This photograph is saved to my computer as "MeInSixtyYears". When I hit eighty, I guarantee I will be cantankerous.
Perhaps my fellow self-proclaimed logophiles will understand this need to spend days upon days in silent reflection with a fabulous author, or an incredible story -- one you simply couldn't stand to put down for stupid things like eating, or being social. Everything is secondary to the weight in your hand, the feel of the edges of the pages on the portion of the book you've read (or not), the smell of the pages, the binding (and trying not to break it), or the sound of individual pages turning -- old paper, new paper, it doesn't matter.
That glorious luxury has not been dealt to me in ample doses since I started college; I steal moments between semesters -- a week, sometimes two -- sequestering myself into quiet recesses of the house (or, on occasion, the garage) to find solitude in one of the only reliable, stable rituals I have ever clung to in my short life.
However, life has not given me the opportunity to immerse myself in the written word of late. After all, we just heralded in a new year...
...started a new season of The Bachelor...
This has nothing to do with the current season of The Bachelor. Sue me.
..watched Campaign Carl Cameron cover the Iowa Caucus...
Or should that be Campaign Carl Astaire?
...and got back from watching Yoko Ono and the Plastic Ono Band.
Yeah, remember how I told you I got concert tickets for Christmas? This was it!
Some thoughts on the evening, you say?
You want to hear about the awesometastic time we had?
Well, pretend.
Reginald Kitty is not amused.
*Imagine, if you will, the following scenario. You spend your entire life being "the weird one" in any group. Pick out some random people, put yourself in the mix, and you're guaranteed to be the weird one; you are Cousin Marilyn.
That fact becomes comfortable, and you revel in this weirdness. This weirdness is so much a part of you, you take for granted that you will always be the weird one.
That scenario is me -- that's right, I am the 1%.
Waiting in line at the door for the show, I was also the 1% -- just in the opposite direction. I (and the handful of nans who were there for the same reasons I was) was normal. It didn't matter that I was wearing my black drainpipes and my pixie boots; such attire would have been appropriate on the trading floor of the New York Stock Exchange in comparison to the other folks milling around the front of the venue. A few standouts included: a guy dressed like Jesus; a guy I dubbed "Y-Front Lion Man", simply because he wore a lion mask, a loin cloth with three googly eyes glued on the side, and his underwear on the outside; a girl dressed as a sprouting seed; Scepter Girl; and, my personal favorite, the girl in the blue Hefty bag, with knee-high, light up boots, and a multi-color sign asking "Where's Zachary?". If I had any remaining doubts as to the definition of hipster, I no longer question the meaning. As they sat, discussing circular riffs, or growing human population, I was secure in the fact that I am a healthy kind of weird. Even if this song kept playing in my inner monologue, I clung to my brand of crazy with pride.
The fact that I never fit in was summed up best by my own mother: "you don't even fit in with these people". Thanks, Ma. I'll remember that when I visit you at Shady Pines.
*One of the unwashed masses instructed us to "get a number" when we first arrived; about thirty minutes after we were branded -- I was number 78 -- it occurred to us that we had no idea what these numbers were for. Long story short, we never found out, and that half-wit wrote 78 on my right hand in permanent marker, so it ruddy won't come off.
*I have learned a lot by going to concerts. The main tip of Concert Going is to leave your camera at home, 'cause the Camera Nazis are just going to take it away from you, anyway.
Cameras in that bin, please. No photography of any kind.
So, when the inevitable question "do you wanna take the camera?" was posed to me as we left the hotel, I decided against taking it. If I wanted any pictures, I had a cell phone I could whip out when security wasn't looking. As we pulled onto the highway, I began to regret this decision. "These people are all artists. Weird artists, too. They live for art. They probably wouldn't mind if you took the camera, took some shots. You should have brought the camera."
Right after we were numbered, I heard security say those dreaded words: "no photography".
Seriously? So much for the arts.
*The price of admission went solely to confetti. I mean, sure, there was a giant mirrored ball in the middle of the room (honestly, the thing covered about four hundred square feet of ceiling space), enormous laser hands, an elaborate lighting display, several hundred balloons, and a guy in an inflatable bubble running around like a hamster on the hands and heads of the 1500-strong audience. All of that would have been enough. Not for this show, though; there was, quite honestly, a ton of confetti dispersed throughout the entire six hour set (yes, there were other bands, but we're not going to talk about them). The best way I can possibly explain the scene is to imagine that you are the first little colored puff of rice out of the Fruity Pebble box, and you watch as all the other Fruity Pebbles fall into the bowl on top of you. There was so much confetti on our persons, we drug it into the car, in the suitcase, and on the floor of the hotel. We were like Pig-Pen of the Peanuts Gang, but with confetti.
*Watching Sean Lennon play guitar has to be a highlight of my life. He was absolutely brilliant, and -- to me, anyway -- that was the art piece of the night. To watch him communicate with the rest of the band (particularly the drummer) was amazing. He had his finger in every pie, and he ran the show flawlessly.
*Yoko is absolutely adorable. Is it weird to say that? I'm going to say it, anyway. The lady is just precious. Sure, you take her and her art seriously because she takes her art seriously; but to hear her speak to the crowd, and watch her get so into her performance was simply darling. Something about the Europeans immigrating to Oklahoma instead of New York because OKC is becoming the "new center"; what a doll. I just love her, OK?
So, there we have it. A bizarre account of a bizarre evening. I stood an hour in line, and six hours against a barricade just to be there; I wouldn't trade it for anything, even if I'm still sore. (Last time we saw Yoko and Sean, we stood for eight hours. In those shoes? That's dedication.)
Now, if you'll pardon me, I'm going to try to recover by burrowing myself into a little hole under a blanket somewhere and finishing some books on my "Immediate Reading" list.
Please, tell me I'm not the only one to notice that the creator of this LOL-Cat (or whatever they're called these days) forgot to add the silent 'e' to Shakespeare. I know part of the humor comes from misspellings and improper sentence structure, but they got everything else right (except for the capitol 'd' in the middle of a sentence, regardless that it's a quote -- it's a common mistake)!
