It Wasn’t Pablo’s Honey 4/29/08

One week from tomorrow (May 6), Radiohead will be gracing Tampa with a concert, and I don't have a ticket. =( I guess I got an attack of the "schmucks" when they went on sale, thinking like I was back in NYC where the formal buying of such commodities was next to impossible. Even if you camped out and were 3rd in line with your cell phone speed dialing Ticketmaster, in Manhattan, this means nothing.

"Sold Out" only sounds good when it's your gig; otherwise it's a car door slamming on an already cold hand.

When I first moved to New York, Radiohead was touring, but raising John Lennon from the dead for a square dance would have been more feasible than getting tickets to see them. I even went to ask Satan in Newark (if there is a Devil, he for sure lives in Newark, New Jersey) for a possible selling of the soul, but he was all "Sorry bitch, even if you had one of them soul thingy's, ain't NOBODY gettin' no Radiohead tickets up in here". (This evening, the voice of Satan is brought to you by Ru Paul, the only girl I'd kiss with tongue, and even then…)

I went down to the venue the night of the show anyways, in hopes that someone maybe got jilted, stuck with extras, or maybe I'd just kill a scalper and take what he had on him. Alas, there was nothing.

I felt so dejected, I usually am pretty resourceful and I really love Radiohead, but maybe I was never going to get to see them LIVE? My head sunk right down to my belly button and just rested there on my belt buckle as I reluctantly drowned in Lake Give Up. It's in Midtown on the West Side, if you're ever in the neighborhood.

I can't recall who all was with me, but I remember leading the pack when we finally decided to bail. I walk fast, and on this night I was doing that bitchy, impatient, "everyone get the fuck out of my way" stomp one does when disappointment so nonchalantly pisses on them.

On approaching the crosswalk, there was a cluster of people facing away from the street. Traffic was light so I stepped off the curb early to get around them. At the precise moment my boot heel kissed pavement, one guy from the cluster quickly did a 180 counterclockwise, completely unaware that I was directly behind him in the street preceding this act.

I wish I could tell you that our eyes met and that we now breed Andalusian horses together in Spain, or that a bus hit me and from the waist down I am now bionic and can leap over mid-sized SUVs while eating cheese fries. But no, that's not what happened.

Look to the right of this page and you'll see my avatar photo where I'm brushing my hair back with my hand. I was doing that exact thing when this clusterfuck turned around and hacked a goob right into my freshly revealed ear!
I screamed so loud, my future self in 20 years felt it. The chill in the air compounded the feeling of warm, wet, foreign goob (as if "friendly" goob would've been any better) leaking down onto my neck as I fell to my knees like I had been shot. One's hand wants to immediately clutch where the assault has taken place, but my fantastic aversion to snot/phlegm provided a small force field so instead, I probably looked like I was doing "jazz hands" with one hand while the other was pointing at the HE that took me down.

I don't remember his hollow apology or how long I convulsed over it, but the thought of it gives me the skeeves to this day, man. ICK! All my poor ear wanted that evening was to hear "Fake Plastic Trees" live, which it did do eventually (three times), and hopefully will again.

My trip to New Mexico next month totally came together today so maybe fate will keep smiling my way and send me a great seat (not lawn-bugs yuck) next week in front of one of the only bands that can totally generate the WOW for me. =)