Photograph by Jake Peterson

Ween brings out the creatures from all of the land.

It’s true: Ween woke all the creatures that live on the land on a recent Saturday night in Del Mar. And among those creatures was a motile mollusk with a wandering black eye. A shiner. That creature was yours truly. During jiu-jitsu training, I had eaten a knee with my winker the day before the show. As a result, the skin around my left eye was a puffy canvas painted with deep purple and cirrhosis yellow. There was no hiding this ugly stamp of violence. The best — and only — thing to do was to wear it like a badge and answer the question, asked again and again: “Oh my god, what happened to your eye?” My answer, I had decided, was that my grandma had beaten the shit out of me for spending her dog food money to buy a ticket to this show.

Once at the Sound, I waited in line for my ticket at will call. In front of me, another dude was trying to get his own ticket situation figured out. The attendant didn’t show much sympathy for the poor bastard, who had seemingly been scammed. “You might want to get in contact with your credit card company,” the attendant told the man while pushing him aside. “Next person in line, please.”

Bus Stop finds a way.

Photograph by Jake Peterson

It was the first of two shows Ween would be putting on over the weekend. Both were completely sold out. No surprise, considering the multi-generational cult following the band enjoys. The parking lot was scattered with fans begging, pleading, hoping that someone might have an extra ticket. If I had, I would’ve given it to the guy who was scammed. It looks like you need a ticket to the show, sir. I just so happen to have one. No need to pay me. You should enjoy what’s probably one of your favorite bands of all time. It probably took a lot for you to come out by yourself tonight in hopes of finding like-minded souls. Don’t worry about me. The law of karma will repay me in some other way. But only if I’m truly deserving. Enjoy the show! I know the feeling of being scammed. It’s a kind of violation. You feel like a moron, and it makes you want to stalk the scammers and rip their spines out. But I didn’t have an extra ticket.

My single ticket in hand, I made my way back to the parking lot to mingle. One young cat dressed like a jester stood near the long line waving his finger in the air, indicating his need for a single ticket. He called himself Bus Stop. I’d already given my imaginary extra ticket to the other guy, or I would’ve hooked Bus Stop up with it. Later, as I was wandering around the lobby, I saw Bus Stop on the inside, surrounded by strangers he had met on the outside. “I got a miracle ticket,” he said. “I kept my finger up until somebody bought me a ticket. Ween is the best. I love my community, and everyone here is the greatest of all time.” The difference between Bus Stop and the guy who got scammed was, I suppose, the former’s charisma. Or maybe his outfit. Or maybe just the fact that he asked. It was all too easy to imagine the scammed guy still outside, making calls to people or companies that simply could not help him.

Inside, the merch table was buzzing with Ween fanatics. Ween is one of those bands that’s impossible to pigeonhole. They’ve been steadily evolving since the mid-’80s, but one thing has remained a constant: they’re fuckin’ weird. Weird in the service of making some of the most beautiful sounds your head can receive. Listen to “The Mollusk” and try not to think about being an underwater butterfly. It’ll be fun, I swear. And if you’re weird, rest assured, you and Ween will find each other (probably in your stoner older brother’s beat-up Honda Civic), and immediately fall in love, maaaan.

After the show, we awoken creatures stuck around until the security force created a human wall and pushed us out. Clad in red jackets, they walked slowly toward us, announcing that it was time to go. They had never seen freaks like us, I’m sure, and so they didn’t know how Ween fans would react to their assertion of authority. Would they bite? Give a squealing titty-twister? A Wet Willy? Maybe, but not likely. They might be a little fidgety and dress funny, but they’re soft as squid. They’ll give you their last cigarette, and they won’t ask you about your black eye. Bus Stop was right: everyone there was the greatest of all time.