Last night, on a date, I had a conversation about what artists I absolutely had to see live in concert before I die. Actually, I’m not even sure it was a date. We were eating salads in a Cosi; that’s an ambiguous nether-region, like the lingerie section at Walmart. Ever since Cosi stopped being XandOs, the romance has just gone out of that place. But can we talk about this date for a second? (I’m, literally, one sentence into this blog post and I’m already off-topic). I don’t really know what’s happening with this guy and the ambiguity is kind of making me a little nuts. Well, it’s not making me nuts. Life is making me nuts. The fact that the thing I search for the most on Yelp is “brunch for one” is making me nuts. I am making myself nuts. I know.
Anyway, I have learned in the past that it is a terrible idea to write blog posts about people you may or may not be dating. Terrible. Here is a 10-minute story about the last time I wrote a blog post about someone I was dating. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t end well.
But it’s okay, guys, because I thought ahead! Last night the Cosi guy asked me “Should I be reading your blog?” and I replied “It’s not essential” because I’m really good at false modesty. So, there’s no way that he’ll come across this blog! This is a foolproof plan.
We’re not even Facebook friends, so it’s not like it’ll come up on his feed unless everyone in the world shares this. (PS everyone in the world please share this; I want a book deal more than I want a functional relationship.) I did emphatically invite him to Google me, however. This isn’t a euphemism. It just occurred to me that it could’ve been. I have literally no game. Hash tag forever alone.
Anyway, we were in the Gray Zone eating salads and talking about concerts. Side note: I hear that’s the next Marvel movie, Thor: The Gray World. In it, Natalie Portman spends an hour complaining that Thor never calls her back until finally Idris Elba is like, Bitch you are just friends. You need to stop slapping him all the time; that is not a good look. Here, I made you a friendship bracelet that says “He doesn’t like you like that.” He lives IN A DIFFERENT UNIVERSE. I’m just saying, maybe give J-Date another try.
ANYWAY, my date was listing all kinds of bands and artists from different genres, all good choices. He said, “What about you?” I was like “BEYONCE. CELINE DION. BETTE MIDLER. END OF LIST.” And if we’re being honest, I’ve already seen two out of the three. I eat, sleep and breath Beyonce. And I went to a Bette Midler concert when I was 13, which is why I’m gay.
He said, “Honestly, Celine Dion does nothing for me.” I whipped my scarf dramatically around my neck and said, “It’s clear that you have terrible taste and I bid you adieu. Just kidding, do you want to get married? I have a marriage license in my car. Just kidding, I don’t have a car. The license is in my pocket. Seriously though, have you heard her cover of ‘Alone’?”
P to the S, I just remembered I was on another “date” this weekend with someone else and we also started discussing Celine Dion’s cover of “Alone”. Guys, I might need to diversify my areas of conversational expertise. I think Celine maybe cock-blocking me.Anyway, I’m pretty sure this other instance wasn’t a date. I mean, I don’t know. We were at a coffee shop, drinking coffee, talking and laughing. Sometimes I get confused and think that’s what dating is because that’s all I really want. When I’m old and crotchety and still good-looking (black don’t crack), I just want to sit on the porch with my husband, sippin’ coffee and laughing like children. Also: living like lovers, rolling like thunder, etc. I don’t think that this is too high an expectation for life. It might, however, be too high an expectation for romance.
In any case, we were sitting at the coffee shop and Heart’s cover of “Unchained Melody” came on. I Shazam’d it as he correctly identified it. I was super impressed. Trivia skills are an aphrodisiac. A rousing game of Who Wants to Be A Millionaire is like porn for me. Another Heart song came on next, and then another and we realized this hipster-ass coffee shop was playing the entirety of The Essential Heart. We decided, even though it was getting late, the sky was dark and the wind was kicking up, we didn’t have a choice but to stay until we heard “Alone”. Because we’re self-respecting homosexuals and this is still America, dammit.
We almost gave up after about an hour. We started to put on our coats when all of the sudden the deceptively light opening chords came sailing across the bustling coffee shop. We threw our vestments to the ground, tilted our heads back and cried “The night goes by so very slow and I hope that it won’t end though… ALONE!!!”
Guys, if this were a romantic comedy you would already be pre-ordering the DVD/Blu-ray.
What I love about music is that it always legitimizes the huge feelings we all sometimes have or the insane scenarios we (well, I) make up. Heart is blasting across a coffee shop and I am transported to a rainy fire escape, wearing a leather jacket and kind of being a little stalker-y. “How do I get you alone?” I’m pretty sure that’s the super-objective of every villain on Cold Case.
But when you sing it, it’s not so crazy. And I love that. When I fell in love, I was amazed, literally amazed, that every love song was totally true. I was like “Omg Taylor Swift is so right right now!” And then when that love ended I was amazed, sadly amazed, that every song about heartbreak was totally true. I was like “Omg Taylor Swift is so right right now!”
Despite my love for music, I almost never see live concerts. I get uncomfortable. The general public really seems to not understand that I need a lot of space for jauntily swinging my elbows, I need the crowd to not sing too loud, and I need the headliner to wrap it up so I can get home at a decent hour.
Nevertheless, I went to see Big Freedia in concert a few weeks ago. It was fantastic, of course: raw and gritty and sexy and utterly ridiculous. At one point, Big Freedia started spinning her arms above her head as her dancers began to orbit her in a traveling booty-bounce brigade. Eventually, the show dissolved into a full on twerk-magedon. It was dazzling!
Ass! Ass everywhere. I started singing Aerosmith. “I don’t want to close my eyes! I don’t want to fall asleep. And I don’t want to miss a thing.” I got it all on video for posterity. But apparently I’m too old to figure out how to not delete the one good video on my phone, leaving only pictures of food and Oprah GIFs.
I will say, though, the concert had one major drawback. There was this tall dude standing right in front of me who felt the need to dance extremely expressively in a way that was just unnecessary. He kept poking me and shoving his ass into me and grand-jete-ing in my personal space. Finally, I decided I needed to say something.
“Ma’am! Ma’am!” The woman in front of me turned around. “No not you miss. I’m talking to the tall man beside you flailing like Yo Gabba Gabba. Yes, the gentleman right there. I’m addressing you, ma’am. Excuse, I don’t mean to be rude but you’re doing too much right now. I don’t profess to be an expert on booty bounce but I can assure you that it’s much better for everyone if you don’t do it whilst spilling your drink down my arm. Yes ma’am. I know we’re all here popping our toots and whatnot but you’ve added a new permutation to the dance. I call this addition ‘getting on my last damn nerve.’ Yes ma’am. See you’re all gesticulating hands and yoga extensions and flipping those forlocks and that’s lovely and all but it’s too much, honey. You don’t need to whip your hair, sweetheart; it’s past Willow Smith’s bedtime anyway. Let the beat come through your taint. I don’t want to have to fight you in this twerk pit, but I will if I make the acquaintance of your elbow one more again. I’m from Baltimore, baby. I’ll take out my booty bazooka. Plam plam!”
He was unmoved. I sulked the rest of the show.
I think I’m too old for concerts. Not that they’re an inherently young thing, but a lot of perfectly acceptable concert behavior falls on my list of “tomfoolery and nonsense”, so maybe I just need to stay my ass at home.
And that’s okay. I can blast Beyonce all day long in my bedroom and never once get hit by a stranger’s flapping Single Ladies hand. And there’s a certain freedom in saying, “I like this thing but it’s not me anymore.” And maybe “too old” is the wrong phrase but it’s a nice shorthand for “I’m going to let this go.”
In that sense, I’m too old for a lot of stuff:
I’m too old to keep track of the earbuds to my iPhone. Sorry, people of public transportation you’re just going to have to sit there while I blast a really sad episode of This America Life followed by “The Boy Is Mine” in this otherwise quiet subway car. You can’t expect me to commute in silence, can you? My internal monologue will overtake me. Chaos will ensue. Thanks for understanding.
I’m too old to take a good selfie. You ever notice how after a certain age people’s selfies get weird and uncomfortable? They always have facial expressions like a baby going poo poo in its diaper. The angle never makes any sense and seems physically impossible. Did you break you arm to take this picture? Why do you look like you’re enlisting right now? Get off of Facebook and go watch the new Murder, She Wrote.
I’m too old to get into jogging. Look, I just don’t think it’s going to happen. I always think it sounds fun and then I start and I get to the corner and it’s like I’m the guy in Memento. I’m like, “How did I get here? Why am I dressed like this? I can see my house from here, why don’t I just go back there?” Jogging defies logic. I’m sorry. It’s logic; you can’t fight it. Now who wants a Frosty? We’re already outside, we might as well.
I’m also too old to be freaking out about stuff that happened years ago. Hakuna matata!
And I’m too old to be freaking out about stuff that hasn’t happened yet. I said, hakuna matata, bitch!
And I’m too old to be fretting about whether I’m on an actual date with a boy I like. I’m too old for shyness and semantics. I’m too old to be worried about somebody not texting me back. As my girl Tracy Chapman says, I’m too old to go chasing you around, wasting my precious energy.
…okay, that last paragraph’s not altogether true. Dating can bring about all kinds of neurotic thoughts: Am I good enough? Does anyone like me? Who’s paying for dinner? (Not me.) So I do enjoy the occasional over-dramatic internal monologue, the romcom fixation. Like a Celine Dion ballad, it’s so serious that it’s ridiculous. Love songs and crushes and uncertainty and twerking and irresponsible blogging all exist in the same plane. It’s not a place I want to stay forever but I’m still young enough to visit. And that’s important. It’s essential. It let’s me take a step back and laugh at myself. It let’s me protect my heart.