Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Party Party Party: Two Birthdays, No Waiting

It’s been a while since I provided a general update of the wonderfulness that is my everlovin’ life, so strap on your combat fez and get ready for a little birthday joy. YEAH BIRTHDAY! No, not mine. Zach turned five and we, um, “celevated.” On the great day itself the party animal in chief directed us to get sandwiches at a neighborhood sandwich shop.  So, I guess the kid knows how to cut loose. Gets it from me.  We all had cheesesteaks, which the proprietors were wise enough not to call “Philly” cheesesteaks - very tasty, no complaints, but not very brotherly-loverly. The elderly Lebanese (I think) staff sang Happy Birthday to him and we all plowed into our respective beefwads to our hearts’ content. The shop caught Z’s eye a few years ago because of their vintage 1977 windowpainting of a yella sumbarine, in powerful parallel to Z’s own favorite album by the Beatles. I, too, liked their olde-school muralism, as evidenced by their preserved 1977 menu board replete with low low prices and talking foodstuffs: r

Then I went to THE BIRTHDAY CONCERT. No, not Z’s, P’s. Phil Lesh turned seventy incredulous years old, and I was invited with about 8000 of my closest friends to confestivate with him and his team-mates from the Furthur lineup - Bobby and the dude from DSO on guitars, another dude from Black Crows on guitars but mostly vocals, two keyboardists (one of whom is with Particle, which is a very rocking triphop band), as many as three percussionists, and my man Jackie Green, wunderkind extraordinaire wielding a controlling axe and running the stage like a seasoned-with-habenero pro. Three sets plus a little parade; the company of good old friends and some good new ones; a very active “scene” before and after, and a total of 9.5 hours on my recently-healed feets with no ill effects save exhaustion nigh unto moribundity from the hips down. But no, you’re not satisfied. You want some bits of tid, under the general heading of “concert coolness,” dontcha. Well lay a pinch of this atween yer lobes and cogitate on it:

* On our way in, amid the swirling welter of ne’er-do-wells (that’s actually a ne’er-do-welter) looking for a way into the show, there was an old man with long grey hair and a long grey beard, wheeling around his wheelchair, shining a flashlight onto his lap, cheerfully offering to receive oral sex for a ticket. I’d like to know how that worked out for him.

* When we got into the auditorium, we picked seats at about 7 o’clock on the imaginary clock-face of the auditorium floor. At the time it wasn’t really that crowded, so we could actually see lines of tape on the floor - but we didn’t process what that meant till Rick (yeah, that Rick) (no, I didn’t know him either but he’s pretty cool) pointed out that we were sitting on the parade route and a float would come rolling right at us at some point. We figured we’d dodge that juggernaught when the time came, but by then the group had moved on to a less crowded spot. Not uncrowded - just less crowded. Disaster avoided? READ ON IF YOU DARE. I mean, what’s going to stop you?

* The parade floats featured a giant birthday present that did not open up and from which no one emerged naked and covered with glitter. It was just larded with cute little girls (like 10 year olds) and their parents. There was also a wild-looking reflective skull with glowing blue eyes waiting to be paraded around, but when it was parade time, NO SKULL. It hung out backstage and then never hit the floor. Freaking ripoff.

* Lori, Teresa: thanks for making me feel welcome. It’s nice to go to a show as a decrepit codger such as myself, and have so many very lovely young women just introduce themselves and ask me how everything is going. At this kind of show it’s not a come-on, it’s just being neighborly - and there is far too little of that in the world at large these days.

* First set: almost excruciatingly mellow. Thereafter, some seriously blazing old dance tunes. I finally got to hear Easy Wind AND Hard to Handle AND New Speedway Boogie AND Cream Puff War AND the more typical amazoid tuneage such as St Steve and Not Fade and T’Other One and Franklin and et set era. Plus go-go girls!  Just a great, beautifully-constructed play list. Danced my fool feet into mush.

* A *different* old guy wound up near my crowd for most of the 2nd set. He was very dapper in a new white cabana shirt with red flames, a pair of black slacks, and a little beret to set off his (typically) long grey hair and beard. His special deal was that he had an oxygen tank and two attendants with flashlights, and the three of them spent a massive part of the show changing tanks and fiddling with gaskets and apertures. Not my cup of tea but who am I to judge. Some guys are just “aperture” guys, and I’ll admit that sometimes a sweet gasket will catch my eye. Good for you, old oxygen-tank dude. But you kind of freaked me out by smoking so close to your tubes…

* At one point Oxygendude went off somewhere else and a young woman took to the chair that had been brought out for him to sit on; she danced on it with wild abandon. When he arrived back she leapt off the chair insisting “I was saving it for you!” Good for you, too, sarong-wearing sorority chick. I mean, I don’t believe you, but you gave up the chair without arguing and I give you full credit for that.  Moreso than I give you credit for physically moving me three times while I literally danced in place, my boots not leaving the floor, because she couldn’t see the band from where she’d relocated right behind me.  Don’t you get it, woman - there is nothing to see up there.  It’s not like any of those dudes actually move around or anything.  Can’t you just settle down and watch me shake my proverbial moneymaker? 

* During the first set I wound up standing next to a girl with bright pink hair and her normally-coiffed friend. At one point during that set Bobby stepped to the mic and announced, “begnyrndulgnc, w’gnapla nuthatoonen tkeofgi.” The pink girl and her friend were nonplussed. I turned to re-capitulate: “Begging your indulgence, we’re going to play another tune in the key of ‘G’.” One of them thanked me. I dismissed her thanks as superfluous - “I speak Bobby.” Finally, the bilingual requirement from college pays off. 

* During the break between sets 2 and 3 I bumped into a colleague from work, who grabbed my hand and dragged me into the depths of the dancepits to meet her other friends. It was crowded and hot and very congenial - it all reminded me of Philly shows and Kaiser shows and the real authentic down-home G.D stuff I remember from when I don’t remember things very well. Then the parade started and the DAMN FLOAT WAS COMING RIGHT AT ME. Mowing me down. Ignominious, to be laid out by a giant birthday present covered with 10-year-old girls, while holding a $14 beer in my hand. Luckily it didn’t quite come to that, but really only because I won a staring contest with it.  It sensed my superhuman intensity and backed the hell off.  I’ma trying it on a puma next.  I mean, when they wheel one out at me during a concert.  Like, at some kind of rave at the wild animal park.  STOP PERSECUTING ME. 

Afterward the show I came back home no later than 3 am, and the next day I tried to elevate my feet for 10 hours straight but those suckers were still dog tired.  However, I needed the rest for Sunday, when we went to Pump It Up for Zach’s birthday party f’shure! Though I was out of bouncing commission what with the healing of the toes and all, the rest of everybody had a great time, and I enjoyed watching them from my lonely perch on the sidelines. Let’s look at these adorable photos and see what everybody else missed:

We’ll start with a young man of infinite energy, considerable concentration, and a tenuous grip on his puckwhacker:

In general the bouncy photos just didn’t come out very well, but I am pleased to share the cautionary tale of my own physician, who attended the party and bounced himself into aerobic hyperextention:

And for the rest, let’s just concentrate on the birthday king with his inflatable throne.  First, he dictates his pizza-eating wishes to the assembled masses:

Then, he gazes in rapt delight at the impossibly-large confection he is tasked with defacing:

And finally, he fights off his brother for a piece of cake, which is typically a losing battle with Jesse but Mom held the young rapscallion back:

All in all it was a great party, a great party, and a great party.  Who am I to complain?  CHUCKLES, DAMMIT.  I’m Chuckles and I’ll complain if I damn well want to.  But I don’t.  So there.  Instead, let’s close with an inspirational image: here’s Jesse, just hanging around.

And with that, the recap concludes.  Coming soon: more goofy crap - but this time, with narrative structure!