peevish mama

We had tickets to Beck last night.  Not that I had any business going to a concert after the weekend I had.  But it was BECK!  Beck.  Beck.  Beck, I chanted softly to myself as I lay in bed at three o’clock in the afternoon, feeling as if someone had pulled my lungs out through my ears, dipped them in egg, dredged them in panko bread crumbs, deep fried them and stuffed them back in through my nostrils.  I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t move.  If it had been anyone else, I would have called in sick . . . (actually, I would miraculously emerge from my cremation urn for the Red Hot Chili Peppers, but that’s another level of physical addiction/obsession altogether).  Beck. Beck. Beck.  I needed to rally.  Big time. 

So at fiveish, I made myself a nice cup of tea.  Then I had a little appetizer of Advil (for the aches) and Tylenol (for the shakes/suspicion of low-grade fever) washed down with copious amounts of limeade.  Then I took a few puffs of my inhaler (for the aforementioned crispy lungs).  Then I sat down to a lovely dinner of take-out from Convention Grill with my dear family (California burger with swiss and bacon, incase you were wondering . . . and a chocolate shake . . . and fries, of course).  Then I put on my purple jeans and my silver boots.  And suddenly I felt better.  I felt better than better!  I felt ready to bust a move and rock out to one of the little geniuses (the other being Prince) I’ve been wanting to see live for so so so long!

Doctor Dash and I went to the show with Pipes and our other friend who I will call Big (think Tom Hanks -he’s really just a kid in a grown-up body, although he has managed to become an orthopedic surgeon and snag a foxy wife, so I’d say that he’s a bit of a precocious child).  

Beck rocked.  It was a highly entertaining show on all fronts: sweaty, thrashing, screamin’ guitary, woozy crackly feed-backy, quirky without being annoying, and fully soul-satisfying.  An ocean of music – deep and vast and unpredictable.  I couldn’t take my eyes off him.  He’s such a smart little freak.  He played every song you wanted to hear off every album, driving home just what a prolific artist he is,  just how multifarious his sources and influences, just how far out his tentacles reach.  Exactly what you’d expect from the little man genius, who, incidentally is wearing his hair down to his shoulders . . . with BANGS!  He looks ridiculous.  He looks awesome.  And the little chickie on guitar could not have been more adorable. What a rockin’ little cutie-pie minx.  I wanted to be her.  Dash, Pipes and Big just wanted her.  Actually, I did too a little – ya, she’s that cute.  What a gig . . . sigh . . . I wonder if she smooches Beck and his Robin Hood hair.

We wormed our way to the belly of the beast (where I was nearly Marsha Brady’d by a young fool with flailing elbows) and danced with the youngsters. Well, I danced . . . and Pipes danced . . . Dash just kind of grooved.  And poor Big got poked relentlessly by some suburban office worker’s enormous cheap black purse.  You know what?  Time for a public service announcement:  Ladies, when you go to a show, do like me and simply slip some cash and your license in your back pocket, or do like my betties and take a little clutch with your lippy and the rest. But don’t bring your gigantic structured purse with God knows what in it and expect the people around you to like you.  For the love of God, leave the damn bag at home you loser mid-level human resources employee!  That prissy matron is probably the person who lost a heel on the way out.  Pipes and I just cackled at the forlorn, destroyed heel strewn on the ground.  Serves her right for wearing cheap stilettos to a concert.  You gotta be quick, nimble and UNFETTERED!  It could be a matter of survival if the shit really hit the fan and there was a stampede or something.  Man, have I digressed.  Back to the kick-ass concert.

I just wanted to shrink Beck and take him home with me in one of those mesh ball tea infusers tied around my neck.  I would put him in the little wooden dollhouse that nobody plays with and I would sooooo pimp it out for him!  I would cut up my faux fur to make him a super deluxe bedspread and some throws and I would put really cool wallpaper up and I would go to those stores where all those freaky crafts people go and buy really nice miniature furniture.  And I would cook him delicious feasts – none of this corn niblet in a thimble crap.  I would grill him perfectly seared tiny steaks. I would toss him lovely and fresh little salads in lemony vinaigrettes, whip him some perfectly creamy and garlicky mashed potatoes.  The way I figure it, I would need tweezers, a scalpel, a medicine dropper, and a tiny whisk to cook for him – and maybe an Easy-Bake Oven so I could make him tiny pies and fruit crumbles. And we would have so much to talk about and I would be such a good hostess that I would begin to neglect my other duties, and my husband and children would start to resent little Beck, and I would begin to fear for his safety, and it would be time for him to leave anyway because he puts out an album every year or so, and so we would share a teary good bye, promise to stay in touch . . . and his next album would be all about me.

Anyway, he rocked.  

[Note: the photo is from some dude’s Flickr stream.  Not sure what the legal ramifications are of filching some dude’s photo off his Flickr stream, but in my defense, I did harass Dash repeatedly to try to get a picture on his camera phone and it just didn’t work out.]