5 - well 6 - rules for concert-goers, as proclaimed by Heidi
1. Tall people need recognize that they are blessed with the ability to see over heads. Thus, they shall stay on the sides or gather in clusters and NOT, above all other things, plant themselves in front of anyone who appears under a height of 5'2".
2. Purses shall not appear on general admission floors nor on dance floors. This is why God and Levi's provide us with pockets. If one breaks this rule, then the person that one keeps knocking in the face, stomach with it has allowance to whop you over the effing head with it.
3. The guys onstage can smoke all they want. They aren't packed like sardines on top of a flammable floor. You are. Don't be stupid.
4. Get your fix at the bar (and/or in the restroom)before the headlining band takes stage. If you vacate your spot on the GA floor after Interpol - or whoever - have played the first chord, you have one opportunity to return to that spot. Should you leave it again, it is forfeited. There are, after all, people who paid their money to actually see the band... not the bartender or the coke-haven stalls.
5. If you arrive right before the headliner goes on and have not stood there to endure the one, two, eight opening acts, you - I am sorry - do not reserve rights to force your way to the front. This is especially if these opening acts included the Eagles of Death Metal. Nope, I am sorry. They suck.
6. Moving one's body to the music is a true sign of one's appreciation. Flailing around like a drunk hussy without regard for those packed around you in whose eye your finger just poked is not. It is rather an insult to the band as you are really just trying to make the show about you.
So spake Heidi. Heed my warnings....
so, who's moving to canada with me?
sorry it's been so quiet around here lately, especially with as much as has transpired in the last two months or so... namely spain and a russian. and some incredible concerts. let's not ignore morrissey...
i offer no excuses, only the reason which is basically that i have been extremely busy spending extended periods of time either a) at work or b) laying around naked with the most wonderful man alive watching samurai movies and futurama episodes and having lots of really good, good, good sex.
and now the joy of that must be dampened as i face as fact that which all europeans have known for years - americans are fools. i mean, seriously.... could people just not read the question on the ballot? did we seriously just willingly make discrimination part of our constitution? and by such a vast majority....? and then re-elected that clown to boot. ugh.
who knows what it'll be next... maybe something as ridiculous as a draft...
in lighter news, spain was lovely. beyond lovely, in fact, as it was the first vacation - and this won't sound right at all, but it really is good thing - coming home from which felt good. not a relief, as it would be with a bad trip, but simply comfortable. i got just what i needed.
well, i didn't need to have all of my money stolen on the way back to london, but hey, i learned a lesson about not being careless with my wallet in big foreign cities as well as about surviving on candy bars and free museums in a big, not-as-foreign city. god bless the national gallery!
it would almost be funny that my spanish assailant stole only my british money, except that pounds are worth a lot more. thus, what a pleasant surprise for him or her - i couldn't tell it happened so fast. nevertheless, they took my money and dopped my wallet so i was at least fortunate to have not lost everything. just what translates to approximately my last $200.
everything up to that point was incredible. i went to barcelona first and foremost to see jerry. my journey there was painless and smoooth. i read a good book while i sat in london for five hours. the weather in bcn was stunning. i made my way around fairly easily, and when i did get lost at least i had the amusement of being mistaken for a prostitute to keep me laughing to myself until i found my way. nervous - scared out of my pants laughter - though it may have been.
those barcelona hookers are sharp dressers. i never would have known to identify them as such if jer hadn't told me to look for the shoes. the higher the heels... but wait. i was in a pair of oxfords... oh, well.
i found my way and had a brilliant time getting drunk with a bunch of lovely british boys.
when i finally arrived home after my brief stint in london, there was a lovely russian boy waiting for me at the airport with roses in hand. i could have cried.
if i say too much, i will jinx it. but suffice it to say i do, most assuredly, without a doubt, love him.
and now - i can't wait to see interpol tomorrow night!!!!! woo hoo.
PS - here's what was origianally supposed to be posted about Spain on October 7:
Perhaps the sign of a genuinely fulfilling holiday is when the sound of the plane touching ground, signaling that you are home again, makes your heart skip a beat.
Barcelona taught me a lot of things in the short time I spent with it and with London this past week. For starters, I continue to underestimate my own strength and ability to cope. I was, though I think I did a good job at hiding it for the most part, so incredibly nervous about traveling such a distance completely on my own.
As it turns out, the only thing that posed a threat to my arrival in Barcelona was the looming tropical storm Jean and the weather nonsense that might ensue? and yet, if anything the storm and the torrential downpour it showered onto Atlanta actually ended up facilitating my journey. My original flight was to connect in Philly and put me in London Gatwick at 830am Greenwich time. I would then sit in LGW for a good 7 hours until it was time to hop the Easy Jet flight to BCN, where my dear Jerry would be waiting for me. The weather, of course, kept pushing back the departure time for my flight until they ultimately felt compelled to move me onto a direct flight to London with another airline. What would have been a daunting 7 hours in Gatwick became 4 and I never had to change planes.
That?s boring, Heidi. Why are you sharing that?
Ok. It gets better I promise. There?s more to this epiphany which you?ll see what I mean later.
My Barcelona adventures consist of these: my first taste of real absinthe; being a) lost and b) propositioned as and/or threatened by - I think anyway, it as in Catalan after all ? a prostitute; being heavily flirted with and given a personally guided tour by a very sweet British boy; having all of my money stolen on my way back to London; sneaking ecstasy over two borders without ever using it; some really intense wine hangovers; and realizing that my heart has once again been stolen, this time by a Russian boy who was standing at the welcome gate with roses in hand once I found my way back to Atlanta.
If you?ve read Jerry?s blog of late, you are familiar with my doings in Espana. I arrived ready to conquer last Tuesday afternoon. Once I had taken in a quite necessary shower, I made myself as foxy as I could muster and we were off to grab dinner with one of Jer?s Brit friends and then to commence drinking. Wine and I have always had a strained relationship, but I started with cheap white wine and saw no reason to deviate until I woke up with a raging headache the next morning.
Up and dressed Jerry took me around to see the essential Gaudi sights in the city, save the Sagrada Familia, which I would be exploring with my Brummy tour guide a couple of days future. Some shopping and then meeting with Patricio for lunch. Who knew pork could be so good? Then I was sent off into the city on my own to explore. It amazed me how easily I found my way around, but became increasingly baffled at the fact that I didn?t even have to open my mouth before people started speaking to me in English. Funny, but I didn?t remember tattooing a flag onto my head before I left?. Alas.
Later that evening we had dinner in and I was introduced to jerry?s very lovely friend Cecelia. Patricio whipped us all at cards and then Jerry and I walked Cecelia home and stopped for a drink on the way. In the morning we were heading to the Miro museum and the south end of the city ? I think ? We rode in sky buckets to a fortress only to discover they didn?t take us to the beach; walked our way back down and headed back to the apartment on the Rambla from which I would shortly set off again on a solo jaunt.
The plan was to meet up with Jerry and his writing group around nine, dressed to go out. There was a hand-drawn map in my pocket and my plaid skirt laid out on the bed.
This is probably a good place to interject that prostitutes in Barcelona are some of the classiest prostitutes I have ever witnessed. At the least, their taste in clothing would almost never give them away to an American unless you looked at their feet and then you might simply assume they were girls on their way out clubbing. The two who station themselves outside Jerry and Patricio?s flat would never have struck my as such if they weren?t in the same place EVERY night. Both are shorter with long hair, one in jeans, maybe both. Nothing obviously showy or slutty. Then Jerry ? it catches me off guard that he says it so openly, then I realize well, he did say it in English ? says OH THOSE ARE OUR PROSTITUTES. LOOK AT THEIR SHOES. Sure enough, big heels with jeans. Ok.
So, plaid skirt, tights, heeled oxfords, black tshirt. If you have seen my plaid skirt, you know where the problem lies. Suffice it to say that it was my honorary first Junkman?s Daughter purchase after I lost the weight and boy am I glad I was wearing tights and not my thigh highs, oxfords and not my knee boots. Otherwise the number of people who called me punta as I was lost in the shady part of Barcelona (my landmark to turn on the map was mislabeled so I walked a good mile and change out of the way before panic forced me to turn back) may have tripled. Some floosey on San Pau St was spitting what I assume were insults at me for being in her vicinity, maybe trying to steal her business. Eventually, I just started laughing hysterically. Now I was a lunatic hooker. Even better.
When I finally made my way at the tail end of the meeting, flustered and amused simultaneously, I took a free seat next to an obliging and precious British boy. He was instantly warm and engaging and I adored him immediately. I hadn?t been formally introduced to anyone, so I was afraid this was Jerry?s friend with the girlfriend, so wanting not to infringe on another?s territory I tried to play it safe, friendly but not with my charm turned full on. Then I realized too late that he was not said boy in question and was in what Jerry and the others described as a state unordinary for him. He apparently never goes out with the boys after, but he did this time. Then he had to leave in a rush. I was, nevertheless, flattered. At least the skirt did some good to make up for its evil. He said before he made his exit to call him tomorrow if I wanted a tour of the area around the Sagrada Familia. When we arrived back at the apartment that night, jerry sent him an email.
Friday ? Park Guell and paella with Jerry. Then my first solo trip on the metro to meet Anthony. Anthony in front of whom I called Birmingham a shit town (which I still hold as truth) only to learn it was his hometown. He admitted to it sheepishly, I suspect because he could tell how terrible I felt, despite the truth of the fact.
