Holy
crap in a Bundt pan...
Due to the
recent well-publicized shortage of
amateur websites produced by assholes who consider themselves to be
clever, I
have been called into action. My name is Jeff Kay, and I’m an
Ugly American living
on the cusp of a mid-life crisis, near Scranton, PA. And I’m here to
serve, baby.
The
State of My Fat Ass A journal of
sorts, updated every once in a while.
--
The Beautiful
South went on at ten o'clock or so, and played for almost two hours.
They were as fun as ever, and this time we staked out prime real estate
way up front, and were standing fifteen or twenty feet from the band the
entire night. It was a blast. As I knew it would be.
On Thursday night, after I'd learned the band would be in Philadelphia
48 hours later, we reviewed our babysitting options, and were coming up
empty. Under normal circumstances the boys could've spent the night with
a family a few houses up the street from us. Toney knows them (I don't
know anyone), and the oldest Secret is friends with their youngest son.
They wouldn't have had a problem watching our younglings for an evening.
But.... they're experiencing some fairly serious family
"complications" up there, so the timing wasn't good.
Toney is friends with the mother of another of the oldest Secrets'
partners in crime, but the woman doesn't believe in sleep-overs for some
reason. So that was out, as well. We considered asking the teenage
daughter of another of Toney's friends, but we'd never used her before
and didn't feel comfortable going off for so many hours with a stranger
in charge. For all we know, she could be a budding Courtney Love. And
fuck dat.
By the time we went to bed on Thursday, we were pretty much resigned to
the fact we wouldn't be seeing the Beautiful South this time 'round. And
maybe I was tired or something, but I'd accepted it and wasn't overly
irritated. It was just one of those unfortunate things.
Then came Friday. I wrote about it here, and got myself all
ratcheted-up. And as the day continued, it just got worse. By noon I was
bouncing off the walls, calling Toney every few minutes and imploring
her to be creative, to think outside the shitbox. Surely we could work something
out. We even briefly toyed with the idea of taking the kids to the show
with us, a clear sign of desperation.
Hey, maybe the Secrets could spend the night with Steve and Myra, my old
friends from WV? They live 75 miles in the exact opposite direction of
Philadelphia, but beggars can't be choosers. It was a long-shot, for
sure; Steve and Myra are busy. He's a college professor, involved
in all manner of campus activities, and she's a medical doctor,
frequently on-call, etc. Plus they travel a lot, and I knew it probably
wouldn't work on such short notice. But dammit, I was ready to throw the
Hail Mary pass.
And to my surprise, Steve
said he'd do me one better, and come stay with the kids at our house. He
was only planning to watch a football game on TV that night, and do some
school work afterwards. He could just as easily do it here, he said. And
just like that: problem solved. I think I actually pumped my fist in the
air, like a douche.
I went online and bought the tickets. They were $25 each, but a pair
cost $68.12 after Ticketmaster got finished with us. But who cares? They
could've put a 1 in front of that price, and I woulda paid it. This was
going to be great!
The opening act, Smash Palace, was scheduled to take the stage at 9:00,
and we finally found a parking space in a nearby residential
neighborhood around 8:30. There are plenty of parking lots near South
Street in Philadelphia, but it costs something like twenty bucks to
leave your car there on a Saturday night. I'm sorry, but that makes my
sphincter wink... I was exceedingly pleased with myself when I found us
a parking spot for free.
We went to the Will Call window at the theater, with our required
documentation. The website said I'd need to show photo ID, the credit
card I'd used to purchase the tickets, and a printout of the transaction
receipt with confirmation number. I had all my paperwork in order, and
approached the guy behind the glass.
"Name?" he said.
I told him, and he started flipping through an accordion file.
"Here you go," he said, as he passed the tickets through the
partition to me. Not a single ID checked, no confirmation numbers
confirmed.... And I'd come so prepared. Wotta rip-off.
We made a beeline to a bar a few doors away, a place called Blarney's.
I'd been there on multiple occasions, but it was Toney's first time. We
sat at a table and drank delicious pints of Sierra Nevada, and
bludgeoned a basket of onion rings into submission. The first ring I put
in my mouth exploded with molten liquid, and it felt like a hole had
been burned clean through my tongue. I was hollering like a retard at a
rodeo, and it still feels tender today. Sweet Maria.
But it was fun, like old times. Toney and I don't get the opportunity to
go out as a couple much these days, and we had a good time just sitting
there drinkin' and talkin'.
We somehow ran up a bill of $35 there in an abbreviated length of time (shit!),
and around 9:30 we made our way to the theatre. Smash Palace was already
onstage, and sounded pretty darn good. Their name was vaguely familiar
to me, but I couldn't come up with any details. Turns out they're an
'80s power pop band, reunited and rockin' again. I wished we'd caught
their whole set.
I bought us two Yuenglings from the bar, in miniature cups, for $10, and
we wriggled our way through the loosely-packed crowd near the stage.
We'd vowed to get as close as possible, since we both fear this will be
the last time we ever see the Beautiful South. It wasn't too difficult
to get really close.
Oh, this was going to be amazing.
And it was. The band was as fun as ever, and were seemingly enjoying it
as much as the audience. Their new female singer has a lot more stage
presence than the previous one, who had a great voice but about as much
charisma as a stack of folded bath towels. We've seen them four
times now, over fifteen years or so, with all three of their female
vocalists. The new one is almost as good as Briana Corrigan, the
original. Almost.
Some guy (I assume) in the crowd kept farting during the show, and I
couldn't believe it. What kind of person gets themselves packed into a
crowd, then just vents their digestive tract all willy-nilly? Perhaps it
was a disgruntled smoker, protesting the club's new No Smoking policy? I
don't know, but it was disgusting, and everybody kept looking around for
the culprit. Maybe I'm just paranoid, but I became convinced they all
thought it was me. I was worried that I was being thought of as The
Farter by my Beautiful South brethren, an innocent man accused.
While Paul Heaton spoke to the audience between songs, a guy beside
Toney yelled out, real loud, "You're fucking brilliant!"
Then everybody cheered their agreement. I looked over and the dude was
about 50 years old, with salt and pepper hair. He looked like a
pharmaceutical salesman from the suburbs, getting all crazy on a
Saturday night. Heh.
They played an eclectic mix of songs from their whole catalog, with some
real surprises thrown in, and a splendid time was had by all. Near the
end of the show stagehands rolled out these huge-ass balloons, which
were batted around by the audience until they each popped. We were
standing directly beneath a cluster of lights, and people kept jacking
those balloons straight up, making the lights shudder and shake. It's
only a matter of time, I told myself, before one of those bastards comes
loose and renders someone Mylar. I kept looking at them shaking,
completely nervous. When the last balloon popped, it was like a giant
weight lifted off my shoulders.
After two encores, the lights came up. I looked at my cell phone and it
was a few minutes after midnight. Two solid hours of Beautiful South,
with us standing fifteen feet away from them. And in Europe they
sometimes play stadiums. Amazing.
The parking ticket we found on my car didn't even put me in a bad mood.
I mean, what's $26 in the grand scheme of things? Sure, the sign said two-hour
parking during certain hours, and didn't say a damn thing about
Saturdays. But whatever. I'll just send them a check. Fuck it. It's a small
price to pay.
Here are some pics I snapped with my terrible cell phone camera (in just
few short days I'll finally have a phone with a real camera), and
an mp3
of one of my favorite Beautiful South songs, "Good As Gold (Stupid
As Mud)." Copyright laws are for suckers, right?
--
