PANIC! SHAZAM! I’m going to Guam!

On Sunday October 23, 2011, I attended the Panic! At The Disco concert at The Ritz in Ybor.  (For those of you unfamiliar with Ybor City, it is pronounced EE-bor and not WHY-bor.)  I was attending the concert with” Reymundo the Annoying.”  (Yes, that’s his actual name – it’s on his birth certificate and everything.  Trust me.) 

The concert opened with Foxy Shazam – a band that I feel is caught in a time warp, trying to create a Frankenstein monster persona out of the worn out gimmicks of past bands.  But regardless of their less effective adoption of larger band personas, they do tend to draw attention in.  Like a trainwreck.  Like a circus train trainwreck.

I’ll give them big time kudos on their name though.  Foxy Shazam.   That’s pure genius.  Is it a 70’s porn star name?   I was mesmerized with something between fascination and mock horror as they grinded through their set.  In addition to the killer name, Foxy Shazam also has some great merchandise.  I was tempted to buy a bag and a T-shirt, even though I found Foxy Shazam’s music mildly grating.    

The next act was Patrick Stump from Fall Out Boy.  His set was like a vacation through the 1980’s.  Since the ‘80’s were mostly a sad part of my youth, I wasn’t necessarily over the moon with some of his song choices.  But he performed every song well with true frontman bravado.  (Foxy Shazam, take notes!)

By the time, Panic! At the Disco started, Reymundo the Annoying and I were in a grumpy grandpa version of a fight.  What I mean by this is that we were both tired from heavily partying weekends, so we lacked the energy for a full stage brawl.  Instead we just looked at each other with heavy-lidded indignation and the seething dialogue was composed of lazy diatribes:  “Really?”  “Are you serious?”  And a lot of long, frustrated sighs.  It’s as if our partying during the weekend had depleted our vocabularies.  We communicated through pained grimaces and stiff body language. 

For the past week, we had slowly been nurturing the eventual fight we both knew we needed to have.  Like a raging zit desperate for popping, his impatience and my fury were straining for an outlet.  We needed to splash the bathroom mirror with our emotional bacteria.  And hopefully healing would come. 

I was plowing through Ketel One Citroen and tonics like they were glacier water and I had just finished a marathon.  Evidently I had not received the memo that clearly states that one should not be drinking when having a fight.  Alcohol is not the answer!  My “Really?” and “Seriously” retorts were turning into slushy accusatory slams as my tongue turned into a meaty flaccid vessel from which no mature words would spring.

Like any normal, straight woman, one of my favorite movies is “Hedwig and the Angry Inch.”  (John Cameron Mitchell, you are magnificent!)  Staring at Reymundo- despite his being so handsome and dressed deliciously – I felt defeated and deflated.  A scene from Hedwig flashed in my head:  Yitzhak, sad and resigned, says to Hedwig: “Are you tired?  You look tired?  I think maybe we are just … both very tired.”   I always think of this line when I’ve just had it with someone I care deeply about.  It’s like every bit of energy has drained from me and I can’t fight anymore.  The only thing I want to do is go … walk away and not look back.  Emotional tap out – done, no more.  I surrender.  Game over.  I didn't know how to resuscitate the evening and frankly wasn't sure I wanted to anyway.    

One of the best lines from "Hedwig and the Angry Inch" actually comes slightly before the part I quoted above, where Yitzhak shouts at Hedwig:  “F*ck you, I’m going to Guam!”  I stifled the urge to shout “F*ck you, I’m going to Guam!” to Reymundo the Annoying.  But I’m not sure I even know where Guam is.  Public school education, y’all.      

But back to the evening … Panic! At The Disco, in the middle of this all, was fantastic.  Their music cut through the emotional air and distracted my self-diagnosed ADHD tantrum throwing banshee wails.  The lead singer of Panic! At The Disco sounded even better live than in his recordings, which in this day of ProTools – I find remarkable.  The air was electric with Panic’s full-blown driving set.  (Again, Foxy Shazam – take notes.)

As much as I enjoyed Panic’s performance, the shadow of the drunken ranting between Reymundo the Annoying and I was a gloom I couldn’t escape.  I kept jabbing Reymundo with poisoned barbs until his usually surfer-laid back demeanor rippled and I could see the fury underneath.  Part of me had grim satisfaction that I was able to provoke an emotional reaction from his cold robot heart, but it was a hollow victory because the emotions were not what I needed.  It was all just a sad, sad shame.

I went home and rode a wave of bed spins and regret.  Eventually, on the weight of the vodka tonics, I fell into an unsatisfying slumber.  It was the type of sleep where you think you are still awake, so you keep thinking how you have a big day ahead of you and you need to go to sleep.  While all the while, you’re already asleep.

I dreamt that I was on a game show hosted by Bravo TV’s Andy Cohen.  I don’t normally dream about TV personalities, so Andy Cohen- count yourself extremely lucky.  I was in the final round of the game show.  I, sailing on my dazzling wit and fabulous intelligence, had breezed through all previous game show questions.  I was a game show rock star, biatches!  Stand back and be in awe of me, me, me!  Andy Cohen did a lengthy, suspense-garnering build up to the final lightning round question.  The whole game centered on this one moment in time and baby, I was ready for it.  Andy flashed a picture of a dog in a parka vest at me and screamed out: “NAME THAT REAL HOUSEWIVES DOG!” 

And I froze. 

I began stuttering and chirping … yes, chirping.  And then the buzzer went off.  I had lost everything.  All my winnings were predicated on my answering the last question correctly.  Instead of again wowing the audience with my amazing brilliance, I gaped, fish mouthed, at the ladies in polyester in the audience.  All canine recognition skills lost from my brain.  I was a loser.

A LOSER!

At this moment, I woke up.  I sat up in my bed and screamed “DELORIS VAN CARTIER!”  The dog in the picture is Deloris Van Cartier – the pampered pooch of Greg Bennett from Bravo TV’s “The Real Housewives of New Jersey.”  I adore Deloris Van Cartier – I even follow her on Twitter.  (Yes, I follow A DOG on Twitter—get over it, already!  I am who I am!)  I found my dream/nightmare to be ridiculously insulting.  As if I wouldn’t recognize Deloris Van Cartier in real life!  Come on!  What a mean-spirited, twisted dream.  I am sorry, Deloris Van Cartier.  Evidently, you’re not first in my heart when I am dreaming.  A sad, sorry statement, that is.  Please forgive me!

I’m not a huge Twitter fanatic – I basically use it to promote my latest Lily On The Lam blog posts and to annoy the rare few of my friends who are also on Twitter.   Doesn’t that charming description make you want to follow me on Twitter?  SouthTampaLily on Twitter!  Follow me!  Follow me, dammit! 

I must admit I do get tremendously jazzed when I get a retweet or a tweet from someone I have reviewed.  When I wrote about a cooking class with Bravo TV's Top Chef Masters winner Chef Floyd Cardoz, Floyd tweeted to me that I totally get what he’s all about.  Now that was super cool!  I do get you Floyd.  You and your short ribs!

And recently when I mentioned reading Brad Warner’s book “Zen Wrapped in Karma and Dipped in Chocolate,” I received a “thank you” tweet from Brad Warner himself.  OK maybe it wasn’t personally from Zen Master Brad Warner.  Perhaps it was one of his nubile, zen-loving harem, responding to tweets on Brad’s behalf.  By the way, even though Brad Warner specifically writes about how zen students should not idolize their teachers; I like to picture Brad Warner with a bevy of nubile women doing his bidding.  How else should I imagine a punk rock bassist zen master?  I mean, come on … let’s throw some Hollywood soap opera into that vision, shall we?  Sorry Brad … I could not resist.

The cherry on the top of all Twitter experiences was when I received an email that said “Yoko Ono is following you.”  Following me on Twitter, that is!  I’m not being stalked by a Beatles’ widow.  But I’d be up for that if the opportunity ever presented itself!  I’d love to spend a day with Yoko Ono.  My mother is actually like a Chinese version of Yoko Ono – big sunglasses, big personality, strong soul.  I love that Yoko Ono is following me on Twitter- no bigger compliment in my book.  YOKO!

To sum up, what have we learned here? … Reymundo continues to earn his moniker “Reymundo the Annoying.”  I may be going to Guam.  Foxy Shazam has fabulous merchandise.  Patrick Stump and Panic! At The Disco are absolutely amazing – go see their show ASAP.  The universal answer is not to be found at the bottom of a vat of Ketel One Citroen and tonics.  While Dream Lily may not recognize Deloris Van Cartier, Waking Lily is in love with that pampered diva pooch.  God Bless You, Greg Bennett – you divine doll!  Yoko Ono can follow me anytime.  And while enlightenment doesn’t come easy, you certainly won’t find it if you’re doing everything to pollute your consciousness and run away from the questions that need answering. 

Oh and read Brad Warner’s books.  That’s all.