Last night I had the opportunity to grace the stage of one of the highest class establishments in Chicagoland. In an effort to protect its anonymity, I'll call it "Feet Smeller's." Also dubbed "The Cougar's Den" and "Blowjob Palace," Feet Smeller's boasts the allure of a frat party and the charm of a pig's slop trough. Probably responsible for 85% of drunk driving accidents in the greater Wheeling area, Feet Smeller's has never let me down when I really need to see vomit splashed tenderly upon at least two of the 4 ladies' johns. But enough about the fabulous venue. Let's get to the patrons.
We finished our first set without much issue. Business has been slow since the economic downturn, and the cougars have moved on to greener plains. Freakonomically speaking, it makes me wonder if people are so strapped for cash that in addition to drinking a few less lattes a week, middle aged women are cutting down on seeking extramarital relations. Body glitter is a major expense. Anyway, I chatted with the band, ate some dinner, kept to myself for the most part. Then the second set. I should really learn not to leave my seat. But a girl's gotta get to the bathroom. As I briskly walked to the back room, I heard someone grunting, "Hey. Hey. Miss. Hey."
I usually ignore people. I hate to admit it, but if the best you can come up with is, "Hey," I'll probably pretend I have a hearing problem. But the voice persisted, and a female voice joined in.
"Miss? Hello?" So I turned my head. A nice-enough looking elderly couple sat in the back corner, and they waved me over. Upon my approach, they both started talking. The gentleman started.
"We've seen you before," the lady said.
"Oh, really?" Always be nice to returning patrons. "Thanks for coming to see us. Where did you see us before?
The gentleman replied, "Oh, it was Tommy Pescorelli."
Was that any kind of answer? "Oh, where was that?"
"It was Athens, Georgia," he confidently answered.
Ok, I really had to pee, and this conversation was going to have to end soon. "Oh, that wasn't me. I've never been to Georg---"
"It was twenty years ago," the lady interjected. "Tommy's son." I shook my head and began to turn to leave, trying not to make the poor drunk lady feel badly for calling me old. "No! It was La Cave!"
"Oh," I gave in. "I have played there. Tommy was the owner?"
"No," the man argued, "he's just a friend. You played there. You wore a white dress. Or a yellow dress." He seemed very sure of himself, but I had finally found my exit.
"Well, I always wear black," and just as this useless conversation was about to come to a neutral end, it took the turn I should have taken seconds earlier.
"Because of your weight?"
At that moment, I turned on my heel and resumed my brisk walk to the vomitorium. Seriously? What did I do to deserve that question? When we started the third set, I couldn't help but feel some resentment toward the entire crowd. The Feet Smeller's diners are some of the lamest on earth, and this is far from an isolated incident. For the first song, I really wanted to make a snarky dedication to the couple in the back, but they were already gone. And that's what really eats me. I didn't get the last word. Through the rest of the evening, I dreamed up great comebacks for that comment. Here are some ideas:
1. "Well, your fatass wife is wearing white, and she's cool. I mean, you can hardly detect the Depends through her elastic track suit pants."
2. "I would tell you to go fuck yourself, but that would be impossible since the E.D. probably got the better of you around age 80."
3. Spill a drink in his lap. It wouldn't matter if it was hot or cold, because the Depends would protect him from any real harm.
4. "You'll have to excuse me, the smell of Ben Gay is making my nauseous, and you better catch that bus back to the home so you don't miss Matlock."
5. "Thank you for keeping my ego in check"
Rather than wallow, I grabbed a bottle of Riesling on the way home, and popped in Judy Garland Live at the Palladium. This was one of the first (if not the very first) times Liza sang with her mom on stage. Little Liza sang, fought off Judy's attempts to grab her mic, stroked her mother's hair, and ruled the entire show. Those two were masterful at portraying modesty and graciousness. I wish I could pretend like them.
About halfway through this post-hepatitis croakfest, the boys in the audience start yelling, "I love you!" Judy returned the affection happily.
Then they made the request. The request she hated.
Who wouldn't be sick of Dorothy? She had made so much music in her short life, but all they wanted was to hear "Rainbow." This shell of Judy had also been utterly upstaged by her teenage daughter. She sweetly protested. When more requests flew at her, she sharply assured them it was on its way, knowing the hit was last on the set list. If you ever have the chance to watch this concert, don't listen to the words she's saying, just listen to her tone and watch her body language. Then try to imagine what she's really saying inside. It's a good thing she didn't bring a gun to that performance.
After the duets, it was time. Judy looked for her favorite audience member. "Liza? Liza, will you come out here? Just sit here in front." Liza dutifully sits cross-legged in front of her mother and adores her. I think Judy sang about 2 1/2 words before beckoning the crowd to sing along. She tells Liza to sing, too, but Liza was smarter. She silently stared at her mama, beaming, holding her hand. And the audience did all the work. It was beautiful.
