I don’t dance in public often. Except for being filled with a rare combination of alcohol and a well-stacked wedding buffet, I can’t say I dance in public ever. Alone in my car or the shower is a different story. There, should the mood strike, I’m pretty good on the fake bass guitar and lead vocals. Sorry you had to see that.
Anyway, last night I went to see a little ole band from Texas called ZZ Top in a theater in downtown Charleston. It was fantastic. Three guys don’t make it for forty plus years in the music business being terrible. The concert was great and the Top delivered like they always do. The people I was sitting around, however, did not with a capital “Dammit.”
I’m beginning to notice a pattern at concerts. Well, it’s happened to me twice in a row, which makes it a pattern, right? Twice now, some woman sitting near me at a concert has ordered me to “get up and dance.” I had to pause from writing this for a minute because that sentence made the anger come rushing back into my head. I can’t believe this happened to me twice.
The first time was at Michael McDonald a few weeks back. Near the end of the show some woman went to my entire row and motioned for us to “get up.” What bloody business is it of hers how I enjoy a show? What type of meddling, self-centered ass thinks it is her duty to criticize people for not “getting up” at a concert? Both of these were in theaters with rows of seats, which make it harder to dance and are more conducive to sitting and enjoying the show. Sorry to break that to you lady. I told her to bugger off and of course she got mad. I thought about writing this story then but it was an isolated incident with some concert nut, right? Wrong.
My ZZ Top experience began rather poorly. The guy next to me was sitting with his legs open and slouched over in front of my seat. This man had no respect for personal space. The normal reaction when someone comes to fill the seat next to you is to move over. Not this guy. He barely budged. His leg was stuck over in my space. After an awkward minute of me trying to claim territory for myself, he leaned over to me and said, “I can’t wear shorts like that because my leg is purple, but you don’t care.” Huh? “I was in a car accident a few weeks ago but you don’t care.” He was right. I think I was stuck in the selfish vortex section of the theater. This was his way of explaining his rude sitting to me. Instead of eliciting sympathy he was met with cold annoyance. He got up to get plenty of beers without issue so he was full of shit. He just wanted to sit like a herniated cowboy and I wasn’t having it. The guy he was with fell asleep through the whole concert, which explains their toxicity level.
The Meddler didn’t start on my nerves but she got there rather quickly. Purple leg spent most of the show filming with his camera. Med decided she would opine loudly about this. She said (imagine the sound a cheetah makes when it gets electrocuted) “I just don’t understand people who want to film a show with their phone instead of watch it. I just don’t get it.” Now, I agree with this sentiment but her argument was something she heard on the radio or TV and she was simply regurgitating it to the air in order to sound intellectual. She was trying to get a reaction from Lavender Leg and it didn’t land.
I went back to enjoying the show because I wasn’t going to let dummy ruin the Top. In terms of hours I’ve spent playing air guitar, ZZ Top may only be trailed by the Beatles. They really are a treat to watch. Meddle had gone to the toilet where I’m sure she was heckling women on their poor hand washing. When she got back to her seat she belched (think of an airplane crashing into 1000 squealing piglets), “You know there isn’t an ordinance against dancing.” I guess she had just seen Footloose. But she didn’t say it to me, she just kind of yelled it like she did her criticism of Bum Hip, so I let it go. She hadn’t tossed her third strike yet, but the catcher had just sent in the signal for a heater inside.
I don’t remember how long it was between her Footloose yelling and when she leaned in to me and told me to get up and dance, but it seemed like a nanosecond. Yes, she leaned over my shoulder and yelled (imagine a bus filled with kazoos sliding into a gas tanker), “Come on people, get up and dance!” I can’t believe this happened to me twice. I turned to her and said, “Could you quit yelling orders into my ear.” Of course she recoiled because of course she thought I was wrong. Her poor husband kind of started to defend her but he knew. This poor man lives with this yuck. My grandfather had a picture in his living room that depicted a man being carried off in a stretcher and was captioned, “This Man was Talked to Death.” They are going to find this poor guy’s body in a week at the rate I know she badgers him.
I didn’t turn around for the rest of the concert. She was trying to bait me by saying things like (imagine sitting on an air-raid siren) “Well I’m going to stand up, I don’t care.” Madam, why would I, a guy sitting in front of you, give a shit if you stood up? Because, and I know this would shock her, the ZZ Top concert wasn’t about her. She forced herself into my life and now she’s being featured on a blog read by dozens.
I know it’s a generalization to say “women” were doing this to me but that’s who it was. Both middle aged and not properly told to stuff it during their development. How I enjoy a concert is my business but incredibly a few people disagree. I’m guessing both of these women never get over while driving in the left lane because they think you’re driving too fast. I’m sure they also think every commercial on TV that depicts some idiot man who can’t pick out a flavor of yoghurt without a woman’s help is “cute.” I’m sorry, but you will not be able to solve the world’s problems on your own. You can, however, strive to shove a verbal pie into the face of anyone you encounter like these two women. If I run for President one day, I think this will be my only platform.