Wednesday, October 27, 2010


Last night the husband and I went to a concert in a city an hour and a half from where we live.

I know.  A concert in another city on a week-night.  We are one crazy couple.  How does one prepare for such a concert in which you are mildly interested and your husband is dying to see.  Well, after you rush home from work to get ready as fast as possible and your husband tries to restrain himself from asking you "ready?"..."ready?"..."ready?" because he knows that it not only makes you move slower, but makes you feel like stabbing someone, you eat a snack in the car and listen to the band you are about to see until you decide all the songs sound the same and you don't want to listen to them anymore so you tell the husband to turn them off and then you go to sleep.

I woke up when we were five minutes away.  The husband was ready to sprint across the looooong parking lot to get to the House of Blues, but I made him slow down because my (sensible) shoes would not allow me to walk that fast.  Once we went through security check, my first order of business was to pee, find a place to sit, get some food.  Honestly, sometimes I don't know if I'm more of an eighty-year old woman or a two year old child.

There were no empty seats to speak of, so the husband and I found a railing to lean against.  I held our spots while he went off to find food.  He returned with chicken fingers, pizza, a bottled coca-cola for me and a beer for him.  I spent the next five minutes trying to upcap my soda then passed it to the husband who was also unsuccessful due to a broken finger that is possibly now more brokener.  (Do you think, that since my ulitimate dream is to be a published author, I shouldn't use words like more brokener?)

I went to the bar to ask for assistance with my bottle.  As I was waiting, a guy with a VIP tag came up to the bar, looks at me, wiggled his fingers, leaned over and said in a high pitched voice used for children under the age of seven, "hi."  I retorted, via my eyes, "screw you asshole.  I'm not a child, I'm a grown-ass wom..."

"Can I help you?" asked the bartender.

I handed her my coca-cola.  "Can you open this for me?"

She did.

Touche, wiggly fingered high-pitched guy.

A few minutes later the stage was filled with fog and people screamed.  With excitement.  But they should have been screaming in terror.  Like I was.  Clearly they don't know the dangers of fog.  Like when you're on the dance floor of a club at your friend's bachelorette party and they turn on a strobe light and fill the dance floor with fog and everyone around you loses their damn mind with excitement.  And you are filled with absolute terror, you're heart starts accelerating, you can't breathe and you can't get the hell off the floor because you can't see.  So you close your eyes and grab onto your friends until all returns to normal.  Except there is a very good possibility that when you open your eyes you won't be clutching your friend, but a seventy-eight year guy in a trucker hat who looks like the troll from the billy goats crossing the bridge story.

After the fog cleared, the lights on the stage dimmed and started to flicker. The screaming of the crowd intensified.  One person's scream to the left of me could be heard above all others.  "AAAAAAAAAA."  This continued, and continued, and they did not take a breath. "AAAAAAAAAA."  No breath.  I started to wonder if it was even a person making that sound.  No one can go that long without taking a breath.  "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA."  I asked the husband, "is that a person?"  He says, "yes."  The scream continued.  No breath.

That's when I suspected someone slipped me drugs.   Because the sound was starting to make me panic.  I began looking around for the source.  I was convinced it was an equipment mal-function.  I was waiting for someone to do something.  Make the noise stop.  But it didn't.  And no one else seemed to notice.  I started to wonder if it was just in my head.  Like when you're in a room that's totally silent and you hear a high-pitched ringing in your head.

I was ready to bolt to the bathroom and hide, when finally the band came on stage and the "AAAAAAAAAA" stopped.  All I could see were their silhouttes and the one guitar player wore tight pants and had shaggy hair and reminded me of Hugh Grant's roommate in Notting Hill which made me feel kinda giddy because I felt like I was just transported to Britain.  But the band is actually from France, which made me feel completely disoriented, but it could have just been the drugs.

The band, which was Phoenix by the way, played my three favorite songs first, in order, which was totally awesome.  But then I didn't really know any songs for the next hour.  So I amused myself by watching the girl in front of me dance.  She was blonde and reminded me of my friend Juli.  She grinded on the bald guy in front her - who I was certain was actually a blow-up doll bodyguard until he clapped his hands at the very end of the concert -except it was more like bobbing because Juli would never grind.

Ha!  Yes she would!  Juli is the best girl to go to clubs with because she will totally grind with you on the dance floor, or, if need be, stand on the floor and spot you while your drunk ass dances on the bar at your bachelorette party.  Theoretically speaking, of course.

This girl reminded me so much of Juli that I was becoming convinced that it actually was Juli.  Then I remembered Juli dyed her hair brown so it couldn't be her.  And then I died a little.

Unless...Phillip, do you know where your wife was last night?  If she went missing for a few hours and returned with blonde hair then she was most definitely bop-grinding on a bald blow-up doll bodyguard guy whose hands were either remote-controlled to clap or he was actually a real person.

To get over my heart-break of the Juli look alike not actually being Juli, I looked up at the stage and was immediately cheered up.  In fact, I started cracking up.  The other guitar guy had his guitar slung around his back while he played the keyboard, and the neck of his guitar hung between his a penis.

I was thoroughly amused by this and then the husband leans over and says, "that keyboard player looks like..."

And I start shaking my head vigorously because I know he's going to say something about the guitar penis, and I think, THIS is why I married that man."

"...he's straight out of the eighties."

I was crestfallen.  "I thought you were going to say something about his penis."  The husband gives me a look which either meant I was disturbed or he didn't hear me.  We returned our attention back to the band.  The husband was rocking-out, which means he was standing and holding a beer, while I totally lost it, because now the guitar/keyboard player has shifted and the guitar was hanging further down his back, making the neck, aka penis, slap his leg.

At this point I realized I must blog about this situation.  I frantically searched my purse for something to write with.  My mom gave me a little notebook for my birthday for situations such as this, but of couse, I switched purses and didn't have it.  There was a paper menu on the railing next to me.  I wrested it from beneath on old guy's elbow and began scribbling furiously in the dark.

By the time I looked up again, the stage was covered in a sheet and the band was nowhere to be seen, but there was five minutes of a wap wap wap sound, like that of a bird caught in a ceiling fan, and the crowd was cheering like they liked this, which they totally did not, because honestly?  It was freaking annoying.

Finally the band started to perform again.  Non-Juli continuted bopping, and I periodically got all up in the biznas of the old guy next to me when I would lean over to catch a glimpse of the lead singer, who was blocked from my view by a large column.

At one point the music started slowing way down, until all that was left was the beat of the drum which was going so slow I thought it was going to stop my heart.  Why did I think that, you ask?  I don't know.  Maybe it's because of the same reason I once told the husband not to leave tile in the bed of his truck in case someone steals it and uses it to kill someone and the victim's family sues the husband.

Issues.  The reason is issues. 

Later in the concert, everyone started clapping, but I stopped my feet.  Because I'm a trendsetter.  For the last two songs, the band went down into the crowd and the lead singer sat on a stool and serenaded us.  Everyone loved the song, but I couldn't understand a word other than "twenty-one" and when, I thought, he said, "six, six, six, six, six, six."  But that made me uncomfortable so I pretended he was saying, "sex, sex, sex, sex, sex." 

After that song the lead singer said, "I want to sing More Than Friends for you," and the crowd started going nuts.  I got excited and said to the husband,
"do I know that one?"

"Something in French?" he said.

"Oh.  He's going to sing something in French?"

The husband: nod.

Yeah, needless to say, I didn't know it.

After that, the concert was over.

But wait...The Encore!  A song I knew.  Yeaaaaaaahhhhh!  I bop-grinded like non-Juli.

As the last note was sung and the last chord was struck, the place suddenly smelled like a Vegas hotel.  But one that was built 60 years ago, had seen way too much excess and debauchery in dark corners and smelled of stale smoke and bodily fluids.

It was the perfect ending.

Guess what Internets?  I have a new follower.  Let's welcome Mary Erin!  Mary Erin your award will be coming soon.  It may or may not have something to do with the night in college that you were going out with your roommates and one of them threw gatorade in your face and you washed your face and reapplied your make-up, but only on one eye...and didn't realize it until we had all gotten back from the club.

As usual, all typos in this story were totally intentional.


  1. You're fab and reading your writing makes me happy. Especially when I have a cameo. Especially when that cameo involves bop-grinding with a blow up bodyguard.

  2. Ashley Elizabeth ReisNovember 1, 2010 at 8:25 PM

    Surely, when you said that you went to the House of Blues in another city than which you live, you meant that you went to the House of Blues Anaheim, Atlantic City, Boston, Chicago, Cleveland, Dallas, Houston, Las Vegas, Myrtle Beach, New Orleans, San Diego, or the Sunset Strip. Surely, you did NOT mean that you went to the House of Blues in Orlando. For I, your loyal follower, was bound to read your blog where you mention your travels to various cities and was bound to know your whereabouts at some point in time. I am positive if you were to venture to the grand city of Orlando, MY city of Orlando, you would surely "holla acha gurl". Surely? Sorely? Surreally? Shirley?

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