Should I be embarrassed to say that the main reason I registered for the Flying Pig's 10K race is because of the logo? Cincinnati is hosting this year's All Star Game and as soon as I saw the adorable little piggy in the baseball cap I knew I had to have a medal of that.
The all-powerful Shrinky Dink charm.
I did not go into Saturday's 6.2 mile race with any great expectations. In the back of my mind had always been the goal of finishing just under an hour and 30 minutes. That would require a pace of a little better than four m.p.h. the whole way. I can walk that fast, but not necessarily for six miles. And Cincinnati has some hills. Quite a few hills. This was not like walking loops around a high school track. As of Friday evening my personal best time had been one hour, 33 minutes or roughly a 15:06 per mile pace. To finish in goal time, by the skin of my teeth, I need to average no more than 14:30 per mile. Ugh... Yeah, I couldn't do that. I'd never done that. Still, Friday night I kept thinking about it. I even made a tiny Shrinky Dink tag for my shoelace.
My cheering section for the 10K consisted of my sister (the Inmates' beloved Uncle Chester) and my husband. For some reason my children turned down the chance to get up at six a.m. on a Saturday so we could get downtown and in position for the eight a.m. race. In fact, my sister regularly stays up until three or four in the morning, so she wasn't running on all eight cylinders, either. (Even on her best day she's lucky to be running on six.)
The race's corrals were lined up on Joe Nuxhall Way next to Great American Ballpark. I was in corral F, reserved for those of us who thought it would take us longer than 1:30:00 to finish the race. Yeah, we were literally the end of the line. But we were festive! There were piggy hats and piggy tails and sparkly tutus, my favorite on a burly 30-something man. What we lacked in speed we made up for in attitude. Fearing footage of me plodding along the course would turn up on YouTube, I made myself as inconspicuous as possible in capri pants and the Flying Pig t-shirt. I have this phobia about going viral on the Internet... At one point my sister suddenly glared up at a window above the Reds Hall of Fame and Museum before realizing the man looking down on her was actually a poster of Pete Rose sliding into third base. (Later at lunch she said she felt like she was having a "flaccid assback". She'd meant to say "acid flashback." Yeah, she needed some sleep.)
I handed my jacket off to the Vulcan and my purse to Uncle Chester. They both wanted off the course before the race officially started and they got trampled by a woman wearing a pig nose and sequined pink headband. As the 4500 participants slowly moved as one toward the starting line, I plugged in my earphones and got my Green Day-heavy playlist ready. While the handy Flying Pig app allows family and friends to track folks in the real races (i.e., full and half marathons), my cheering section was stuck with the lower tech version of me texting my husband at each mile marker. As we went over the starting line, I clicked the chronograph feature on my watch and set out to the tune "500 Miles" by The Proclaimers. So I wasn't really going to walk 500 miles, but at that moment it kinda felt that way. (Anyone familiar with Cincinnati and interested can see the course map here.)
I walked along for about a quarter of a mile, my legs gradually warming up and getting looser. Then I did the strangest thing. I started to jog. I had sworn I was not going to do my basset hound trot in public, but there is power in the combination of adrenaline and a slight competitiveness. I began to pass people. And every time I passed some boney-ass looking cute and perky in her Lycra jogging shorts, I felt a shot of energy go through me and I went just a little faster. I know, I know. It's petty and bitchy and juvenile. Damn, it was fun.
I crossed that bridge at some point...I think...
We crossed the bridge into Newport, Kentucky. I glanced at my watch at the first mile marker as I fumbled to pull my phone out of its case and text The Vulcan. It read 13 minutes and change. Wow, that was well under the pace I needed. I continued to walk, tossing in a jog about a third of the time. At the second marker I was still well under pace. I felt the energy shoot up again. Could I do it? Could I actually get in under 1:30:00? I tried to do mental arithmetic and figure how much my pace could slow and still make the goal. I gave up as I slurped water at the 2.5 mile station, spilling more on my shirt than I got in my mouth. My notorious lack of a sense of direction left me wondering why nothing in Cincinnati was looking familiar. We had crossed the bridge back into Ohio, yet my surroundings still looked like northern Kentucky. It wasn't until I got to the three mile mark and we started to cross the big bridge that I realized that other bridge had been over the Licking River and we were still in Kentucky. Yeah, this is why I never leave home without my phone and MapQuest app.
As we crossed we were saluted with honks and waves from a guy in a cement mixer and the driver of the train going the opposite direction. Once over the bridge into Ohio I knew I was past the halfway mark. I glanced at my watch and the time was under 41 minutes. Holy crap! I was still on pace. A little more Green Day, a little more jogging, a little more adrenaline when I lumbered past the skinny bitch in the pink jogging skirt. Okay, she may have been a perfectly nice lady, but she was thin and had nice legs and probably would have made fun of me in high school, so I used my bitterness to my advantage.
By mile four we were back near the stadium and the spectators had increased significantly. So did my anxiety. I slowed down to a walk again and tried to figure out if I could reach my goal without any canine cavorting. Then I thought, "To hell with it." I caught my breath, then went back to my ungainly gallop. At mile five I texted my husband for the last time. All that fiddling with the phone and its case and trying to type was slowing me down even more and I needed all the seconds I could get. I shoved the phone case in my pocket and checked my watch. It read an hour and six minutes. A few quick calculations and I realized I could walk the last 1.2 miles at a very moderate 3.2 m.p.h. and still come in under 1:30:00. I couldn't believe it. I could make it.
As "I'm Too Sexy" by Right Said Fred blared in my ears I started to get worried. What if I suddenly hit the wall? What if some muscle decided to pop and I could only limp the rest of the way? I had visions of me crawling to the finish line as all the skinny bitches ran past me and my goal slipped away. I started to jog again. By that point I probably looked like I was wearing ankle weights, my feet fighting gravity with each step. I chugged up the tiny incline on Pete Rose Way that now felt as steep as Mt. Everest. The six mile marker was in sight. I could make it. I think I can, I think I can... OK, only two-tenths of a mile. I inhaled deeply and slowed down to a walk.
Up ahead I could see the "Finish Swine". I was gonna do it! I looked to my left and could see my cheering section. I waved my arms at them and then saw their looks of recognition as they picked me out of the crowd. I gave them two thumbs-up as I walked past and there are few times in my life when I've been quite that happy. I intended to just walk across the line, but in my peripheral vision I caught one last bouncing Barbie coming up on the inside. With a final jolt of adrenaline, I scuttled away from her and across the line.
I tried to catch my breath as a teenage boy put the medal around my neck and another guy handed me a Mylar blanket. I'm sure I looked like an idiot, smiling to myself as I wandered into the recovery area practically jumping up and down. I slurped a cup of Gatorade and grabbed a bottle of water. My cheerleaders were to meet me outside this participants-only area. I didn't see them, so I took the opportunity to email my mommy. My official time, I found out later, was 1:21:41. I honest to God didn't think it was possible. I didn't think I could move that well if I had a zombie on my ass and a donut truck in front of me.
So, do I consider myself a great athlete now? Not hardly. The real athletes were crossing the finish line before I hit the first water station. It never was about me being fast or good compared to anyone else. It was me compared to a past me, By-Default-Girl. I remember trying to do Jane Fonda's workout tape when I was in high school, her second one that had an aerobic section about three minutes long. I couldn't do it. I had no stamina whatsoever. That certainly didn't improve as I got older. My joy isn't because I did something no one else could do. It's because I did something I didn't think I could do. And there's magic in that, I tell you. Magic.
Last week I gave you three hints to this week's haunted place -- Johanna, Walling, and "Anniversary Waltz." Can you guess it? Oh, wait. It's in the post title. It's Bobby Mackey's Music World, known by some as "The Most Haunted Nightclub in the USA".
The men's room, where a patron was
attacked by an evil (and evidently perverted) ghost
Country singer Bobby Mackey purchased the roadhouse in 1978 and turned it into his own nightclub, with live music, lots of drinking, and later the requisite mechanical bull (which my father took great pride in telling me he once rode). Ghostly encounters began almost immediately, with Bobby's wife Janet being an early victim of an unknown presence who, among other things, pushed the pregnant woman down a flight of stairs and tried to knock a ladder on top of her. The other most famous victim was Carl Lawson, the caretaker who lived on the premises. He was tormented nightly by unseen voices and a jukebox that played "The Anniversary Waltz"...even when unplugged. The ghosts' behavior escalated to the point that he was supposedly possessed and required the services of an exorcist. (His story is told in the book Hell's Gate: Terror at Bobby Mackay's World, a really poorly written, but thorough, account of Carl Lawson's nightmare.)
So, why would a honky tonk be haunted? There are a number of stories floating around. The club is located on the former site of a slaughterhouse. In 1896 a 22-year old pregnant woman named Pearl Bryan was murdered (by decapitation no less). Scott Jackson and Alonzo Walling were convicted and hanged for the killing. There are wild stories that the two were actually satanists who murdered Pearl inside the slaughterhouse as a blood sacrifice and dumped her head down a well that sent all the blood and entrails from the cattle into the Licking River. No actual evidence has ever been dug up to substantiate this story, but that doesn't stop some from saying it's Pearl haunting Bobby Mackey's.
Another story revolves around a woman named Johanna (also the name of one of Bobby Mackey's hits), who was a dancer at the Latin Quarter Club which operated inside the Bobby Mackey building in the 1930s. Johanna lost her lover at the hands of her father and in her grief committed suicide on the property. This story features prominently in the episode of Ghost Adventures filmed at Mackey's in 2008.
The "portal to hell"
Is the location actually haunted? There are a number of employees and patrons who will say it is. I personally have not been there during actual operating hours. I was inside, though, as part of a Haunted Cincinnati bus tour through Cincinnati Museum Center. I can't say I experienced any ghostly vibrations, although I did find the place a bit scary. It smelled strongly of tobacco and beer and the floors looked like they had 30 years of cowboy boot dirt embedded in the linoleum. Our tour included the basement with its famous "Room of Faces", which features ghostly demonic and human images on the walls, and the aforementioned well. It is speculated that when the well was uncovered after Bobby Mackey purchased the place, a "portal to hell" was opened which allowed in the evil spirits that went on to possess Carl Lawson. (I will go on the record saying I don't believe in demonic possession or curses. My son believes in both and when I try to argue my case against curses he pierces my poor Chicago baseball-loving heart by snarling, "Then how do you explain the Cubs?".)
We took a number of pictures, but admittedly only one showed anything unusual. Is that an orb in the upper center of the picture? Or one of many dust particles blown in from the busy highway outside?
The publicity doesn't seem to have done Mackey's any harm. In fact, he seems to have embraced the ghostly spirits, at least in terms of marketing. His official web site lists the club's signature drinks of the Poor Pearl, Hell's Gate, Johanna Bomb (with limited edition souvenir cup), and Ghost Punch.
There's a good page on Mackey's official website with various articles, audio interviews, and video footage here. The Ghost Adventures wiki has details of the episode here.
Last year I was inspired by Katy Wolk-Stanley over at The Non-Consumer Advocate blog to try the Food Stamp Challenge. The basic premise is that you attempt to live for one month on what a family of your size would receive in food stamps. Katy lives in Oregon, but she has two sons just slightly older than my kids and one husband, so I figure the $400 a month figure she was working with should be comparable to what we'd get in the state of Ohio. To make this a little more palatable to my fast food-addicted children, I told them about the Grayson County Humane Society in Leitchfield, Kentucky and their Grayson Angels program. This is a small, rural shelter, always short on funds and held together by dedicated volunteers. A member of the Grayson Angels pledges to donate $1 per day for the year. Given that we are totally gluttonous and spoiled human beings in my household, quick calculations revealed that if we stuck to the Food Stamp Challenge for one month, we could save more than enough money to fund ourselves as Grayson Angels for the year. It worked beautifully, no one died of trans fat-withdrawal, and the shelter got its money. While my children have many faults, one of their redeeming qualities is a love for animals, so I knew I could get them on board for the Food Stamp Challenge this year.
In addition to funding a charitable donation, my hope for the challenge was to show my children how lucky they are in their normal lives. I always feel a little obnoxious doing this challenge, as if it's some great sacrifice for us to do without for one month when some families are living this way all year long. It's a little like spending a week in a wheelchair to understand what it's like to be disabled. I still wouldn't truly understand because I would spend that week knowing that in seven days I would indeed be standing up again. In the same way, we know that on February 1st we can head down to the nearest McDonald's and stuff ourselves with fries. It makes me feel like a bit of a fraud, but I figure it's for a good cause.
We're just over three weeks into the 2012 Food Stamp Challenge and things are not going so hot. We got off to a bad start when we tried to soothe The Professor's post-Christmas/back-to-school depression by taking him to see the latest Sherlock movie on January 2. We very rarely go to an actual theater, so when we do I let the kids get something from the snack bar. Needless to say, I could have bought us all Taco Bell dinners for the cost of The Professor's Pepsi and king size box of candy. We also hit a few potholes in the form of strep throat and colds. The Vulcan was the only one who came through completely unscathed. I, on the other hand, got both this month, and The Vulcan doesn't appreciate me cooking him food when I'm ill. In fact, he avoids all of us when we're sick, appearing only to get a drink from the kitchen and then making a hasty exit with his shirt collar pulled over his nose and mouth like a doctor's mask. (I get my revenge by chasing after him, pretending to heave big, germy breaths his way. Makes me feel better just to see the frantic look in his eyes as he races for the stairs.) As a result, there were more fast food meals than would normally fall into my personal guidelines for this challenge.
Our main goal is to stay under $400. In reality, my goal is to spend $365 less than my average monthly grocery bill last year. Given the embarrassingly large amounts we spent on food most months, this goal is totally doable. To add a little extra incentive, anything we save over the $365 will go to Recycled Doggies, a fabulous rescue group in the Cincinnati area. (Our beloved St. Jimmi came from them.) They recently took in an adorable dog named Liberty who had been hit by a car and horribly injured. She was taken to a shelter by her owners who couldn't afford vet care and luckily the shelter contacted Recycled Doggies. She's a beautiful black dog, less than a year old, but her injuries required a tremendous amount of treatment. Last I heard the bills topped $5,500, so I figure they can use all the donations they can get.
If you'd like more information on the Grayson County Humane Society and their Grayson Angels program, please click here. If you'd like more information on how you can help Liberty, please see the Recycled Doggies Chip-In link here.
I could have put up something on my Facebook status about my wonderful husband, our 16 glorious years together, how he is my best friend and confidante. Yeah, I didn't do that. In fact, I never re-post those husband-adoring messages that go around from time to time. It's not that I don't like the Vulcan. As husbands go, he's not too bad. Somehow I can't think of him as my best friend, though. When I ponder the term "best friend," I envision the person I call when I'm at my lowest, who listens to all my troubles with a sympathetic ear and offers a pat on the back. How can my best friend be a man who I best communicate with via e-mail, even though he works at home and I'm merely typing to him from the floor below?
Back in the early days (read: before children) we used to go on vacation in October. After The Professor came along, it turned into long weekend trips with our child in the care of his grandmother and aunt. Our last long weekend trip, which must go back a good six or seven years now, ended with The Vulcan going to sleep at 9 p.m. on a Saturday night, leaving me in a Lexington hotel room watching Larry King. At that point I decided a simple dinner out, childfree, was about as exciting as it was going to get.
OK, maybe the man's not completely without sentiment
This year we didn't even manage that. Part of the problem was Grandma and Uncle Chester's unavailability to watch The Inmates (a rare occurrence). Another issue was my hauling my sorry behind back to Weight Watchers this week to officially get weighed in for the first time in a year (and the receptionist kindly whited out my weight gain on my booklet so as not to discourage me). Mostly, though, I just didn't feel like it. We're going on twenty years together. We have two kids, two dogs, two cats, two frogs, and seven computers. (I throw in the latter fact only to reinforce my claim that my husband's easier to talk with through technology -- how else to explain the people-to-keyboard ratio in the house?) We're past the dewy-eyed stage. As my mother always says, if she sees a couple at a restaurant alone and they're totally thrilled with each other's company, they ain't married yet. (Or maybe they're not married to each other.)
In my early twenties I probably would have been depressed to think that romance would be totally gone from my life. Instead I find myself too busy (and too tired) to care. It could be because my concerns are more global in general or focused on my children in particular. I'd like to say I've grown up, I've matured, but readers of my blog know that can't be it. Perhaps I'm in a rut and too distracted by my latest knitting project to notice. Whatever the reasons, I don't find myself depressed to have stayed home on my anniversary, with a day as ordinary as any other. Maybe I've grown, maybe I'm heading towards enlightenment. Or perhaps I'm mentally saving up for that big-ass gift I'm gonna make sure he gets me for our 20th anniversary.
The greater Cincinnati area is known for its beer. It's also known for its large German population. If you like food and drink with a German flair, check out Hofbrauhaus - Newport in Newport, Kentucky, just across the river from downtown Cincinnati.
You can read my family's experience of the restaurant here. In short, this restaurant is modeled on the 400 year old Hofbrauhaus in Munich, Germany. You can get your standard German fare, as well as a wide variety of beers. Being a non-beer-drinker myself, I can't vouch for the lager, but I'm assured by those who know better that there are some great choices. I can vouch for the cream puff, which is one of the best I've ever had, with a light, fluffy pastry and delicious cream filling. This sucker is big, so it's made for sharing. You can download the menu here and check here for hours and special events. Hofbrauhaus Newport is a short walk from Newport on the Levee.
If you're looking for a fun way to get a little history of Cincinnati and Northern Kentucky while seeing some of the better known sights, check out the Ride the Ducks Tour in Newport, Kentucky. This amphibious vehicle takes you from Newport, across the river into Cincinnati, and then into the Ohio River, which of course is the coolest part. Once back on shore, the tour continues into downtown Cincinnati, then back into Northern Kentucky.
You can read about my family's tour experience here. Further information about the tour, times, and ticket prices can be found at the Ride the Ducks - Newport site here.
Ride the Ducks kiosk with Newport Aquarium in back
Newport, Kentucky is just across the river from downtown Cincinnati. Tickets can be purchased online ahead of time or at the Ride the Ducks kiosk outside the Newport Aquarium at Newport on the Levee. You can park in the Newport on the Levee parking garage and then take an elevator to street level. The tour boards at the meeting place near Toro Bar and Grill. Look for the Ride the Duck umbrellas and sign.
Camp is quickly coming to end, fizzling out like a fire that's been peed on. After having my meltdown last night, I told everybody today that all activities were optional. I was going to participate in everything planned because I want my damn vest patches, but they could do as they pleased. I didn't even bother reading the write-ups for today's activities and merely told them what was on the agenda.
First up was earning the Fun With Nature patch. Originally I had wanted to take them to Big Bone Lick State Park in Kentucky, but the temperature was still 90 degrees today, even with significantly less humidity, and I decided not to risk a long drive for nothing. I went with Plan B, the Trammel Fossil Park in Sharonville. Foghorn opted to stay behind, declaring, "I have a life to live, you know." She didn't even want to go to Applebee's for lunch with us, so I left her at home watching Mermaid Melody videos on YouTube. Thankfully her father works from home, although he wasn't too thrilled to hear she was staying behind.
The Professor and I had a nice, peaceful lunch together. Chicken fingers with barbecue sauce is a sure way to the boy's heart and he seemed to have been fighting a case of the guilts over yesterday's meltdown. He was unusually cooperative and positive about my plans for the day, cheerily saying, "Sounds great," to every suggestion. I had taken the Healing Crystals book with us to Applebee's and suggested after the fossil park we go Amethyst Book Store and pick out stones for his medicine bag. He decided to make getting a good night's sleep the focus for his bag, since he's a terrible insomniac and is perpetually sleep deprived.
Trammel Fossil Park would be a great place for a kid who's really into natural history and, well, fossils. Unfortunately, The Professor isn't one of those kids. (And The Warden isn't one of those adults.) There is informational signage around the park and a large hillside for exploration. It might have at least been pleasant to stroll around there on a nice autumn day. On a 90 degree day, with the early afternoon sun blasting us, it was not so fun. We wandered for about 15 minutes and then headed out for the air conditioned Amethyst Book Store, where The Professor got the stones for his medicine bag -- citrine, malachite, rose quartz, amethyst, and hematite.
He declared himself "exhausted" after that and promptly retired to the family room for an afternoon of Pokemon watching. Foghorn spent a chunk of the afternoon booby-trapping the house by running yarn around the furniture, up the stairs, and over picture frames, ensuring I'd break my leg if I had to run out of the place in an emergency.
Uncle Chester arrived in the evening to help with part three of the arts and crafts patch: making stepping stones. Both Inmates declined the invitation to participate, so Chester and I set up the supplies in my enclosed porch and made them ourselves under the breeze of the ceiling fan. I'm in a hippie mood in preparation for tomorrow (and from watching Taking Woodstock last night and making tie-dye shirts), so I did my stone with the flower shaped mold, using pieces of broken dishes for mosaic petals, and carving "peace, man" in the center. (I wanted it to say "we must be in heaven, man", but there wasn't enough room.) To please Foghorn, Chester attempted a sea scene, complete with mermaid on the right. (No, really, that's supposed to be a mermaid.) When The Professor was asked what he thought the scene was he said, "Museum Center?"
Last on the list was playing an assortment of card games for our Game Day patch. The Professor politely said he'd rather not, if it was all the same to me, thank you very much. Foghorn initially said she wanted to play, but then decided to set up a library in my living room instead, harassing people to take out a book (and then trying to charge them $2 when they returned the book the mandatory 10 minutes later). They weren't going to cheat me out of my patch, so I got my laptop and shoved in my Hoyle Card Games disc. I played black Jack and poker and solitaire and bridge against computerized players. You haven't lived until you've had an alien as your bridge partner...especially if his name is Roswell.
For more ideas for things to do in Cincinnati (and things to do with kids in Cincinnati), please check out:
While I'm really longing for a week in solitary confinement, I did manage to slip through the gates last night for an evening out with my sister, The Inmates' Uncle Chester. The Inmates were left in the care of their father, The Vulcan, who was hollering "Take them with you!" from the top of the stairs as I made my hasty exit from our home. As I locked the door I could hear Foghorn (who was clad in a pink princess dress and wool socks knitted by Uncle Chester) cheerily telling her father about her evening plans for a family scavenger hunt and his exasperated voice squeaking, "I have work to do..."
Our destination was The Newport Syndicate in Newport, Kentucky for a concert by my beloved David Cassidy. I'm known for a slight obsession with the 1970s and David Cassidy in particular and I've redone my family room into a hideously beautiful retro heaven. (Or, as Uncle Chester puts it, "You had a gorgeous family room and you turned it into this.")
The crown jewel in my family room is my autographed photo of David Cassidy, which sits prominently on top of my entertainment center next to two photos of my children and a fortune telling smiley face (think Magic 8 Ball with only positive predictions).
When I jumped on the computer months ago to order the tickets (the day -- and minute -- they went on sale) I was actually ambivalent. I knew from searching the website that this place was set up like the Golden Globes -- stage up front and numerous round tables scattered about the room. I'm antisocial and introverted and mildly misanthropic by nature, so the thought of having to sit with six aggravating strangers for dinner before the concert made me question buying tickets at all. I had been to two other Cassidy concerts, both at Indiana casinos, and was both astonished and repulsed by the behavior of his more rabid fans. Stuff you might expect from a 12 year old at a Justin Bieber concert is just embarrassing when done by a 54 year old plus size woman. (It's a strange phenomenon that a good 85% of his fans are plus sized and make Uncle Chester and me look almost petite by comparison. Chester has labeled their mad rush to the stage "The Porcine Parade.") I finally made a deal with myself that autumn morning when ticket sales began. If I could get a seat at one of the tables right in front of the stage I'd go; if I couldn't, I'd skip the concert altogether. To my amazement, I got tickets just left of center, right in front of the stage.
After spending $60 a ticket I spent most of the week leading up to the Friday concert biting my nails after six inches of snow hit the Tri-State area and left behind Arctic cold and icy roads. With school canceled on both Thursday and Friday I wondered if we'd get there at all. Luckily the god of Former Teen Idols was raining blessings on us and the roads were just good enough to get us there by 6:00. I would like to know who the *%*( is in charge of the bridge going over into Kentucky, which was ice covered and particularly slippery on the curving exit. A pox upon you!
The Newport Syndicate itself is pretty inside and we were shown to our seats which turned out to be the two right smack in front of stage left. When I turned my chair for the show I could literally put my foot on the stage without stretching. One woman was already seated and quickly asked how many times we'd been to his concerts. When I said twice she chuckled and called us "virgins" and told us she had been 2000 times starting in 1971. She was from Indiana, near Terre Haute, and when we asked about her traveling here in the snow she said she drove right through it at 30 miles an hour. Shortly thereafter she pulled out a portfolio filled with every photo she'd ever had taken with David Cassidy, every photo she had ever taken of him, and a silk scarf a friend in Germany had made her with his photos screen printed along its length. When she turned her attention to the others at our table Chester snarled at me, "Who the hell brings all that sh*t to a concert?"
Her behavior was mild, though, compared to another fan whom we quickly named "Crazy," for obvious reasons. When we first reached our table and were draping our coats over the chairs, a woman I guessed to be in her late 40s with long graying hair, glasses, huge gaps in her teeth, and a long Beatles t-shirt tried to get by my sister to the stage by shoving her...twice. Chester, not known for her easy-going disposition, snapped her head around with a glare and the woman quickly said, "Excuse me, honey." Immediately the head of security appeared and shooed her away from the stage, probably having seen the shove she gave to my sibling. It's not like there was anything to see. The show hadn't started, none of Cassidy's personal belongings were sitting there ripe for pilfering, and there were only about a dozen people in the entire room, so why the hell did she feel the need to push her way there? Unfortunately the antics of Crazy would be a recurring theme throughout the evening.
After a buffet dinner and a drink, we settled in for a 45 minute wait until the concert started. Chester, who has had recurring problems with kidney stones for the last couple years, decided to spend this week in agony as one made its way through her body and sat planning her escape route in case the thing decided to pass right in the middle of "Come On, Get Happy." She quickly realized that our seats were heavenly for an obsessive fan but not conducive to making an exit without being noticed by the main attraction. She finally said, "To hell with it. If I need to rush for the bathroom I'm gonna crawl under the tables."
The show finally began, 10 minutes late, and Mr. Cassidy emerged from the curtain and was literally no more than three feet away from me the entire evening. Chester had made countless jokes about being able to see signs of his plastic surgery and Botox with seats that close, but later admitted that she didn't think he had had work done. She also made some crack about him looking like a well preserved little old man, but I choose to ignore that.
As soon as David hit the microphone center stage, Crazy, seated at the center stage table, started wailing his name and standing to take pictures, much to the annoyance of the people behind her. An announcement had been made just prior to the show that the fire marshal insisted people stay in their seats and no standing or rushing the stage was allowed. Crazy must have been busy pushing an octogenarian out of the way to get a rum and Coke at the bar and missed the message. During the first song Crazy alternated between loudly singing along and standing with her camera shouting his name. When the song ended she started screaming, "David! David! I woke up in love this morning." He smiled and said, "You woke up in love this morning? Me too." She let out a scream and then hollered, "It's my birthday! It's my birthday!" He gave her a crooked smile and said, "It's your birthday? Really? Funny, that's what a thousand other people in this room said." He then made some crack about her showing her "birthday suit" while grabbing his guitar from in front of the drum kit. Crazy jumped to her feet yelling, "OK! OK!" and pretending (I hope) that she was about to pull her Beatles t-shirt over her head. Cassidy caught a glimpse and said, "No! No! I was joking. Please, I was joking."
Before breaking into "I'll Meet You Halfway," David found himself with an extra pick and tossed the spare into middle of the table next to us. I was bummed it wasn't our table until I saw the scramble for that pick. You would have thought it was Barry Bonds' record-breaking home run ball. "Don't bite!", David quipped. It didn't help that it landed in the center of Crazy's table and she was on her feet and yelling something about getting candle wax on her hands. She stood there showing her waxed hand to Cassidy while he continued with the song. At some point other people apparently got tired of her standing and shouting and voiced their objections. She countered with a loud, "Oh, shut up!" of her own.
A few songs later, as David was preparing to introduce a Rupert Holmes-penned tune, Crazy screamed, "It's my birthday, David!" He said, "Yeah, I heard that before. And you woke up in love this morning." He began to sing and wander the stage and when he reached out to touch the hand of the woman directly below him, Crazy came pushing through the people in front of her to get his hand and had to be returned to her seat by security. She got particularly obnoxious a few songs later, pushing towards the stage and refusing to sit down despite the demands of the other patrons, including an overdone blond who looked like she might deck her at any moment. Security appeared again with another man in tow who may have been the owner or manager. They read her the riot act for several minutes, probably threatening to eject her if she didn't behave. My only concern was that if they ejected her she'd return with the handgun she keeps in her glove compartment. She truly seemed like that type.
Towards the end of the concert I looked over to see Crazy putting on her jacket. She got up and exited her table and I whispered to my sister, "Crazy's on the move." Shortly thereafter David sat on the stool with his guitar and I heard the opening of "I Woke Up In Love This Morning." He smiled and said, "Somebody's been waiting to hear this song all evening..." He did a double take at her empty spot at the table and laughed and said, "She's been yelling for this all evening and she's not even here." Suddenly I hear a voice to my left screech, "Here I am! Here I am!" and Crazy comes hurtling past me. She fell over my feet, cracking me hard in the ankle, and I let out a loud, involuntary "Jesus Christ!", which half the audience probably heard. Crazy went racing for her seat with a security guard right on her heels. (I pulled my legs in for him. I didn't want him to fall while in hot pursuit.)
I knew from past concerts that during "Echo-Valley 26809" he always took somebody's cell phone from the crowd. I was prepared with phone open in my lap and sure enough, he asked if anyone had a phone. I thrust my phone toward him at the stage and he approached, but quickly another phone shot past my face at the end of the arm of my dinner partner to the left. Our phones were side by side, with hers slightly ahead of mine because she was standing, and she had pulled up a photo of him on her phone to get his attention. B*tch! Naturally he took her phone and I grumbled over being outmaneuvered. I had thought of reaching out a hand to gently touch his shirt sleeve as he took her phone but I personally don't like to make a spectacle of myself in public and was afraid I'd be body slammed by security who were already on edge over Crazy.
Near the end someone threw a lovely g-string with a tuxedo design on stage. After finishing his song, David picked it up and held it aloft, eyeing it suspiciously before asking, "What psychopath threw this on stage?" He flung it onto one of the speakers and it stayed there the rest of the concert. I thought about scooping it up when the show was over since he'd touched it, but I was a little afraid of what the woman had been doing with it before bringing it to the concert.
The crowd got rowdier and pushier towards the end of the show, figuring their chances of some interaction with Cassidy were almost gone. That's when the "Porcine Parade" started, with women rushing down to the corner of the stage with old Tiger Beat magazines, album covers, and huge signs. What amuses me the most are the ones that attempt to thrust the memorabilia and a pen at him, hoping he'll stop in the middle of the show to sign an autograph. It's bad enough to wait out the slight lull when he pauses to allow one of the fan's friends to take a picture of her standing in front of him. I protected my unobstructed view by putting my booted foot on the edge of the stage and blocking the way. My sister had already positioned her chair to keep any crashers from coming between the two tables.
I had joked with The Professor before leaving that I'd make a leap for David Cassidy at some point to touch him and probably get thrown out. He gave me one of his aloof stares and said, "You're not really going to do that, are you?" I had no intention of actually making an exhibition of myself, but I did intend to get a hand on him one way or another before the night was over. My chances of getting that close again were pretty slim considering I don't have a stalker's mentality nor the spare cash to go to 2000 more concerts. When "I Think I Love You" started I knew it was now or never. That's been the last song at the other shows, so I figured this was my last best chance. Fortunately he encouraged everyone to get on their feet and I found myself standing right in front of the stage, ready to propel a hand at him (or make a grab for his clothing if he started to pass me by). The Porcine Parade turned into a stampede at that point and I was quickly surrounded. As he came along the stage touching hands I feared mine would get lost in the sea of phalanges that were in his face. Fortunately I was just far enough away from the others... I leaned forward, pushed my hand out, and he looked me right in the eye as he took my hand. Granted it lasted a fraction of a second, but it was the most gratifying fraction of a second I've had in years. The song finished up, he took his bows, and as he started to exit the stage, one of the maniacs attempted to push a Sharpie and towel at him to sign. He grabbed the towel and said, "Thank you very much" before disappearing backstage with it, wiping the sweat from his head. Maniac was hollering, "Wait! Wait! That's my towel!" and attempting to follow him backstage. Last I saw she was whining to security.
David was in great voice, his usual charming, funny self, and the concert lasted nearly two hours. Even Uncle Chester, who is not a fan and, in fact, gets a twitch of her right eye whenever she hears any music from the 70s, admits he puts on a good show. As we were getting on our coats to leave, a guy from the next table was busily scooping up anything he could find on the stage, like a piece of paper with the lyrics to "In My Life" scrawled on it. He probably has his loot on eBay this morning. As I was zipping my coat I heard angry voices at the next table and there was Crazy trading insults with the women around her who were ready to kill her. She went pushing by me and Chester whispered, "Trip her!" I started to stick my foot out but my ankle was still throbbing mildly from the last time she tumbled over my feet. Besides, she seemed like the type that would sue. After her departure a wide-eyed woman at the vacated table said, "That woman's completely nuts," and a chorus of voices cried out in agreement.
I told my story to my family when I got home and I showed them my hand where David had made contact. The Vulcan asked, "Are you never going to wash that hand again?" I replied, "Aw, I never do anyway," to which The Professor said, "Well, I bet if he knew that he wouldn't have touched you."
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