Monday, August 26, 2013

Me & a Ke$ha Concert

Last week my friend Katie and I journeyed to Milwaukee for a Ke$ha concert. It was something I have wanted to do for a while now (one of my most visited blog posts is an oldie about my love for Ke$ha) but never found the right time to go. It's weird, pushing 40, and going to concerts. I know a few of my friends still do the whole "show" circuit, one that I exhausted in my twenties when I couldn't handle standing up for hours at a time in tiny clubs, inhaling others' cigarette smoke and waiting for a drunk fight to start. In more recent years, my concert-going has involved more seated venues and selective choices (The Monkees recent tours were not to be missed), as well as kid concerts with Romy (We've seen Ella Jenkins three times and Justin Roberts six times, so far). But I really have been dying to see Ke$ha. As a suburban mom (which, I must face the fact that I AM), I don't have many opportunities to go dancing, wear makeup, or, you know, fix my hair. Plus, I seriously love Ke$ha's music. Something about it has connected with me, and I'm still trying to completely understand why. But it makes me so damned happy. And I do love how she encourages people to be themselves, stand up to bullying, and enjoy giant, inflatable penises (well, I don't know if she encourages that, but she embraces it for sure). I love her. She gets a shoutout in my next novel, The F-It List, too.

When I saw that tickets went on sale for a show at a venue without seats (how lame would a Ke$ha show be with seats getting in the way of dancing?) two months after I had the baby, I had to grab them. I recruited Katie, also a school librarian (you may remember Katie from the many murder mysteries we have attended together) as my dance partner in crime, and the night of the show she came to my house to pick me up. We took an hour and a half to get ready, although I can't explain what took so long. Maybe it was that I had to breastfeed Dean several times before I left. Maybe it was that I had to put makeup on for the first time in years (I couldn't not wear makeup to a Ke$ha concert). Maybe it was gathering all of the crap I needed to bring in order to pump breast milk in the car. Behold:

That's me with my Pump in Style breast pump (the actual name of the pump, hilariously) and a bag full of stuff. I had to be prepared.

We finally left the house and stopped for dinner at one of our favorite Milwaukee haunts, AJ Bombers. We snagged a table under one of the peanut bombers, and they sent it down so the peanuts landed in our bowl. I pulled out this lucky guy:
A three bagger! Definitely a good sign.

Before we got to the venue, we had to find a place to park where I could pump breast milk. I had this vision of a police officer knocking on my window and asking what I was doing, and me having to expose myself just to prove I wasn't hiding something else underneath my cover. Luckily (sadly?) it didn't happen, and the milk was stored safely in the trunk.

When we arrived at the venue, Katie and I were nervous. I thought for sure I would be the oldest person there. And there were a lot of youngins in tiny clothing covered in glitter. There were also some delightful, slightly older women folk waiting in line for the bathroom. One of them had the brilliant foresight to hide vodka bags in her bra! (Please detect my sarcasm.)

We eventually scoped out a spot in the back of the "club" (too big, really, to be a club, but it was a big open space). We timed it so we'd miss the opening acts (we are too old to hang out for that long), and Ke$ha started about ten minutes after we staked our claim. Before that, however, a delightful young lady passed out nearby, and as her friends tried to revive her she puked all over the floor. Awwwwww. I wanted to walk over to her and ask her if it was worth it, since she wouldn't even be able to see the show, but I didn't want to be near the puke. Throughout the night it was delightful watching people slip on it. I much preferred slipping on the glitter everywhere. Here's a picture of me and my Ke$ha-adorned fingernails (which, almost a week after the concert, I really need to take off):

It was insanely hot inside. Like, I had to keep wiping my face on my t-shirt just so I could see. I think eventually they kicked the a/c up a notch, but no matter. We danced the night away. Here is a tiny shot of Ke$ha (and a hint of how far we were from the stage):

Here is a storm of glitter falling from the ceiling (Heavenly, really):

And here is me looking like a 38 year-old at a Ke$ha show:
I had envisioned a picture of me covered in glitter as it swirled around me, but we were a little too far back to get hit. Ke$ha and the band were fabulous. I wish I could see her a little better, and she didn't play long enough or all of the songs I love. Still, we danced the entire night, and no one puked directly on us. Plus, there was one woman pushing seventy years-old standing nearby. Which means I have at least thirty more years  available to attend Ke$ha shows. Now what did I do with that peanut...

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