creepy old rednecks say the darndest things

Friday night at the Botanic Gardens, during the realization of a life-long dream, Al Green tore the non-existent roof off the mother and I danced so intensely and sang so loud and sweated so intensely that for two solid days I felt like I had been hit, tossed and run over repeatedly by an 18-wheeler. With a full cargo load. On an old gravel highway.

And every time I woke up from another accidental nap during that two-day recovery period, my first groggy thought was: TOTALLY. WORTH IT.

While it's become par for the course for us to make a few enemies during a Garden concert -- it's really not our fault that some people's sphincters are retracted so far inside their persons that fun is physically impossible -- this time around we made a few friends, too. A few too many friends, really.

After Al had left the stage, Stef and I were catching our breath and relaxing for a few minutes before packing up, knowing we had thousands of people to navigate to get to our cars and we might as well take our time. During this period, we were approached by no less than five people, two of whom were suspenders-sporting 60-something-year-old guys with matching beer guts.

Now, full disclosure -- I may have accidentally brought this one on myself, since I was taking a quick poll to see if anyone in the nearby vicinity knew the difference between angel dust and PCP. No reason, other than information. This is why we need smart phones, I said. No, Stef said. This is why we need to start our web site. ('Stuff White Girls Google,' the dream we've been dreaming ever since we once googled 'How do you take crystal meth?' Many of our queries are drug-related. But sometimes we want to know about gangs, too.)

Anywho. I asked them if they knew the difference between angel dust and PCP, and since I wasn't asking about the difference between Dip and Chew -- are those the same thing? -- they did not know. But they did come over to let us know that they had "enjoyed" watching us dance. Creepertown, sure. But we said thank you, and let them know that not everyone felt the same way. We mentioned the golf ball that had been thrown earlier in the evening (yes, GOLF BALL) and then reminisced on simpler times, when people just threw ice cubes.

At this point one of the guys said that ice cubes wouldn't be so bad. "You could just turn around and catch one in your bra and let it slide on down, it'd feel real good."

As we walked away, Stef grabbed my hand and said, "I think Angela from The Office said it best: 'This is not your own personal Hooters strip club.'"

Amen, Angela. Amen.


cheers,
elizabeth