UGH!

or just.. Ugh!

Okay, so I've been really lax around this here blog 'o sphere. Sorry. Or maybe you've been enjoying my absence and I should say you're welcomed.

Anyways, a couple of Saturdays ago I went to a concert featuring local favorites, The Clarks. Salim Nourallah--of Old 97's producer fame--refers to them as the Beatles of Pittsburgh. He produced the lead singer, Scott's last solo effort. The band are regulars on our little dog and pony morning show, PTL. They're great guys. Always pleasant, usually on time, unflappable when things don't always go correctly.

What? You're surprised there are snafus at work? We don't call it the Special K for nothing.

Anywho, I've never seen them perform in front of an audience, or in this case a ginormous mass of adoring humanity spewing heaps of unconditional love. These mild-mannered gents hit the stage like rock stars! It was fabulous. You could feel the love emanating from the eager crowd. Everyone (except me) was singing along to every song, so much so that in at least five songs Scott just stood back and let 'em sing it. They were putty in his hands, man. These folks were rapt. Hanging on his every word. Cheering & squealing to his every strut. Crowd surfing.

Yes. Crowd surfing. At a pop concert.

(Note to self: Young people's heads are very hard, both literally and figuratively)

Turns out they're kind of a big deal. A REALLY big deal. Who knew?

They are HUGE FUN! The evening was terrific. The pre-concert deluge of hair-ruining rage ended at the exact moment The Spring Standards (you know, my fantasy hubby's little project) took the stage and it remained gorgeous all through the night until the last cheer echoed off Mt. Washington.

Sounds like a well spent evening, right? So what's with all the Ugh at the top of this mess of a post you might ask. You may. Go ahead. Ask away. I'll wait...

Well, it happened during one of the last songs from the penultimate band, Good Brother Earl. I was recording GBE when I heard an altercation between the Cougars to my left and an obviously drunk kindergartner behind me.

Cougar: Oh no you are NOT standing in front of me. I've been here for two hours. That is NOT going to happen. (shakes her head sideways in a girlfriend gesture)

Drunk Chip: witshoyehlso soeihsoe blah blah blah!?!!! *@$#

C: I am not kidding. Get back or I will call security to drag your boney ass out of here. (sound of Wolverine claws springing out)

DC: Wha?! You cahn't do that, bitch. I cahn be wherev--blah blah blah yap yap yap

I really don't know what she said there. She was so incoherent she was speaking in freaking tongues.

Then all of a sudden I was knocked forward. Okay. I gave DC the benefit of the doubt and let her have a pass. She's drunk, right. Her busting into me was probably an accident.

Then the wild-ass bee-yatch reared up and gunned it for my back, sending me into the kid in front of me. WTF?!?

And that's when it happened.

Me: STOP IT! RIGHT NOW!!!

 

* Sigh *

I am officially 50.

To make it worse, I looked her 15 year old boyfriend in his scared, saucer eyes and said, "You need to remove her NOW!" Cowering, he replied "I'm trying, Ma'am."

Ma'aM...

Double UGH!

I went from hipster doofus to crusty octogenarian in ten seconds. That inebriated idiot brought out my Mom-i-tude, and I have been trying to shove her and her f*cking Mommy jeans back in that steamer trunk ever since. You're not taking me alive, Sucker!!

(gun cocks *BLAST*)

The funny thing is when you crank the volume you can hear my spiral into June Cleaver territory at the end of this video.

in which I become my Mother *sigh*

The Spring Standards working their multi-instrument magic

The Clarks big time sing along (On Saturday) See...They ARE kind of a big deal.

True Believer

How about a little BadFinger, Scarecrow?

True to form at my summer concerts this year, they ended their set with a cover. This time it was Louis Armstrong's Wonderful World

It was an exhilarating evening filled with booty-shaking tunes and good karma, you know, once the drunken adolescent was escorted out.

As for Mrs. Mommy-Jeans, I think she's safely tucked away for now. I lured her into the basement with the smell of tequila and fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies. She should be good for awhile.

But be forewarned...Don't be violating my space at a venue or I will unleash the ugly-ass hound that is my Mommy-tude. She bites.