Comic for Tuesday, June 26th, 2007

Posted: 7:00 am, Tuesday, June 26th

Dear Loud Vapid Girls Standing to the Left of Me at the Wilco Show Last Night:

Seriously, it's not like I want to ask someone at a rock concert to be quiet. That makes me sound old. And I'm not old. I'm only twenty-awesome. But you didn't shut up for the first five songs, and your voices cut glass. And you were talking about your Italian friend who gave you the tickets and someone from your office who went to the Hamptons this past weekend and you were sucking down eight-dollar shitty gin and tonics that the hosers you're dating kept buying you.

I wish I had had your names and addresses previous to last night, because I have friends who would've killed for tickets to that show last night. I could've pointed them in the right direction.

And it's not like you were the only loud people around. You may've noticed the guys to our right. They were sky high on shrooms or acid or something and had about eight beers each during the course of the show. Of course *they* were loud. But they were loud and into the show, and still knew enough to STFU during the quiet parts of Via Chicago. (They also tried to touch the music for a while, which was kind of sweet, actually.)

But when we (OK, 2.0, I'm too passive aggressive) asked you to take it down a notch because we could barely hear a rock band over your incessant trap-flapping, you want to know how not to go about proving our point? A) Don't call it 'the worst show ever,' you fucking idiot, B) Don't mutter amongst yourself that 'it's not like this is Radio City Music Hall,' because that doesn't even make any fucking sense, and C) Don't tell us we should've gotten there earlier if we wanted a better seat (because 1. everyone else around was listening to the show and digging it and 2. we're standing, nitwit, not sitting). And those are just the starters - the big ones are "The show is not actually over when the band leaves the stage, there are these crazy things called 'encores'," and "When I cheer for the band, don't yell 'ow' at me, pretending that I'm hurting your ear."

Honestly, you're worse than people who drink way more than anyone else at the table and then insist on splitting the bill evenly. Instead of going to the first Wilco show in New York in two and a half years, go to a fucking lounge in the Meatpacking District or just sit in your apartment in Murray Hill, OK? And if the opportunity arises along the way, feel free to break a bone of some sort.

bullfrog

Aside from that, though, the show was awesome. Sky Blue Sky brings the rock a lot more live, whoever the new guitarist is is way more animated than Tweedy and kind of frees up the live show a bit, "I'm a Wheel" totally rocks live, and I have a nice new shirt with an ice cream cone on it (which they don't have on their site, but, holy hell, am I bummed they didn't have this at the Hammerstein last night). (Which brings me to Pete's shirt - does anyone else remember the I'm Not Herb campaign from Burger King? It apparently was a fiasco. And while we're at Retrocrush, Podcast #122 is outstanding. The anti-porno PSA movie that you get the audio from is fantastic.)

My dear dear friend Spacegirl got married... some indeterminate amount of time ago, eloping and sending out an e-mail instead of planning a whole brouhaha like some of us, which I applaud and also halfway always expected out of her. Her now-husband and she are traveling in China at the moment, while Spacegirl studies international law before returning for her 2L year to Minnesota. They're blogging about it here (also, I have now finally seen a picture of this character she's been dating for several years).

My softball team cruised to a 14-3 lead after two yesterday, and wound up winning 14-7. Most would be worried about the offensive stagnation after two innings, but we were more concerned to get to the bar. Basically, the only thing getting me down about my birthday is that I'm not going to be able to stay up to listen to the Sox come back from the 9-2 7th inning deficit they find themselves in. I'm just too tuckered.

Pajiba - who gave us that list o' books last week that entertained everyone - wanted to know your death row last meals yesterday. I didn't have much time to think about mine, but this was my list:

My mom makes these awesome spare ribs from a recipe Julia Child gave out on Good Morning America in the late-70s. So those, a growler of Uncle Sam Oatmeal Stout from the Troy Pub and Brewery, a chihuahua from Crif Dog in NYC (a hot dog wrapped in bacon with sour cream and slices of avocado), and some Belgian fries from Pommes Frites with horseradish mayo. And for dessert, a Chipwich.

I couldn't think of a "name" pinot noir or bourdeaux to throw in with the ribs instead of the beer - or maybe I'd go martini, I might go martini - and I'd definitely eat my mom's frozen chocolate chip cookies instead of a chipwich, but a chihauhua and those spare ribs of mom's are totally on the menu. If we could track down the proprietor of Trattoria Kick-ass, the penne al salmone and bruschette are on the menu, too. Or whatever I ate in Cinque Terre. That meal was awesome.

bullfrog