What're you doin'?

We returned from NYC - nice trip. The restaurants were great with the exception of one Italian place recommended by The Cop On The Street. Maybe he gets a kickback, I don't know. We got the recommendation because my sister TALKS TO EVERYONE. She's the Supreme Questioner.

Poaikots and I went to see the Bodies Exhibition. It's incredibly compelling, though I'm so shallow that my overall response to it was "we are incredibly high-functioning slabs of meat". Poaikots was more impressed and moved, but he's a science geek (Hi, Jag!)

My nephew grabbed a book and chose to roam around the city by himself, finding parks to read in and quirky places to grab food. He's a real gourmand and thoroughly enjoyed the meals. My nephews are awesome. While we were out of town, his brother returned from two weeks in Barcelona - I can't wait to hear about it.

In other news: the boys got to watch Poaikots remove tomato worms from my plants yesterday. He used my kitchen tongs to pluck them off. Needless to say, those tongs are now reserved for that use only. It was a sufficiently gross activity to entertain them for a while.

Because, yes, you do care.

Update #1: We are staying in place for another school year, while the new house is built in PlaceWe'reMovingTo. The only minor drawback is that means another year at PlaceIWork. So, yeah, another 12 months of soul-sucking corporate hell...and I'll only teach one class in the fall. So, at least I'm still living close to comedy clubs and Starbucks.

Update #2: Many of my favorite in-the-Internet friends are either stressed out, burned out, or otherwise abandoning me, er, I mean, vacationing. So, I'm a big crybaby because these people don't live solely to entertain me. Sniff.

Update #3: The Poaikots and I are traveling to NYC on Thursday for a little vacation, sans offspring. My sister and nephew are joining us for their first ever jaunt to the Big Apple. Guilty admission? We're mainly going to take advantage of the last two days of Restaurant Week. Because I? Am a food whore. Like Gwen, I'm a food snob who wants really good food but also will snarf Jack In The Box tacos. If we had them in Northern Virginia, which we don't, but I miss them from my days in Albuquerque. Tacos, and LottaBurger. So, I'm going to New York to whore it up FOR CHEAP in the city's restaurants.

Update #4: I'm going to take another class at the Improv, with a small group that will focus on joke writing. Or what another comic haughtily refers to as "material development". So, I will have to quash the urge to "develop" "material" about what a snide, unfunny assjack he is.

When last we left the concert....

So a few Mondays ago the Poaikots and I went to see Keb' Mo and Bonnie Raitt. After dining on the grounds of the venue, we took our seats in the balcony box to see Mr. Mo. Who we love. A lot. And rarely get to see live.

It's kind of a laid back venue and everyone was fairly subdued because it was also bitch hot, especially in the amphitheatre. So we're sitting, we're listening, we're clapping, and enjoying ourselves. Until.

Now up to this point, the only people sitting to my immediate right (separated by a shoulder-high partition) are a middle-aged couple. They are the only ones in the box, with an empty row of seats in front of them, which face a low cement wall. Said cement wall is there to prevent folks from hurtling into the orchestra seats far below. And are used to anchor a multitude of heavy stagelights.

So about halfway through Mr. Mo's set, the only things that have caught my attention are: GuyNextToMe periodically and spasmodically breaks into serious air-drumming. Okay, he's into drumming or would like to be, no big deal. Other thing: he chooses to yell "Keb Mo!". A lot. And while said Keb Mo is singing. Not after the song, not while others are applauding, but while Mr. Mo is singing and everyone else is listening. And enjoying the singing. And not so much enjoying the yelling of "Keb Mo!". Like, dude, I know who the fuck is on stage, okay? Shut. Up.

So I'm ignoring the air-drumming and tolerating the loud Artist Identification System announcements, and then They arrive. They are three fairly attractive middle-aged women and their...grandma? Great-grandma? The first sign of trouble is when one of them suddenly appears at the first row of seats in front of Air Drummer Guy, turns her back to the stage, and proceeds to loudly and drunkenly YELL at the others to hurry up " 'cause Keb Moshe's shingin'!"
Which, thanks, drunken chick! Because I had ignored earlier broadcasts of the Artist Identification System, so had no clue who the black man onstage was, much less what he was doing. Now bear in mind, for those of y'all who don't listen to Mr. Mo', his music is sort of subdued. It's blues music, so while folks get all riled up with appreciation after his songs, they aren't of the "let's-yell-Free-Bird-while-he's-singing" variety.

So They file into their seats, after much deliberation and falling against one another and pushing poor sober Grandma around in attempts to sit next to her. However, Their seating plan wasn't quite functional. Because Drunk Chick #1 was sitting on the aisle, and really wanted to interact/DANCE WITH Drunk Chick #3, who was sat at the far end of the row, effectively flanking Not So Drunk Chick #2 and Sober Grandma. So instead of changing seats or, oh, SHUTTING UP, Drunk Chicks #1 & #3 proceed to stand up and dance. If by "dance" you mean "shake their middleaged asses to some rhythm they only hear in their heads because it doesn't match what's coming from the stage at all". And issue the aforementioned mating call of the drunken middleaged white woman: Ooooowwwww! Aaaand lean forward so that Air Drummer has their asses in his face, which his wife is enjoying far less than he is. Aaaand the leaning forward is influenced by the approximately gazillion wine coolers They had earlier because Their "dancing" now is more "potentially lethal tumbling".

At which point my tarblack heart is revealed, because the only thing I'm thinking is that the poor bastards in the orchestra seats below will get nailed by the stagelight that will break Their fall and save Them, dammit. And I will have to write my own blues song about how They continued to interrupt Mr. Mo's real fans, the ones who come to hear him sing.

Eventually Air Drummer's wife fetched an usher who sshh'd them (while she was gone, the Drunk Chicks turned to Air Drummer and cooed "Oh, we aren't bothering y'all, are we?". And Air Drummer ASSHOLE answered, "Ah, that's just my wife. Ignore her. I do. I'm havin' a great time!". Then they all drunkenly whooped and high fived). Then after the intermission Drunk Chicks #2 and #3 didn't return, so Drunk Chick #1 spread herself out next to Sober Grandma and pretty much quieted down. Air Drummer Asshole was so disappointed.

God, I love the general public.

OOOOWWWWWWWW!!!!!!

We are going on a short family vacation, but when I return remind me to tell you the story of the Keb' Mo'/Bonnie Raitt concert and the mating call of the drunken middle-aged white woman. Who is not me, by the way.

And big ups to Jagosaurus on her birthday!