About three months ago, my best friend called me with one of her fabulous ideas. These ideas come at least twice a year and previously involved both a foray into a foreign country and, just once, the purchase of a new cat. This cat would later attempt to kill me in a feline leukemia vaccination-induced fever as I skipped a college class rushing it to the vet. Let's just say that all of these fabulous ideas come with a price.
Fortunately, the latest idea didn't require medical care and came disguised as Motley Cruë tickets. The tickets arrived wrapped accompanied by a burned CD inscribed with the words "Listen. Learn. Appreciate. I love Nikki Sixx so much it hurts." She's funny like that.
For the past two weeks, every time I saw her she worriedly stated, "It's going to be loud." My response, "let's not speak of it," did nothing to quell her fears I would fail to love Motley Cruë so much it hurts. Despite all evidence to the contrary, I really don't like things that are loud. I'm a Billie Holiday girl at heart. I prefer slow, soothing background jazz to "in your face" guitar, 200-foot video screens and midgets in top hats. But I was willing to try.
I was also willing to try because as much as I love jazz now, there was more than one night in my life spent hanging out of a car window screaming "take a walk on the willlllld siiiiide." If you were born in the '70s, you know you've had one too. They also usually involved a few Milwaukee's Best and the accidental discharge of a weapon. But that's only if you're from the Delta.
The rest of her fabulous idea included a night on the town with four girlfriends, a limo, and so many teased bangs we would have burst into a flaming ball of 1980s hair and shame if someone standing within a hundred yards deigned to strike a match.
I arrived at the "Pre-Concert Hair Party" fully prepared to be a rock star for the evening. Although this may be shocking, I am not a rock star upon waking. It does take some preparation. Saturday night this preparation included huge earrings, black boots and a ripped "Flashdance"-style t-shirt.
We congregated at my friend's apartment, watching Motley Cruë videos and singing "Girls, Girls, Girls" until her boyfriend kicked us out. This led to us standing in a line for the concert, waiting to be frisked, while debating with the biker in front of us the best way to conceal a bottle of Crown Royal. I have one of those faces. Obviously, my face says, "Hey, I don't know you, but I'd like to discuss shoving large objects into my bodily orifices."
He went with the crotch. I gave him a thumbs-down for originality and pointed out that the security guards were wearing plastic gloves. This was not a good sign for any of us, especially our orifices.
Fortunately, my entrance into the concert was a success, and the plastic gloves proved an empty threat. We arrived at our floor seats and tried not to explode with anticipation.
After 30 minutes, the band was introduced. I pulled out my ear plugs. The lone male who bravely decided to join this Rock Star Party spent the first five minutes attempting to shove large pieces of foam into my ears. He was very successful.
The lights went down and the music began. For the next two hours I stood on a chair with my hands in the air screaming like I was in the eight grade. They were, after all, Motley Cruë. There were midgets in top hats. There were boobs. In fact, there were flying boobs. Three women, wearing black outfits that hid all of their bodies except for their breasts, which spilled out of holes, swung out over the stage for a full thirty minutes while simultaneously doing acrobatics. Showing, ultimately, how important the female body truly is to the "rock star." It was badass. I also wanted to bathe directly afterwards.There was cursing. Tommy Lee got half-naked. I pushed my way to the front row and seriously thought about removing my shirt or propositioning security to get back stage. I realized in that moment the power of the "rock star." For two hours I let go and reveled in it.
When the lights came on, the magic went away. I wandered back to my original seat wishing for more rock star. More flames and shooting pyrotechnics. More flying boobs and midgets.
In all my silent wishing I forgot to remove my ear plugs. This made it hard to hear when the two males sitting in front of us turned around and began speaking. Their lips were moving, but I wasn't hearing a thing. Right after I mimed "I have a banana in my ear" and giggled to myself, I hurriedly removed one ear plug so I could hear what they were saying.
Then I heard the question I have been waiting to hear my whole life. I heard the question that drives Vince, Nikki, Mick, and Tommy to drag their arthritic bodies around the world. I heard the question that all rock stars long for in their alcohol-induced slumber and drug-laden stage performances. I heard the question driving all people who are narcissistic, full of themselves and desperate for recognition. I heard the question I have been hoping and praying would one day be uttered from someone's lips.
I heard the question, "Hey, aren't you that Ali girl?"
"Yes. Yes, I am 'that Ali girl.' That is me. That. Ali. Girl."
Life-altering and philosophical? Not so much.
Loved it so much it hurt? Definitely.
Comments
Use the comment form below to begin a discussion about this content.