waiting

originally posted June 21, 2008


Wednesday night I went to see Tom Waits. I couldn't NOT go, after hearing Dr. BS's enthusiastic telling of The Tale of the Sights, Sounds, and Smells of the Tuesday Evening Show He Attended. Really, it was the smells that got me. He returned from Tuesday night's show all starry eyed and dazed, and it was clear he'd had a concert experience that had not only made his top ten list of The Greatest Concert Experiences of All Time, but also secured the number one spot on his list of The Worst Smelling Group of People I Have Ever Smelt. It should be noted that the BS spent a good portion of his life as a stinky hippie, so he has attended many, many shows, and has been around many, many, many smelly people. Can you see the appeal?

The problem I faced was not having a ticket to Wednesday night's show, much as I had not had a ticket to the Tuesday evening stinkfest that had so enchanted the doctor. You see, Tom Waits has a pretty devoted fanbase – a devoted, fedora-wearing, and apparently stench-laden fanbase. And as Tom Waits was only playing a smattering of shows on the Odor and Doom – oops, I mean Glitter and Doom – tour, we were in competition for tickets with very serious fans from all sorts of states, and these tickets sold out approximately four minutes after they went on sale. This was a sad event in our house, this realization that we would not be seeing Tom Waits. Later the afternoon the tickets went on sale, hours after The Sadness had descended upon our household, I tried again to get a single ticket while I was at "work". Lo and behold, I got a lone ticket in the balcony, and was able to phone Dr. BS and surprise him with the news, even though he had been a bit of a lippy-know-it-all-pain-in-the-ass that day and all I really wanted to do was tell his marrow-loving-blowhard-self to go suck on a bone. However, I like the guy, so instead I just called and told him the good news that he was going to the show.

Tuesday evening of the concert rolled around, and because this was a paperless ticket event, entry to the concert required the credit card that was used to purchase the ticket and valid picture id – I mean ID, as in identification. We were not all required to bring artist renditions of the uncoordinated instinctual trends of our psychic apparatuses. Apparati? Perhaps if each of us had been required to bring a picture of our id, we would at this moment have a better sense of why everyone smelled so weird. Anyway, this paperless ticket business required that the two small boys and I troop downtown to the concert venue with the Brain Scientist and stand in line with him and walk him to the door and wave around my credit card and identification and bid him adieu and troop back to the parking garage and drive all the way home and drink a hearty scottish amber upon our return, because it was 108 degrees outside. Fortunately, Mr. Wright volunteered to pick the BS up after the show, thus enabling the wee-uns and I to lounge around on the couch and watch the Muppet Show and drink a second hearty scottish amber and await his return, rather than venturing out into the dark hotness of Satan's Nethers for a second fun car ride.

Which brings us to the smells. It seems there were many of them. Rather than telling me too much about the actual show, as he was concerned that I might be overcome with melancholy having missed what had been a doozy of a concert, the doctor instead opted to focus on the very unique and offensive combination of smells the folks in attendance managed to generate. It seems that air conditioning was not functioning at optimum capacity, and so the balcony was filled with the smell of whiskey and cigarette sweat, with a touch of garlic. And then there was the dreadlocked guy that the BS stood behind in line at the bar as he waited to purchase a bit of whiskey in an effort to cultivate his own special smell. Dreads claimed to know Tom Waits' uncle. This is vaguely interesting because I knew a boy in my wayward youth named Will Waits who claimed that Tom Waits was his uncle. So I guess this means that Dreads knew Will Waits' great uncle. Small world. Anyhoo, it seems Dreads smelled pretty bad – indescribably bad. Of course, I was totally unimpressed when the BS offered this as an example of the stink. I mean, everyone expects a guy with dreadlocks to smell bad. We are disappointed with guys with dreadlocks who don't smell bad.

The BS then told me about a guy he encountered in the bathroom who was wearing plaid pants (Were they polyester? I asked. They had to be, he replied. The only doubt I have that they were polyester is the fact that this guy seemed like the sort who would wear wool pants when it was 108 degrees. No, they must have been polyester. They had a nice, crisp pleat), a beige suit vest, a grayish, well-worn shirt, and beige jazz shoes. Jazz shoes! Beige jazz shoes! He had a funny wispy beard, too, the sort that many adolescent males have no choice but to grow, and fully adult males, I don't know – cultivate? Finally – and you knew this was coming – he also carried upon his person a strange and horrible smell. I wanted to ask him, the BS reminisced, did you piss yourself after drinking gasoline? Did you throw up in your shoes? That's some smell! And some outfit! Dr. BS confirms this: It was like he caught a fungus from Funky Winkerbean. Alright! Now that's the sort of smell I can get behind, in a purely metaphorical sense!

Inspired by these anecdotes, and overcome with a desire to help the BS relive what was clearly a pretty awesome experience, I went online in an attempt to buy tickets to the following evening's show. It was just before midnight, and I guess some more tickets had been released, because moments later I was the proud owner of two third row orchestra seats. Seeing as there were just two rows ahead of us in the pit, this technically put us in the fifth row. Upon hearing this news, the BS did an excited little dance thing I have never, ever, ever seen him do. It was a side of him I'd not yet been acquainted with. Oh, the anticipation!

I'm sorry to report that Wednesday evening brought disappointment in the form of pleasantly breathable air and concert attendees who had all obviously bathed in the last fortnight. What the fuck? Dr. BS acknowledged that it was a very different crowd, both in terms of overall odor and general attractiveness. Yes, there was a decent fedora showing, but apparently not nearly as many as the night before. We saw Dreads again too, but didn't get close enough to smell him, because he was sitting two rows ahead of us, smack dab in the center, just as he had the night before. Maybe Tom Waits is his uncle. We also saw a guy, four rows back from us, who also had a sad, wispy beard despite that fact that he appeared to be a grown up, and he was playing a harmonica as we waited for the show to begin. Come on, dude, said the Brain Scientist, we don't need this level of detail about your persona. I am still laughing about this. Of course we were surrounded by people from other states who had flown in for the show. The couple next to us were from Alaska, and had spent the day shopping at thrift stores and eating at our very favorite Mexican restaurant. Stupid Alaskans! Stop buying our Tom Waits tickets and cool vintage dresses and eating our chimichangas! GO BACK TO YOUR IGLOOS!

Back to the fedoras. I counted 27, one of which was worn by a lady, and featured an elaborate plume of feathers.

As to the whiskey consumption. Did I have some? Hell yes, I did.

After the show we stood around outside, at least one of us counting fedoras and breathing deeply, hoping that someone would happen by who carried the legendary stink of the prior evening. No such luck. Later, as we started our journey to the car, we ran into the guy who owns one of the local bars that is a popular hangout with the drunken hipsters who inhabit the dry, dusty parts of Satan's Nethers. He was excited to see the Brain Scientist, who was for many, many years a regular patron of this bar. He slugged us both in the arm and offered to buy us a drink at a nearby bar. Of course we went, and over Sierra Nevada he explained to me that times are tough, necessitating that he jerk off the dog to feed the cat. Really?

And the concert? INCREDIBLE. Tom Waits puts on a very, very, very good show. I would get all smelly and run around in jazz shoes – beige jazz shoes – if he wanted me to. And that's saying a lot.