Monday, November 19, 2012

Hippie, Painter, Poet, Old Coot

Today's post is going to be an anomaly in that it is going to be short.  After a splitting headache that kept me in the bed all DAY yesterday (even AFTER Michael found the migraine medicine. . . right IN the place that I had just looked. . . still haven't forgiven him for that one. . . or thanked him properly, I'm just not sure what to feel) I woke up today to find that I am still quite tender in the brain region and am apparently still recovering.  So I will attempt to make this short and sweet.  We'll see how well that works out.


Last weekend, Michael and I were fortunate enough to get a day to ourselves to enjoy great music by a couple of great artists.  This was a carefully conceived plan, and was accomplished in several ways:  First and foremost, my mom kept the kids.  =)

Now I cannot WAIT until I get to share live music with Grey Bear.  I.  CAN'T.  WAIT.  But sadly, I do not play an instrument.  (Wellll. . . I can still manage a few things on the flute and the piano. . . . but we don't HAVE a piano, and the flute just isn't the type of instrument that people crowd around for a sing-a-long.)  We've already gotten to share a couple of little instances of live music here and there with the Padawan, and that makes me happy.  But when it comes to an actual "concert: setting. . . kids stay home.  There is no wiggle room, and no space to be made for allowances on this.

Secondly, this weekend was accomplished through Michael's vigilance online.  I am referring to his virtual stalking of Birmingham Mountain Radio's facebook page.  Which, in the end, paid off handsomely, in that we won a chance to sit in on a private session/taping with JUSTIN TOWNES EARLE at Boutwell Studios on Saturday.  It.  Was.  Awesome!!!


I was sitting right at his huge freaking feet.

And me, Dani Turberville, who has never been a groupie, who has never even wanted to MEET a star. . . got completely and UTTERLY starstruck by his mere towering and soft-spoken presence.  As is evidenced by the photograph below, I am quite literally in serious danger of jumping out of my own skin:

Seriously, ya'll, it was a good 35 - 40 minutes before I could even think straight.  I was SITTING AT HIS FREAKING FEET!!!  And I. . . the whole time he was playing. . . I . . . I couldn't even look at his eyes. . . (sheepish).  You see I was very deathly afraid that there was a real possibility that he might glance up and look at MY eyes and. . . well I just don't think that I posses the tools to handle that.

. . . I might have some deeper issues than even my shrink is aware of. . .

So anyhoo, I'd like to take this opportunity to thank Michael for stalking Birmingham Mountain Radio's page.  I will never make fun of you for this highly annoying behavior again.  (This week, anyway.)  Because it really paid off.  And when I say "Paid off," what I clearly mean is "Paid off for me."  (THIS time. . .)

And lastly, this weekend was made possible with a little help from my personal friend, Excedrin Migraine.  Which I unknowingly assumed was like aspirin, in that you can take it every 6 hours or so. . . and so I did.  Which worked out GREAT, and got me through the concert portion of our evening just swimmingly, until yesterday, when Michael read the warning label and found that you are only supposed to TAKE TWO WITHIN A 24 HOUR PERIOD OR ELSE YOUR LIVER WILL EXIT YOUR BODY THROUGH YOUR EAR CANAL AND SHRIVEL UP AND DIE ON YOUR BATHROOM FLOOR.

So at the point that I received this information, I had taken about 8. . . so I am expecting some just ghastly liver pains roughly any time now.  Just consider me your walking, talking cautionary tale.

In closing, I would like to say a couple of things about the concert portion of our Saturday night. 

The event was at Workplay, which is a great venue that I've been to many times.  The acoustics are nice, and we were standing down on the floor, as all the tables were reserved, and leaning up against the stage.  Couldn't have had a better spot.  =)  Tift Merritt opened for Justin Townes Earle, and all I can say is that she is like a 70's era country songstress with the voice of an angel and the face of Gillian Anderson.  She was GREAT!! 

One thing you must understand about this concert:  This was an Americana-type music concert.  This was NOT a Flogging Molly, mosh-type situation concert.  There was NONE of that going on.  Sooooo. . . when the young drunken gentleman to the right of us kept staggering/dancing repeatedly into our vision/line of recording, it eventually got incredibly irritating.  Any concert-goer knows that Concert Law CLEARLY states that you MUST designate a 5 foot area around yourself as "personal space" and then STICK to said area throughout the life of the concert.  That way other people know where they can and cannot dance, puke, make out, etc.  (It's really just common courtesy.)  So when the guy to the right of us staggers/dances 3 feet to his left, then weaves immediately 8 feet to his right and almost knocks you over out of nowhere. . . it becomes disconcerting.  This behavior continued throughout the entire concert.  If he just wanted to bob and weave erratically, there was an entire WORLD of asphalt outside that probably would have been IDEAL.  (Really.  You'd think they'd hand out the rules BEFORE these events.  Kids these days.  SHEESH.)

(Unless. . . .  Was he having a seizure??  Should we have called for help???  Maybe he wasn't groping me, maybe he was trying to get me to dial 911!!!!!  Oh shit-bags!!!!  He really WAS spastic!!!!  I am SORRY SIR!!!  I am sorry for my thoughtless slight against your VERY REAL medical issues!!!)

And finally, to the incredibly long-longhaired, lovely little twit that stood next to me. . . the one that had her. . . what's that area of the face. . . that area below the bottom lip and the chin. . . had THAT pierced. . . and talked the ENTIRE FUCKING TIME.  EVEN during the slow, REALLY quiet, REALLY soulful songs.  The ones that Michael TRIED to record, but we got them home, and ALL we can hear is your STUPID voice YAMMERING on.  YOU, who were either so STUPID or so WASTED that you commented back  to EVERYTHING that the guy on stage, the guy that WE ALL PAID TO SEE had to say, so much so that he even had to be a smart-ass and comment back to you just to shut you up. . .yes, YOU. . . just a word, if you will.

We're all VERY impressed that were able to get out of the house tonight.  We're all also suitably impressed by the drink in your hand and the . . . I don't know what it is. . .ball? in your chin.  But we paid to hear this gentleman sing.  NOT to hear you talk.  Now quit slinging your greasy hair in my face and please close your mouth so that we can do just that.  If you are incapable of doing either of these things, then please do all of the grown ups a favor and go home and read your Tiger Beat so that we can enjoy this concert, okay?  And you're actually really quite lucky that you caught me on a GOOD day honey, because otherwise you'd be picking yourself up off the floor and asking your clueless little boyfriend what the hell just happened.

And that concludes our evening.  =)

And it was at just about that point that I realized it:

I may be a girl, and I may be only 36 years old, and I may be a mom, and a flower-child, and a coffee-addict, and about a million other things (including, but not limited to, scrappy as all hell), but I now officially have a brand new handle to add to my personal definition of myself:

I'm an old coot!



1 comment:

  1. You're not old. I'm five years older than you, and I *know* *I'm* not old, so you cannot be old.