Baby's got the bends.
My sister Stephanie is due with her first baby, a boy, on October 2. So Stephanie is very, very pregnant. Stephanie is also a huge Radiohead fan. So what do you do when Radiohead is playing a concert venue on a weeknight an hour away from where you live and you're almost nine months pregnant? Why, you go, and damn to hell anyone who tries to stop you.
The concert was last night. She was accompanied by her husband, whose name is Josh (I know!). This morning, she sent the following e-mail, which I loved.
Josh got totally kick ass seats and we arrived about 5 minutes before they came on stage. We get to our seats and I look next to me and there's totally another pregnant woman next to me. Either that or she'd just given birth. [Ed. note: Probably still pregnant. If she already gave birth but still looked pregnant, she had the baby extremely recently. That woman ain't going to a Radiohead concert, I don't care what kind of superfan she is. Unless she has the greatest support system ever, which, in that case, sign me up.] Anyway, I didn't ask her if she was pregnant, because I know better [Ed. note: I cannot stress this enough, dear readers. Unless you see the baby crowning in a woman's crotch, NEVER ask her if she's pregnant. Unless the fetus falls out of her vagina onto your feet, keep your opinions and assumptions in your noggin, please. Thank you.], but I felt that there were knowing glances exchanged between her husband and me. Plus she pat her belly a lot.
Anyway, about 20 minutes into the concert some 20 year old tube-topped chippy barrels her way into the row in front of us with her 2 Abercrombie & Fitch wannabe boyfriends. She looks behind her and then yells out, "Oh great! I'm in the pregnant section!"
Oh no she di'int!
So, for like a second, I felt old and lame. I felt like one of those old people you see at a concert and then wonder about — why do they like this band? Why are they here? Do they know any of their music?
And then I realized — I was the least lame person there. 8 1/2 months pregnant and I came right from a full day at work — now that's dedication my friends. I waddled my ass through a sea of stoners who only know the song "Creep" and do not appreciate the artistic genius of The Bends — I'm so NOT lame.
And then I proceeded to out sing and out air drum that snotty little bitch during every. fucking. song.
Excellent.
When I was still living in Detroit, I went with my friend Mark and his sister, SueAnn, to the 89X Birthday Bash. It was one of those basic radio station festivals with a lineup of six bands or so. The only ones who I remember being there were Soul Coughing, Sloan and the headliner, Beck. It was 1997, I think.
Anyway, I had this mad crush on Mark at the time, so I tried to look all cute for the show, but looking back on it now I realize my shirt was truly heinous so I don't blame him for not reciprocating my affections. We're still good friends and I love his wife, and she would never wear anything so unsightly, so he clearly has good judgment. The shirt was this bold blue and purple floral disaster. Mark was wearing the Cute Boy's Uniform: a J. Crew roll-neck sweater. I don't remember what SueAnn was wearing (a long-sleeved T-shirt with a North Face–type of lightweight pullover, maybe?), but suffice it to say, we did not fit in with the sea of combat-booted, tattooed, pink-haired rebels. We were very clearly the oldest fans there.
I remember leaning over to Mark and saying, "Isn't it something that all these people got tattoos and dyed their hair purple and are wearing their goth makeup to look and feel different from each other, but they all look exactly the same and we're the ones who stand out like sore thumbs?"
So the concert starts, all is well. We were sort of toward the back, so when Beck came on, SueAnn moved to the front, closer to the stage. Mark, who's 6-foot-2, wanted a better view, so he moved toward the middle of the heap. Now, I'm 5-foot-3, and in every single instance of attending a standing-room-only concert in my entire life, I end up stuck behind someone who's at least 8-foot-4 and just as wide as he is tall. I'm short, so no spot is a good spot for me. It's just the way it is, so I navigate myself through elbows and what-not. Sometimes I get a better view of the show from the rear of the space, where there's a large gaping empty hole in front of me. (That whole sentence was dirty.) So I stayed put for two reasons: 1) I could see Beck from where I was standing and didn't want to lose my sight line; and 2) I was annoyed that Mark left me standing there alone instead of slyly brushing up against me and then professing his undying love, so I huffed and puffed and decided not to follow him. I stood in my little bratty spot, my place of petulance, and started to look around. And lo and behold, to my left was a New Cute Boy. Hello, New Cute Boy! Despite my heinous shirt, he seemed to think I was cute too, so we kind of made eyes at each other for a couple songs. I thought, OK, Mark's gonna play that way? I'm gonna flirt. (Mark wasn't playing anything. He just wanted a better view of the show. But I decided he was playing games. Ahh, the thought patterns of the romantically deluded.)
After a couple more intriguing, longing glances between me and New Cute Boy, Beck starts singing a radio hit. "Devil's Haircut," maybe? Beck switches things up when he performs live; a medley here, a random interlude there. I'm not a huge, huge fan, but he's totally entertaining. (If I recall correctly, he was wearing a white suit and white top hat.) A few bars into it, New Cute Boy looks at me, opens his mouth, and leans over.
"That ith thoooo annoying!"
Uh ... "Excuse me?"
"Thith thong! I really like thith thong, but he'th not thinging it like it thoundth on the radio! I hate it when they don't thing it like how it'th on the Thee-D. Then I can't thing along with the muthic! Ugh! I hate that! Why can't he just thing it like how he thingth it on the Thee-D?!?"
Crap. Farewell, New Cute Boy. I could almost handle the lisp; I could not handle that he completely missed the point of live performance. "I don't think it's so bad. If you want to hear it like how it sounds on the CD, then just listen to the CD. I like it when they switch it up live."
"I gueth." Pause. Lean. "I'm Thawn."
??? "What?"
"Thawn. I'm Thawn. Wha'th your name?"
Oh! Sean. How's that for bad luck? "Marla."
And I slowly inched my way into the crowd, out of my sight line and into the light, if you will.
I felt old and cynical and superior, probably much like how Stephanie felt last night. The difference? Stephanie reclaimed that concert with her Thom Yorke–loving, 30-year-old impregnated self. When I went to that concert with Thawn, I was 23 and wearing an ugly shirt, dancing in place with a guy who spit all over the back of the poor fella standing in front of him. Clearly not the same thing, but similar.
The best news is, my nephew danced in vitro to Radiohead, most pointedly to "The Bends." This bodes very well for future nursery musical selections. He's all, "Barney? Whatevs." Except he won't say whatevs. I promise.
The concert was last night. She was accompanied by her husband, whose name is Josh (I know!). This morning, she sent the following e-mail, which I loved.
Josh got totally kick ass seats and we arrived about 5 minutes before they came on stage. We get to our seats and I look next to me and there's totally another pregnant woman next to me. Either that or she'd just given birth. [Ed. note: Probably still pregnant. If she already gave birth but still looked pregnant, she had the baby extremely recently. That woman ain't going to a Radiohead concert, I don't care what kind of superfan she is. Unless she has the greatest support system ever, which, in that case, sign me up.] Anyway, I didn't ask her if she was pregnant, because I know better [Ed. note: I cannot stress this enough, dear readers. Unless you see the baby crowning in a woman's crotch, NEVER ask her if she's pregnant. Unless the fetus falls out of her vagina onto your feet, keep your opinions and assumptions in your noggin, please. Thank you.], but I felt that there were knowing glances exchanged between her husband and me. Plus she pat her belly a lot.
Anyway, about 20 minutes into the concert some 20 year old tube-topped chippy barrels her way into the row in front of us with her 2 Abercrombie & Fitch wannabe boyfriends. She looks behind her and then yells out, "Oh great! I'm in the pregnant section!"
Oh no she di'int!
So, for like a second, I felt old and lame. I felt like one of those old people you see at a concert and then wonder about — why do they like this band? Why are they here? Do they know any of their music?
And then I realized — I was the least lame person there. 8 1/2 months pregnant and I came right from a full day at work — now that's dedication my friends. I waddled my ass through a sea of stoners who only know the song "Creep" and do not appreciate the artistic genius of The Bends — I'm so NOT lame.
And then I proceeded to out sing and out air drum that snotty little bitch during every. fucking. song.
Excellent.
When I was still living in Detroit, I went with my friend Mark and his sister, SueAnn, to the 89X Birthday Bash. It was one of those basic radio station festivals with a lineup of six bands or so. The only ones who I remember being there were Soul Coughing, Sloan and the headliner, Beck. It was 1997, I think.
Anyway, I had this mad crush on Mark at the time, so I tried to look all cute for the show, but looking back on it now I realize my shirt was truly heinous so I don't blame him for not reciprocating my affections. We're still good friends and I love his wife, and she would never wear anything so unsightly, so he clearly has good judgment. The shirt was this bold blue and purple floral disaster. Mark was wearing the Cute Boy's Uniform: a J. Crew roll-neck sweater. I don't remember what SueAnn was wearing (a long-sleeved T-shirt with a North Face–type of lightweight pullover, maybe?), but suffice it to say, we did not fit in with the sea of combat-booted, tattooed, pink-haired rebels. We were very clearly the oldest fans there.
I remember leaning over to Mark and saying, "Isn't it something that all these people got tattoos and dyed their hair purple and are wearing their goth makeup to look and feel different from each other, but they all look exactly the same and we're the ones who stand out like sore thumbs?"
So the concert starts, all is well. We were sort of toward the back, so when Beck came on, SueAnn moved to the front, closer to the stage. Mark, who's 6-foot-2, wanted a better view, so he moved toward the middle of the heap. Now, I'm 5-foot-3, and in every single instance of attending a standing-room-only concert in my entire life, I end up stuck behind someone who's at least 8-foot-4 and just as wide as he is tall. I'm short, so no spot is a good spot for me. It's just the way it is, so I navigate myself through elbows and what-not. Sometimes I get a better view of the show from the rear of the space, where there's a large gaping empty hole in front of me. (That whole sentence was dirty.) So I stayed put for two reasons: 1) I could see Beck from where I was standing and didn't want to lose my sight line; and 2) I was annoyed that Mark left me standing there alone instead of slyly brushing up against me and then professing his undying love, so I huffed and puffed and decided not to follow him. I stood in my little bratty spot, my place of petulance, and started to look around. And lo and behold, to my left was a New Cute Boy. Hello, New Cute Boy! Despite my heinous shirt, he seemed to think I was cute too, so we kind of made eyes at each other for a couple songs. I thought, OK, Mark's gonna play that way? I'm gonna flirt. (Mark wasn't playing anything. He just wanted a better view of the show. But I decided he was playing games. Ahh, the thought patterns of the romantically deluded.)
After a couple more intriguing, longing glances between me and New Cute Boy, Beck starts singing a radio hit. "Devil's Haircut," maybe? Beck switches things up when he performs live; a medley here, a random interlude there. I'm not a huge, huge fan, but he's totally entertaining. (If I recall correctly, he was wearing a white suit and white top hat.) A few bars into it, New Cute Boy looks at me, opens his mouth, and leans over.
"That ith thoooo annoying!"
Uh ... "Excuse me?"
"Thith thong! I really like thith thong, but he'th not thinging it like it thoundth on the radio! I hate it when they don't thing it like how it'th on the Thee-D. Then I can't thing along with the muthic! Ugh! I hate that! Why can't he just thing it like how he thingth it on the Thee-D?!?"
Crap. Farewell, New Cute Boy. I could almost handle the lisp; I could not handle that he completely missed the point of live performance. "I don't think it's so bad. If you want to hear it like how it sounds on the CD, then just listen to the CD. I like it when they switch it up live."
"I gueth." Pause. Lean. "I'm Thawn."
??? "What?"
"Thawn. I'm Thawn. Wha'th your name?"
Oh! Sean. How's that for bad luck? "Marla."
And I slowly inched my way into the crowd, out of my sight line and into the light, if you will.
I felt old and cynical and superior, probably much like how Stephanie felt last night. The difference? Stephanie reclaimed that concert with her Thom Yorke–loving, 30-year-old impregnated self. When I went to that concert with Thawn, I was 23 and wearing an ugly shirt, dancing in place with a guy who spit all over the back of the poor fella standing in front of him. Clearly not the same thing, but similar.
The best news is, my nephew danced in vitro to Radiohead, most pointedly to "The Bends." This bodes very well for future nursery musical selections. He's all, "Barney? Whatevs." Except he won't say whatevs. I promise.
Labels: childhood, family, friends, pop culture
posted by Marla at 11:13 AM
3 Comments:
Wow! Worst opening line ever! Okay, not really. But he made it from "cute potential date" to "person you wouldn't want to discuss the weather with if you were stuck in an elevator" in just a few seconds, and that's very impressive.
Oh my gosh, Mollie, could you imagine that conversation?
"This thuckth! It maketh me tho mad when it rainth! Thometimeth I like it when it driththleth, but it maketh me tho mad when it'th not thunthiney all the time! It'th thummer! The thun thould be thining!"
I may go to hell for making fun of someone's lisp, but I stand by my feelings that Sean's close-mindedness about something different than what he's used to is one of the most off-putting qualities a person can have. SO not my next new boyfriend.
I mean, who goes to a concert to hear everything played exactly the way it's recorded on the CD? Argh! Infuriating.
I wonder how Thawn is doing now. He probably has had thex with that trollop who dared judge me because she's not at all choosey (believe you me, those boys she was with were no prizes).
To give hope to all the ladies out there (and to put more pressure on the boys out there) - the "pregnant woman" next to me did pat her belly a lot and used her bump as an arm rest (something I'm very familiar with) however her husband moved in next to me and I noticed that the screen saver on his phone was a picture of his wife holding a newborn. Now, if she is pregnant with her second kid and the picture is of their first then it'd be weird that he'd have an older picture still on his phone. On the other hand, it could be somebody else's baby. Or it could be theirs and in that case she does have the best support system ever.
Either way - your nephew will grow up listening to "The Bends" in lieu of nursery rhymes and he'll certainly never say "whatevs" however he may say "peace out, bitches." I can't make any promises.
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