Last night Tad and I had a date night and we went to see the Lemonheads play their iconic album "It's a Shame about Ray" from start to finish. I was very excited.
When I was a freshman in college, I used to walk around campus with that tape on my walkman, Evan Dando singing in my ears. His voice and the Lemonheads music was sparkly and made everything look cool to me. I would pretend I was in a movie, about me, starring me...and that tape was the soundtrack. I planned on the show at Turner hall making me feel 19 again. Instead, it made me feel all of my thirty-six years (maybe even a bit more).
Don't get me wrong. I had fun. It was great to be out with Tad and Even Dando sounded as good as ever. But anyone who knows me knows that I don't have much of an attention span. At all. And this concert with it's three openers (yes, THREE!! I said to myself...will this ever END?!!) and Evan's two long acoustic sets in between doing the album...it was a long night. We didn't even make it to the end. When they finally went off stage for the first time before the encore (or however many they had--why has the encore become a standard with three or four extra sets? Didn't encores used to happen only when they were crowd demanded?), it was midnight. And my back was sore from all that standing (oh boy am I not 19 anymore!) I figured they'd come back out and do Mrs. Robinson and some other happy poppy numbers and we'd all be on our merry ways. But they came out and started really rocking out.
"Okay" I said to Tad, "We can go. They're getting all testicle-y now!"
"Yeah, you know, all boy-ish, rocking out, getting all hard core about it..."
Tad laughed. "Okay, let's go."
So I didn't even make it of for the whole SHOW! But you know what? I had a great time. I loved hearing the songs and it's okay with me if I didn't get to hear Mrs. Robinson.
But there was one thing about the show I was upset by (and this shall be my pettiest blog post up to now and hereafter). I am a short person, so I don't really have to worry that someone won't be able to see if I stand in front of them. And I understand that at most shows, everyone is standing on the floor and people can't help being taller than me and standing in front of me. I mean who ISN'T taller than me? But anyway, last night I found a spot along the edge of Turner Hall on a step! And I was standing there, so excited that I could actually see. And I stood there for the whole two hours before the Lemonheads actually came on stage. And then right before the show started, a woman, at least a head taller than me, came and stood DIRECTLY IN FRONT OF ME! On the step. Directly! Her boyfriend who was like sixteen feet tall, stood next to her. I was very annoyed. But I tried to move over a bit to see around her, but then she said something to him, and walked away and then HE STOOD DIRECTLY IN FRONT OF ME! He was so tall, I was looking at the middle of his back, I am not kidding you. She must have asked him to save her spot. Save her spot! I don't usually get mad about little stuff. I'm generally a fairly laid back person about most things. People cutting me off in traffic? Doesn't bother me. Someone skipping in line at a busy store? No problem. A server screwing up my order? Doesn't even raise my blood pressure. But do not stand in front of me at a concert if you are tall. I get mad.
I got myself in a position where I was between them. I figured, if they were on a date and wanted to touch each other, maybe that would be more important and they'd get out of my way. They knew I was there. The man even kept looking down at me. I held my ground. Tad was laughing; he said I was being macho. Finally, when she had walked away, I moved to my original spot before he could save her space again. And I could see.
Anyway, my title is from a news in brief that I cut out of the Onion. It is hanging at my cubicle at work. I sure wish concert venues would ask the tall to stand in back. Or at least hand out step stools to the short people at concert venues to even the score.