Was feeling crap on Saturday. The old bod just doesn’t bounce back from gin the way it used to. Nor is it as indulgent as it once was when I don’t get to bed until 2p. So I spent most of Saturday in the fetal position on my couch, feeling sorry for myself, and making up lame justifications for my inert state.
I believe Newton had a formula for my condition, where F=the chance of me ever getting up, d=ounces of gin I consumed, over dt=the fact the F train wasn’t running uptown from Delancy Street at 1am, and mv being heinous cramps in my lady parts (m) times no good food in the house (v). It’s his Second Law, and my Saturday Fate.
At around 4p I was talking to my dad, who had just the day before broken his wrist golfing. This man lives to golf, so breaking his wrist will cause a major disruption in his happiness equilibrium. In spite of his bleak, golfless near-future, he was what can only be described as ebullient. He had just gotten back from a wedding where he’d danced himself into a heavy sweat, removing the sling (which was holding his wrist in an unbroken position) for maximum dancability. I’m assuming painkillers were involved. In any case, this man should have been on the couch, too. But he got his broken self up and out, and had a great time regardless. I decided my self-pity binge needed to stop.
You see, I had tickets to see Eels that night at Terminal 5. No way could I ever look myself in the eye if I let cramps and a hangover prevent me from attending. So, I rallied. I took a handful of homeopathics designed to alleviate the feeling of impending death by cramps and nausea, and dragged myself onto a train, onto another train, then up to Columbus Circle for my walk to Terminal 5.
My friend J_ came along for the ride, and I’m glad she was with me. Not only is she great company, but she was also witness to the Tall Guy finding me against all odds. As I’ve mentioned before, no matter what show, the Tallest Guy on Earth will find me and stand directly in my sightline, blocking around 50% of my view of the stage. I thought I’d beat him for the Eels – we stood on the riser by the back bar, a good 3’ above the main floor. I was gloating to J_ about how we’d outsmarted the Tall Guy when to my utter amazement and despair, right into our sightline came a big head on a verrrry tall body. Not only had he found us, but he grew three feet to compensate for the riser we were on. Cummon!!
All was forgotten (and partially blocked – thanks, fucking Tall Guy) when E. took the stage. He started out with a couple of the slower songs, just him and a guitar. The he yells for The Chet, and out comes his guitarist. Following were the drummer, bassist and third guitarist. All had beards, dark glasses and headwear, leaving very little of their faces left exposed. It really looked like they were all part of the witness protection program. It could have been anyone up there – Bono, my mom, Heidi Klum…. No mistaking that velvet voice, though.
High points for me were Dog Faced Boy, My Beloved Monster, Mr. E’s Beautiful Blues, Fresh Blood, and the closing number I Like the Way This Is Going. The drummer P-Boo did a hilarious homage to himself, and I loved the bass player. He stood back there bopping his head to the beat so discreetly you almost couldn’t tell he was moving. You could sense it, though. He was clearly a summa cum laude graduate of the School of Cool. To add to his charm, he’s the doppelganger of Billy Gibbons, and goes by the stage name Koool G Murder.
So, of course, thrilled I went. I always am, after these instances when I doubt I’ll ever move again, or just don’t feel I’ve got the energy to make the effort. Life is about collecting stories and experiences, and I can barely forgive myself when a good one slips through my fingers for any reason. As the late, great Henry Miller so poetically said, “The aim of life is to live.” Being Henry Miller, he goes on to say living fully involves booze and sex (I’m paraphrasing), and being “joyously, serenely, divinely aware.” Amen, brother.