So this summer, BFF and I went to the hotbox of Satan’s Armpit to see my all time favorite band in concert. Yup…that’s right. We went to see Duran Duran again because I love going to see them live whenever I cn and BFF just tags along for the fun. I have loved them since I was in junior high and any chance to see them perform live is a treat for me. I mean, I have only missed one tour in all these years. One. I admit it. I am a die-hard Duranie through and through. So, I purchase the tickets the minute they went on sale and got us floor seats as close as I could possibly get to see my beloved John Taylor. We got down to the floor and were told where the closest bathroom and bar were by one of the ushers. Wait? Bar? Is this a thing at all concerts now or is it just the age of the people coming to see Duran Duran that we feel the need to have a bar at the concert? Whatever the case may be, we opted out of that part as we wanted to enjoy the concert and remember it. Obviously, others did not. Let me tell you….some people should have been cut off before the concert even started.
There we were, sitting in our seats and realizing we should have brought earplugs to drown out the horrible DJ that was playing when all of a sudden, this giant man came and plunked himself and his beer next to me. It was quickly obvious to me that he had been pre concert partying as he almost spilled his beer on me no less than three times. After apologizing, he then decided it was a good idea to talk to me. Nope. Slow your roll buddy. I don’t need to have a conversation with you. He proceeded to ask me about Duran Duran and who I liked the most. His group was only there to see the opening act Chic and didn’t care about Duran Duran you see. I learned a lot about this dude who I didn’t really want to talk to as he blabbered on and on about things. Then, he abruptly stood up and left mid sentence and I breathed a sigh of relief. I think he might have realized his beer was empty. Unfortunately for me, he returned to slosh some more beer around and try to have a conversation with me again. Stop it. I am not going to give you my number. Right before the concert started, the usher came over with some people and asked to see this guys ticket and asked him if he was in the right seat. He didn’t even know where his seat was and that was not his so Drunken Dude was led away and a gal sat next to me that was neither drunk nor did she want to have a conversation with a stranger. Thank goodness.
About this time, the people seated next to BFF showed up. Wow were they drunk. And I don’t mean by a little, I mean DRUUUUNNNNKKKK. Let’s add into the fact that she was like an Amazonian woman and BFF is a tiny little woman. Oh boy. When the concert started, we stood to dance and that is when the trouble started. Because what happens when you are that drunk? Pretty sure you lack the coordination to control your own limbs. This drunk woman kept knocking into BFF and standing in front of her so she couldn’t see. I mean even I would not be able to see over this Amazonian of a woman. Bing the spunky little woman BFF is, she finally tapped the lady and told her she kept standing in front of her. Luckily, the Amazonian was nice and made sure it didn’t happen again. The guy she was with? Not so much. When The Reflex was played, this was apparently his favorite song and he proceeded to show his love for this song by dancing along the row in front of us in drunk fashion, pointing and singing. It was quite hilarious if I had wanted to see a show of a drunk trying to be Simon Le Bon. Guess what buddy? You aren’t Simon so take your drunk ass back to your seat and stay there. Ugh. I hate drunk people. Ok…really I just hate people. But seriously, why the drinking at concerts? Is it just a ploy for the venues to make more money? Are people just incapable of enjoying music without it? And how many of these people try to drive home after drinking at a concert? BFF and I? We will stick to just enjoying our fangirl moment and screaming like 13-year-old girls. Yeah…that happened.
Oh yeah. I didn’t die today. Instead I suffered through some drunk experiences at a Duran Duran concert but didn’t die. I am Fat Girl who is also a teenage Duranie fangirl for life Running. The experiment continues…
A month ago I had the wonderous experience of going to Tucson with my BFF for a concert of my all time favorite band. Yup. That’s right. I got to see Duran Duran live in concert ONCE AGAIN. For those of you who don’t know, I have only missed 2 tours of my favorite band since 1983 because I was too poor or they were playing nowhere near me. Luckily, when the tour dates were announced I was completely excited to see that they were playing just a few short hours south of me. Pretty sure I was online immediately at 10am in April to get tickets and managed to get 5th row back on John Taylor’s side of the stage (the ONLY side that matters to me). BFF and I made arrangements for time off work and to have a fun weekend in Tucson at a nice resort. We had no idea what the venue was like nor did we care, till I looked online at it and realized it was an amphitheater. Outside. In August. In the desert. Who the frack books a concert outside in the desert in the summer? Seriously. It’s like 2 million degrees outside in August in Tucson. Don’t give me that it cools down after the sun sets crap either. To what? 1.5 million degrees? It’s like having a concert on the sun. BFF and I braced ourselves for the heat and tried to plan accordingly.
OK let’s just set the record straight. I am NOT an outdoor girl. I don’t like to do outdoor activities, eat outdoors or hang out outdoors. There is all sorts of things like bugs, heat, sun, heat, and other icky things. I especially do not like being outside in the south of Arizona in the summer. Who lives down there? Do you people like living in a sauna? It feels like the armpit of hell when you step out of your car or the air conditioning of a building. And I don’t wanna hear “but it’s a dry heat” either. It’s still FRACKING hot! I don’t wanna live anywhere that the temperature on average in the day in the summer is over 100 degrees. So gross. You can’t do anything cuz you feel like you are melting and the sweat puddles that are forming in the folds of your fat are now creating little Rorschach designs on your clothing. So not attractive. I tried so hard to dress appropriately for a concert outside while trying to look cute. I didn’t wanna wear a tank top because I did not want John Taylor to wave at my arm fat that would be waving at him. So I chose an off the shoulder shirt and capris with flip-flops. BFF chose the cutest skirt and light weight top. Good choice as she could create her own fan effect in her nether regions when she felt like she was gonna spontaneously combust. I, however, was stuck in denim. It was over 100 degrees when we got there and thank god I chose a high pony tail to keep my air off my neck because the sweat was running down me before we even got to our seats. I was sure that my raccoon grease was gonna make me so unattractive by the time the concert started that I would resemble that scary mask from the garage sale. I could feel the sweat start to pool in my fat rolls and my shirt stick to me in weird places as the fat roll art started. So awesome. All we could discuss was how much we were sweating and it was 8pm. Seriously. It was 8pm and OVER 100 degrees out. Again….who books an outdoor concert in august in the desert? And who’s bright idea was it to build an amphitheater in the desert? Pretty sure it was someone who thinks a dry heat is a wonderful thing. Screw you dry heat lover. No amount of heat is good for a fat Irish girl. Between the sheen of sweat and the red face, I was sure that SOTL man was gonna pop out somewhere with his measuring tape to see if I would pass out from heat stroke so he could finally finish his skin suit. But then it happened…..Duran Duran took the stage.
Wanna know how to turn the Fat Girl into a screaming teenager who doesn’t give a rat’s ass if she is creating a puddle of sweat in her underwear or if her deodorant is working as she throws her hands in the air? Let my favorite band come out and play for nearly 3 hours straight. Yup. That will do it. The minute they took the stage, I forgot how much I was sweating and enjoyed myself like I was a teenage groupie. Of course, at one point, I worried that I would get heat stroke and judged how much water I could drink by how much was in my bottle versus the end of the concert (let’s just say that once the band came out for encores, I guzzled my water). Even the band commented on how hot it was in Tucson and quickly shed coats and such (yahoo!). Best. Concert. Ever. When it was over, BFF and I noticed that it had finally cooled down to the cool 95 degrees at 10pm. Ew. Even worse was trying to go potty after the concert. Pretty sure I should not have to peel my chonies and shorts off and wonder if I was gonna be able to get them back on because I soaked them with sweat. And let’s not talk about how I smelled. The car smelled like a combo of sweaty teenage boy and McDonald’s on the way back to the resort (hey…we had to eat and that Diet Coke was the best one I have ever had!). But a great time was held.
Oh yeah. I didn’t die today. I realized that my sweat art on my shirt could sometimes be used as Rorschach ink blots but I didn’t die. I am fat girl who hates the desert in august, well really, hates being outdoors running. The experiment continues….