Que Sera Sera: I don’t want to get you all worked up, except secretly I do

I don’t want to get you all worked up, except secretly I do

Highlights of the past few days:

Scoring a ticket from the very nice Amy (via the very nice Catherine) for the Old 97’s show on Saturday night.

Trying to decide whether I should wear my black bra or my hot pink bra before the show, just in case Rhett Miller was feeling all, you know, married schmarried that night or something.

Rhett Miller walking onstage with his new Atreyu hairdo, thus melding my childhood crush with my adult crush in one explosive, knee-trembling moment, during which I involuntarily said “guh” and briefly touched the complete stranger next to me for support, and then silently praised myself for going with the hot pink.

My new concert friends, Ian and Carrie and Chris and Chris’s girlfriend, but mostly Ian and Chris, who very kindly took me in and shielded me from the angry drunk guy behind me who got mad at ME because HE poured HIS beer down the back of MY legs, yelling, “Hey, let’s WATCH IT here, NEW YORK GIRL with your NEW YORK HAIR! I’m from AUGUSTA, GEORGIA and this coat cost me FOUR HUNDRED DOLLARS! It’s CASHMERE!” Like a reflex, I turned to see who was dousing/haranguing me, and I couldn’t help but respond, “Um, you’re NOT EVEN WEARING A COAT,” because he wasn't, but my pointing this out didn’t seem to help things. This gentleman then treated everyone within a ten foot radius to a theory he had about North/South race relations that was very ahead of its time. He was a delight, and I learned a lot from him, like he’s from Augusta, Georiga, and evidently, to him, “New York hair” means you’re a little sweaty and a month overdue for a trim. Which actually sounds about right, now that I really think about it.

The Old 97’s playing “Barrier Reef” and then encoring about 500 times, playing “Valentine” and “Timebomb” and “Big Brown Eyes,” and at one point during “Valentine,” I swear to God that Murray winked at me.

Drinks and trouble after the show with a friend who has evidently decided that I need to be set up on a blind date with a nice Jewish boy or three. Lucky for him, I’ve recently decided to let other people make my romantic decisions for me, so this should be fun.

Spending Sunday night in a NyQuil, Golden Globes, and Star Wars Trivial Pursuit haze.

Greg interrupting the game and bravely venturing out sans coat to procure the makings of root beer floats.

Greg coming back with the makings of root beer floats and then making the root beer floats for us.

P.S. Do you know how much it kills me every time I have to write “Old 97’s” instead of “Old 97s”? Do you? I don’t think you do.