We began the evening at a Mexican restaurant near the concert hall. It was a pleasant evening in the ATL, with a little rain, but the temp was nice. We all wore our lesbian attire in jacket wear: either black leather, oversized camp jacket, or fleece. It’s a requirement, y’all—especially if you’re on your way to a Melissa Etheridge concert.
We decided that we would stick together, as a murder of lesbians does (we relate to crows in that way). It was part of the toaster oven initiation. No pecking order was determined, but there was safety in the flock. There would be predators in the crowd and our tail feathers were in a dither.
Amy ordered cheese dip, because that’s what she eats—like the way Panda’s eat bamboo. And we mooch off her cheese dip because it tastes good and then we can pretend like we didn’t eat it because we didn’t order it. And she can pretend like she didn’t eat it because she covered each chip in 20 raw jalapenos. And that’s how we eat in day and how we sleep at night.
Somehow, we got to nipping at Marty B’s Achilles, her propensity for developing horrible yeast infections. Infections that keep her home from her job at the City. Some people don’t know how to get their girly parts clean and we don’t judge them.
Okay, I made that up. I think Amy started it—it may have been inspired by the cheese. And Amy does some standup comedy work, so she somehow got to razzing on Marty’s crotch growth and it took off from there. I think there were members at our table that were mortified. I was not one of them. I live for yeast infection jokes.
But Marty B was accused of sitting on loaves of bread and using unclean self-satisfying devices (with dolphin nozzles) that she didn’t bother to run through the dishwasher. We wept. Marty was protesting too much.
We are a flock of foul ladies. I say “we” but of course, I am the exception, with a Catholic virginal mentality. Sometimes, I don’t even get their jokes, but pretend to laugh and act horrified. I’m just that innocent. But the others are gutter snipes.
At the show, we stood in the long line to people watch and score some wine/beer. The air was thick with testosterone, mostly mine, and ladies were swarming the place. There were many fine examples of parties in the back, while business was conducted in the front. We were fascinated.
Melissa came on and her songs were good and administered with passion. She can strum a guitar and strike excellent wide-legged poses, shoulders thrown back, guitar pushed forward–alpha rock command. The ladies love ME. The crowd was getting jiggy wit-it.
Maybe it was because I was tired. Been working like a stray dog in a third world country. And maybe it was because we were perched at the top of the thin air section, peering with our astronaut goggles down through hazy half-light to the small spot lit ant on the stage.
Whatever it was, with regret, I will impart that Melissa’s chattery between songs was lacking…ummmm…everything. It just sucked. And she needs to work on that.
First, we heard the riveting, action oriented adventure of her quest for new socks. Okay. This is obviously going to be a riveting tale. I was literally perched on the cusp of my seat, nails digging into my palms, heart palpitating.
Socks? She needed socks? Wowsa. This is adventure of the highest degree and must be fraught with drama. I braced for the ethos, the pathos, the logos, and the Greek drama that centered on a quest for soft foot encasement.
As you might imagine, the story did not disappoint.
Melissa went to Saks Fifth Ave. for socks. Get it?
Saks for socks. (Please pause for 15 minutes to laugh raucously because you just told a funny, with alliteration no less. And if you aren’t a rock star (or a sock star), which was mentioned and reminded many times, you can’t pursue such verbal gymnastics, bitchessssssssss.) Did I mention that you have to hiss every “s” like a snake, if you’re a rock star? I gathered that it’s intended to add sex appeal and drama and the crowd was digging on it. Maybe we were too high up in the nosebleeds, but the whole thing was cracking me up…and not in the way it was intended.
Back to the climax. Saks ain’t got no socks. NONE! Can you people fathom this? Dilemma! So, she had to slum it at Talbots, y’all. Then you know you’re a rock star, well, because you’re a rock star and well people treat you like a rock star. Rocking rock star rocking socks at Talbots with a crowd of attentive low-lings and you’re getting your sock on and getting rock star treatment for your socks. And then she had socks. That was the twist at the end of this rollicking plot. She bought the socks, but not at Saks.
AWESOME STORY MELISSA!
I howled. I cried. I peed myself. But not really, although I did chuckle. Mostly, I just looked on with my jaw slightly agape and wondered how many flights I had to traipse down to get another wine.
Sadly, she wasn’t done with these Travelling Tales, oh no sirreee.
The other delightful thing about the Melissa concert, beside the plot-driven sock procurement story and the rocking songs, was how Melissa is awesomely healthy now, reading every self-help book and seeing five therapists, four pet psychics, three palm readers, two acupuncturists, and one spiritual guru. Because she is now healthy, doesn’t need someone as a partner because she loves herself the bestest in the whole world. Oh yeah, and you shouldn’t ever look to another to create your happiness, because that’s in you. You don’t need no stinking wife or partner or loved one!
I turned to Kate and broke up with her on the spot because I felt the realism of her words. I was free in me!
And Melissa taught me, “you are what you eat people. Choose your food with care. DO NOT EAT MCNUGGETS! Be single and love yourself and feed yourself whole foods and raw veggies.” I do not think that Melissa was necessarily taking that last advice to stomach, not to be a catty bitch. But I am and will not deny my truth.
This line of clichéd wisdom was delivered without restraint between each tune and I barfed a little in my mouth. We were getting an owl’s vomit pellet of counseling between songs and I didn’t care for it. It left a foul taste.
So, I had the giggles for much of the show. It culminated when Melissa fired up the crowd favorite, “Bring Me Some Water.” Kate says, “Hey, this is like your song.”(Because I drink about a gallon of water before bed and need her help carrying up one of my glasses. And we also have to carry up the cats so that Walter doesn’t escape out the dog door and be devoured by the huge packs of imaginary coyotes that live in our bamboo forest.)
But in truth, I usually carry my own water and Kate totes a kitty. So, I yelled to Kate in my giddy giggly state: “More like BRING ME SOME PUSSY!”
And before I yelled out “PUSSY!” (at the top of my lungs and with utter self-hilarity) the crowd totally went silent so that I bellowed out “PUSSY” which came off as totally sexually perverted in a big crowd of lesbians. Backpedaling, I’m like “CAT! CAT! CAT!” But it was too late and the noise levels drowned me out.
I just hoped that no one noticed my inappropriate lewd behavior because they were still pondering Martha’s raging yeast infection. Lord, I needed someone to bring me some water.
