Monday, August 8, 2011

Granny Doris, Joan Jett, and Moi

By the time I woke up on Sunday, granny Doris’ bright red lipstick had vanished from my cheeks. I’m not lying; why would I lie? But I’m getting certain elements of the story ahead of certain others.

I suppose it started with Joan Jett, whose hand I shook in the meet-n-greet, and who, I ended up confessing to my wife after the concert, is my latest crush. I don’t know what it is about petite brunettes, but I find them irresistible: Joan Jett, Audrey Hepburn, Mary Poppins, and of course, my April. Anyway the news of this crush didn’t faze her; inexplicably she doesn’t see Joan Jett, a probably-sixty-something-rocker-chick-who’s-perpetually-on-tour, as a threat. It’s the same for Audrey…who is now dead, and Mary…who is fictional.

But enough with the psychoanalysis.

This is about me meeting the Jett, who is awesome. As was the performance, which, from the front row of a 12,000 member audience, was inspirational. We stopped off to catch the show in Bend, Oregon on our way to the coast for a little time off. Everything was organized by a long lost relative on my wife’s side who has connections—enough connections to get us VIP seating and the like. Sure, there were the usual drunken fools pushing and shoving and sure, I had to employ my body mass to break up a fight at a concert again. I don’t know what it is about me and rock-n-roll concerts lately, but the fights seem to find me, which I find irritating. It was both thrilling and a little scary to literally stay the hand of a drunk/high fool who had cocked his fist in preparation to strike a young girl and tell him, “Get the hell out of here.” Or something like that. It’s not the kind of thrill I look for in my concert-going experiences, though.

The show was awesome, don’t get me wrong. Well, there was the 500 pound woman with a fifty gallon purse next to me who was jumping up and down and “thowin’ up da rock fist” and crashing into me with every pounding beat of the kick drum. Like an idiot I had worn sandals, and I feel like my toes have narrowly come through an Apollo 13 experience intact—there’s no rational reason that I should have ten toes on my feet, but miracles happen every day, do they not?

It was what happened after the show that was, well, a little difficult to explain. There was a BBQ. I remember that. It was good; kebabs. There was a beer, too. Then someone posed the question to me: “Have you ever had a Washington Apple?” Now, I know—I have enough life experience to know—that when someone asks a cocktail-related question like this it’s tantamount to throwing down the gauntlet and one’s choices are limited. Foolishly, I replied in the negative and soon a little Canadian whiskey was in my belly along with the beer. I suppose I became a more entertaining person after that, because then Granny Doris started giving me the eyes, telling me I was cute and that she was going to get the lipstick. There was also a bonfire, a hot tub, a garden hose and a dog, and more beer. Though I don’t remember, say, all the details, I’m pretty sure I wore lipstick for the remainder of the night—two bright red Betty Boop-esque lippy smackers on my cheeks; one set per side. Granny Doris, whoa.