searching for manipulation. I can’t turn them off. You would think that performers would put on this fake face to interact with fans, but all four of THEM were so genuine and gracious, I couldn’t believe it. They were sweet and grateful and patient. If it was an act, they’re the best at it—and it worked. I was rooting for THEM before, but now I want the world for those girls, you know?”

“Yes,” I say. “You are their fan.”

“Yeah. And…oh yeah, we were talking about coming down for the show? It’s like, yeah, for sure I want to be able to say ‘I saw THEM before they were huge’ because, hey, that’s a super fun flex, but that feels more selfish than what I actually had in my head.”

The LAX announcement sign pops up on our right. We’re maybe ten minutes away.

“What’s that?”

“Well, I think it was more like two things. Or two different thoughts. On the one hand, I wanted to come down because I thought it would matter to THEM now. It was all that stuff from before about being a loud voice in a smaller crowd. I wanted to encourage THEM by attending and cheering THEM on. I write stuff and make art myself, but it’s for very few eyes. Since not many people read it or respond to it, every like and comment I get is divine encouragement. I wanted to offer that kind of encouragement to THEM. It’s why I told THEM I flew down: I wanted THEM to know their music is worth that kind of gesture, that they have that kind of fans. They’re so young, all four of THEM, and they’re just starting their pursuit of this huge dream. I wanted to join the chorus of pushing THEM toward their dream. I wanted to chip in with the only divine encouragement I could offer.”

“I like that.” I nod. “Yes. That’s kind.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

I see the runway running parallel to our right. The planes still sleep, but dots of light bounce around as the staff prepares to bring the airport to life.

“Wait,” I say. “You said there were two reasons. What was the other?”

“I did.” He sighs. “The other’s a little bit sadder, and after seeing and meeting THEM, I don’t think it’ll happen. Not to THEM. But, yeah, because they’re so young, I knew there was a chance that their plans could change. In your twenties, priorities shift in a Thanos snap. I knew there was a possibility that this concert could be an all-time high for THEM, that headlining in LA might be a musical apex. I hope not, but I’m too old not to acknowledge the possibility. But if it was to be their apex, I wanted to do everything I could to elevate its altitude. If music doesn’t become their lives, if it becomes a thing Thompson, Hudson, Ellie, and Lydia talk about with their future spouses or kids, or that they reminisce over with friends while drinking at Chili’s on a Friday night, I want THEM to remember being rock stars on nights like this one. Every ticket, every cheer, every piece of merch purchased adds to those stories, you know? If they get big, awesome, they’ll be making art together, and I’ll listen to it happily and proudly buy more expensive tickets. But if they don’t, I’ll have paid back the gift of their music by helping THEM remember these days even more fondly when they have dinosaur legs like mine.”

“That’s good,” I say. And I smile automatically, channeling the man’s warmth. “It sounds like a very good trip. For you and for THEM.”

“Yep.” He grins in the mirror. “That’s the theory.”

A sign tells me the Southwest terminal is approaching. I merge lanes. We’re minutes away.

I could leave it all there and end our talk on that heartfelt ending, but something he said caught my attention. With two minutes left, tops, I should leave it, but my curiosity gets the better of me.

“Wait,” I say.

“What’s that?” I hear him jostling his backpack.

“You said it again.”

“What did I say?”

“Dinosaur legs,” I say. “What are dinosaur legs?” I pause, then add, “If you don’t mind me asking.”

Michael pulls his backpack to his lap with one arm, protecting the rolled-up paper with his other hand. He sighs and then meets my eyes in the rearview.

“You ever see Jurassic Park?” he asks.

“Yes,” I reply, a bit confused. “I’ve seen the movie.”

“You know the brontosaurus?”

“With the long neck?”

“Yeah, that one. Those things are huge. They’ve got these redwood tree legs, massive limbs that make an elephant’s look scrawny. It’s how lizards that big stay upright. But those legs are so thick and so heavy that they move super slowly.”

“Okay?”

“They’re easy targets for big predators because of those slow legs. They can’t change directions; they can’t pivot. They’re plodding, predictable, straight-line suckers.”

“I…see.”

The synthetic lights of the drop-off zone rob the night’s organic darkness. We’re moments away from parting, and I still don’t understand his phrase.

He glances out the window, then returns his eyes to me for the last time.

“Last week, I realized my legs were dinosaur legs, too. I was doing the same stuff every day, lumbering around with heavy hips. No surprises, no spontaneity. Like a dinosaur, a brontosaurus.”

I slow the car until we’ve stopped. He puts his hand on the passenger seat and leans forward.

“When I saw THEM had announced their concert, I bought a ticket with no real plans to see it. The show was in LA. It was too late for this brontosaurus to pivot. My support would be exclusively financial.

“But I slept on it. When I woke up, I thought about THEM and everything you and I discussed. Within a half hour, I had a hotel booked, plane tickets bought, and a museum reservation. I’ve never done anything like this, never planned a trip days before, especially not one alone to see four girls YouTube pointed me toward play a show. But I did it. I wanted to see THEM and support THEM that much that I transcended my reptile biology and changed directions. I shed those brontosaurus legs, at least for a few minutes.”

Honks and idling engines surround us with sound. I should be pushing him out, but some of the guy’s optimism has me hypnotized.

“That’s good,” I say, smiling. “It’s good to feel young.”

He returns my smile but shakes his head.

“You know, Brayan, I don’t actually feel young,” he says. He leans back, opens the door, and slides out. After a little hop, he’s upright. He rotates to face me and slaps his thigh.

“But these aren’t dinosaur legs today, either.” He grins. “My feet feel lighter.”

I return the expression.

“That's good.”

His fingers clasp the door handle. He leans into the car.

“Thank you for the ride, Brayan. And the talk.”

“Have a safe flight, my friend.”

“Drive safe.”

He starts to close the door, then pauses. He gestures toward my mounted phone.

“You get music on that?” he asks. “Apple Music, maybe?”

“Yes,” I say, nodding. “I have Spotify.”

His eyes flit to the phone and then back to me.

“You should play ‘Vintage Jeans’ sometime. Trust me.” He closes the door and moves to the side. He mouths two words as he steps back from the car. “It’s fun.”

We exchange waves, and he turns toward the building. As he walks away, I take a deep breath and look at my phone.

“Hey Siri. Open Spotify and play ‘Vintage Jeans’ by THEM.”

The phone hesitates then proceeds. As I steer out of the drop-off zone, an energetic keyboard sounds. A woman’s voice joins in.

The best decision I made this month…

Exiting the terminal, I press down on the gas and chuckle.

Would you believe my foot feels suddenly lighter, too?

---

Mailbag #4
Rank these five things: teaching, baseball, writing, external validation, movies.
Cheryl from Elk Grove

Thinking about msmichellejsteele challenged me. Ranking these did not.

(Five matters least; one matters most.)

5. BASEBALL
I’ve left behind the era when Baseball centered my life. There’s no more swinging the bat or playing catch for me; I rarely get worked up at even the most contentious MLB games anymore, either. Perhaps I’d feel differently if the A’s were contending for championships, but I doubt it. I love Baseball as a canvas for friendship and a chalkboard for low-stakes investigation, but Nate and I enjoyed the cricket tournament thoroughly, too. Other options exist, I mean. Many of my greatest moments involved Baseball, but several of my worst ones did, too.

4. MOVIES
There’s a ceiling on watching someone else’s artistic output. Yes, movies provide an escape and urge me to consider worlds and concepts beyond my specific bubble, but there’s no comparison between the thrill of observing someone else’s incredible craft and making something yourself. The best movies inspire me to create, which is terrific, but that’s less of a rush than doing that creating for myself.

3. TEACHING
On principle, Teaching should rank last. Teaching is my job, the labor that puts food on the table. If Teaching is merely instructing—lecturing, scoring, assigning grades, attending meetings—then it lands fifth. No contest. Fortunately, Teaching exceeds its required labor. Teaching is nourishing conversations, creative problem-solving, and choosing to uplift others when everything would be easier if I didn’t bother.

2. WRITING
Writing is firing on all cylinders. Writing is building a time machine to the past, to the future, and to wholly imagined fantastical worlds. Writing is exorcising demons and exercising optimism. Writing is preserving and empowering and transforming and observing. Writing is ordering the chaos of existence and imbuing it with divine clarity or impenetrable ambiguity according to my whims. Writing is thinking is loving is remembering is life.

1. EXTERNAL VALIDATION
St. Peter ain’t handing me a yellow steno pad, folks. I’m a puppy dog with fleas in my ear, and only your hand can scratch that itch just the way I crave. My paws don’t reach. Woof woof.

---

If it isn’t already clear, this was a piece about preserving a moment when I was legitimately happy and proud of myself. It’s thinner than I’d like, but the other aspects of attending THEM’s concert didn’t fit in this fictionalized conversation format, and I have photos to help me remember this entire trip and experience.

As an aside, I’ve transferred and posted all of my movie reviews from the principal’s newsletter onto my movie review site, Films of Steele. Each one is back-dated to the week in which I wrote it. If you’re interested in short reviews of movies that skew a little older (and toward my all-time favorites), they’re available. For what it’s worth, my favorites are for Emma., Almost Famous, and I Saw the TV Glow.