Wednesday evening at 5:30 Mel and I were on our way to the big show at the Staples Center. Now I ain’t the biggest and bestest Sarah McLachlan fan but then…I’m a dude. Songs about star crossed lovers who die on the way to happily ever after ain’t exactly my thang. But I’ve learned to appreciate the music, talent and the lyrics after years of living within earshot of Mel’s MP3s. As for Mel…she was stoked. It would be a safe bet to say Sarah’s her favorite. The ride was pleasant and rather than fight the 101 it was decided to take the more scenic PCH.
Now one must understand that Mel’s previous concert experience left a substantial amount to be desired. While I was busy partying my way through 5150, Bon Jovi and the Synchronicity tour Ms. Mellie was dazzling herself with the skin crawling talents of the Pointer Sisters and Air Supply. She was certainly aware of her creepy track record and by the time we reached the ocean she could barely contain herself.
We fought our way past security…which was ample…because as we all know any gathering of the McLachlanites is sure to bring the Taliban out of the woodwork. Once inside we split up for a romantic dinner of Dominos and Mickey D’s which we scarfed down quickly so we could find our seats before the song spit started to fly. And it certainly did fly. From the 3rd row we were in perfect spray range. It should be noted that McLachlan spittle tastes a little like butterscotch.
And speaking of 3rd row seat spittle this experience has revealed yet another advantage to the entertainment agent. Concert tickets. Could it have been easier? I called Lazar’s assistant, Trey, months ago. I had barely mentioned the concert when Trey interupted and said he’d take care of it. Good man, Trey, good man.
Now, as I said, not Sarah’s number one fan. But I must admit I got caught up in the music and the atmosphere. And let’s take a moment to discuss said atmosphere. As a therapist-proclaimed rescuer of women, I was in hero Heaven. Every female South of Saint Nick’s summer home was scuttling around wearing her tightest. You couldn’t walk three feet without Mel or myself proclaiming…”Helloooooo Nurse.” Single men and lesbians take note, if you live in concert range then you might consider hitting a McLachlan concert. Like shooting chicks in a barrel. Of course, Melanie got more phone numbers than me. Single men and Lesbians take note. Perhaps you should just stick close to Mel and pick off the table scraps. There were more women buzzing around her than there is stupid buzzing around Kentucky. She was like Kurtz and the Staples Center was her jungle. Had she dropped a hanky she would have started a lesbian riot. It truly is freakishly weird.
The show was…well it was very good. Better than good. Rarely seen Mel so happy. You gotta consider how big a fan she is and that we were hearing the music we played when we first started dating…she was overwhelmed to say the least. Pretty lights, everyone around you singing and swaying. It was hard to resist. Half way through the first song Mel was crying. The girl two rows over was crying. The tattoo’d chicks three rows up. Mel squeezed my hand, stared at me with big puppy dog eyes welled with tears and proclaimed that this was the song she was listening to when she fell in love with me. I lost my battle with masculinity.
I became a woman. I sang. I swayed to the music. I had an overwhelming desire to cuddle kittens. I was so cranked up on feminine hormone that estrogen seeped from my lower orifices. And I’m damn near certain I lactated through most of the second half.
After three encores we floated with the crowd out of the Staples Center and located Tom, our freakishly tall driver. Who, by the way, seemed much better looking to me after the show than before it.
On the drive home we debated the issue of late night food and ended up filling baskets at the Westlake Village Ralph’s while Tom kept the car idling. It should be noted that only the truest of rednecks would take a limo to the grocery at a hundred bucks an hour.
It was a long time before I was able to fart like a man again. The best I could produce were annoyingly high pitched poots for several hours.
Mel and I have been working our way through X-Files season one. So what better way to end a romantic evening than with a little Moulder and Scully and some good ol’ fashioned alien abduction stories.
Wednesday morning I was back to normal. I picked up Devin for a day of computer tweaking and gaming. Mel slept most of the day because her life is so freaking cush. Dean has been tearing through his draft of Thunder and by the time he hit page 51 he joined Devin and I online for some Quake II deathmatch. It took some tweaking to get the connection solid. Dean was having some lag. You’d think having a computer guru sitting next to you would be a quick fix for any lag but Devin found Dean’s discomfort a splendid excuse to run around collecting extra ammo.
I won game one and by game two Dean unleashed his special power. Chris. I got Devin screaming in one ear and Chris screaming in the other. When I killed Dean Chris would scream that I was cheating and when I got killed he would proclaim the evil destroyed. Twerp. Of course, as is a father’s duty to keep a child grounded in reality…Dean was quick to inform Chris, that, “Yes, I was a cheater and utterly evil.”
Course, it wasn’t all fun and games…it never is. I got some notes on Demonik. I figured out a spin on Magnus. Blake Washer from the F13 boards called and we caught up on current events. I spoke with Patrick and he gave me some news that made my blood boil…but that’s his life and you’ll have to read his journal for those tid-bits of drama. Mark Haslett called and we chatted about his “Last House on the Left” and I think we came up with some interesting twists. We left the conversation with his going off to put the new ideas into an outline. I doubt I offered very much but I know sometimes it’s nice just to have someone you can bounce ideas and clear your mind with.
Tomorrow…or today rather, I assume I’ll either tool over to Dean’s to work on Thunder or I’ll finish Magnus or I may drag Mel to I Robot. Either way, at least I’m no longer lactating.
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