Why TMZ is unhealthy for me

I was merrily skipping through my exorbitant amount of TV stations (skipping being a deceptive word as I have Direct TV and trying to surf their channels is very much like the unlikely event of my mother literally surfing. (Up! And she’s down…Uh, uh, up, no she’s down, etc.) when I came across TMZ, a show populated by third grade graduates, wait…I’m being told they are, indeed third graders, who seem to think they have a career in journalism when in fact they are simply bed bugs dressed like wannabe hipsters.

These six-legged pests crawl into the world, bother people and then return to their nests with tales of how angry people get when they are annoyed by biting insects.

Now, I am not a celebrity and TMZ seems completely uninterested in accosting me as I go about my life, no matter how many times I call ahead to give them a heads up as upcoming whereabouts. So, one might assume that my displeasure, bordering on simmering disgust is out of proportion to the situation and that I would choose to ignore them since there has been no legislation enacted requiring me to suffer fools gladly. You’d be wrong, because on this particular day, TMZ was harassing Coldplay’s frontman and my pretend gentleman friend, Chris Martin.

I know what you’re thinking, aren’t you a middle-aged woman who should have matured beyond crushes on rock stars? A: Is this the first blog post you’ve read of mine? Go back and do your research before accusing me of teen-aged behavior B: Shut up.

Anyway, this post is not about Mr. Martin as much as I’d like it to be. This post, eventually, will be about misplaced anger and why it is unhealthy. Now, back to Chris Martin.

The reason I paused to watch TMZ (which stands for, you rat bastards, you’re going to hell,) was that I glimpsed Chris Martin getting into a car at an airport, which naturally needed immediate attention from the press and never fails to garner mine.

As he was stowing his luggage, wannabe arachnoids skittered towards him, throwing out the kind of questions that are completely appropriate to yell at human beings who write music, sing and put on a sensational show. “How many times do you go to the bathroom everyday?” “Is there a sexual position you prefer when cheating on your wife?” “Can we see your feet?”

Chris attacked ne’ery a one of them and hopped into a car with a smile and a wave. This is where I should have changed the channel, but instead, to my everlasting regret, I lingered, having never had a close up view inside the nest of nuisance insects.

At this point, the “reporters” discussed what was surprisingly evident to them: that the questions asked were less than professional. Then-get ready for irony to make a guest appearance-a female of the species offered, that given the opportunity to accost Chris Martin, she would have asked, “… how he stays married to that insufferable woman,” (Gwyneth Paltrow, presumably.)

Now, I have only achieved an Associate Degree in Ms. Paltrow in the course of getting my doctorate (cyber stalking) in Chris Martin studies. Much to my chagrin she seems to be quite cute, smart and funny, so much so that I almost hate to put my fiendish kidnapping plan into motion.

Even given that information, however, there is absolutely no reason for me to borrow rage from her loved ones, and yet I made the decision to gnash my teeth and carry that insufferable woman (insect girl) with me for more than a week, to my admitted detriment.

(OK, here comes the social commentary portion of tonight’s entertainment.) There are many things which should anger humanity as a whole: injustice, war, and why we can’t cure static electricity, but still, we feel the need to drop coins into the anger vending machine and take whatever random item that drops into a less than sanitary receptacle slot, holding our dubious treasure tightly in our hands and wandering off eating, even though it tastes like the stuff your mother used to make which could only be made relatively palatable with large doses of catsup or ketchup, whichever makes you less angry.

Of course, indignation on behalf of celebrities is a purposeful exercise of which we should all indulge, but do we have to turn our stomachs into acid milkshakes over our neighbor’s rickety fence? (And we’ll be working on it this summer, neighbors, FYI.)

My mother is the queen of random anger, (which is a good name for a band). High on the top of her list, which rivals the government’s Facebook files, are high heels and the women who wear them. On the bright side, neither she, nor I, nor anyone we visited while she was here, wears them. Plus, we agreed that the huge lifts that pass for an elegant shoe these days resemble what The Bride Of Frankenstein might wear to The Bride of Dracula’s open bar wedding reception.

I argued that, since we were neither shopping for these items or are required to wear them to avoid a fine, we might as well laugh at them and then go about our business in the closest thing to slippers we can legitimately wear out of the house.

Instead, my mother chose to grunt like an amplified tennis players every time a woman on TV or in a magazine slipped on these monstrosities and stumbled into view before careening into the next available wall.

My mother has the same reaction to women in low cut dresses, men in low cut dresses and women who dress very modestly (Ellen Degeneres). She hates teenagers, Ann Margret, the idea that she should have to pick up her dog’s poop (She doesn’t. Feel free to become infuriated if she lives in your neighborhood) and the other political party, when she figures out which is which.

Early on in her visit, I explained that anger is a destructive thing which turns in on ourselves unless it’s directed at my middle brother. However, for whatever reason, she chose not to change her lifelong view of the world because I told her to and continued to harrumph at an alarming rate for her entire visit.

I suppose we all have our triggers which we should be able to ignore but, instead offer a rent free room in our mind so we can conveniently visit at our leisure. Whether it’s politics, sports, who lives in the stupidest state, (I won’t name names, but it starts with In and ends with ana…I’m KIDDING! Can’t you take a joke? Why are you Hoosiers so angry all the time?), we choose our own destruction via pointless temper.

Maybe as a New Year’s resolution, we can all attempt to release our anger and find the peace which would replace it.

But don’t @#$% pick on Chris Martin or his circle of loved ones or I will torture myself with unfounded fury. I’ll do it! Don’t think I won’t!

Namaste, dammit.

Why I May Owe Chris Martin an Apology.

For those of you still in the depths of despair concerning my experience at Lollapalooza, your long period of mourning is officially over.  During the first week of August 2012, I attended another Coldplay concert, but this time, attended in a way heretofore  (apparently that is a word,) unbeknownst, (also a word,) to me; I attended as if I were an adult.

It all began last year,  when an August 2012 Coldplay concert was announced. I was determined, for once in my life, to be able to pick out of a lineup,  a band that I had previously seen at an arena concert, independent of all images seen otherwise.  And, yes I realize that makes little sense, but so does a 53-year-old woman crushing on a 35-year-old rock star.  Anyway…

I’ve attended a number of live acts in my life as a concert goer and viewed said acts from a number of different seat assignments, most of which were in the area where they stop assigning rows and/or numbers.  For instance, I had to take the promoters word that I was seeing, say Wings.

Before I go forward, I feel it necessary to explain that no kid, presently or at the time when Wings was a band (mostly the 70s)  has ever been surprised to learn that Paul McCartney was in a band called The Beatles before Wings.  This idea was considered hilarious, in the seventies, by the same breed of adults who thought reading the words to rock songs as sonnets would illuminate how much better the music of the WW II era was written.  (Skiddery dinkie doo, anyone?)  This “joke” is occasionally regurgitated by current day newscasters when the subject of Sir Paul shows up in the news.  Please take this as your notice to knock it off.

Now, back to our regularly scheduled blog post.

In 1976, I saw Elton John from a distance best traveled by airplane, yet I felt completely assured that the man I saw in the distance was either him or a flock of fey birds and Elton seemed more likely.  When I saw John Denver, he could have easily have been replaced by a muppet, and, now that I think of it, that might have been the case in general, but I digress.

As time went by, I’ve (and by I’ve, I mean my darling husband) has been able to pay for the privilege of seeing a few bands from the back half of a basketball court.  Here is a list of said Bands/Performers I’ve technically seen: Paul McCartney, Paul McCartney, Tom Petty and, um, Paul McCartney.  They all (both) put on sensational shows which makes me think it was really them because who would pretend to be them and then go to all that effort.  Plus, I saw them on the giant TVs provided and the images seemed to be moving simultaneously with the on stage performerance.

At this point, I would ask your indulgence while I hold a woman up to public ridicule and I hope you will join me in heaping scorn on her head.  At the last Paul McCartney concert I attended, where I was seated about 3/4 of the way back on the main floor, I was admonished by the woman behind me to stop standing.  In her world view, if I sat down, the 40 or so rows of jumping, screaming fans ahead of me would cease to be an obstacle for her viewing pleasure.  I will wait as you sneer.

Anyway, last December, my son and I mobilized with a mission to get good seats to see Coldplay.  We waited until the allotted time and proceeded to type frantically and reload just as frantically as every other person in the Chicagoland area, including Skokie, tried to get tickets and was successful.

We ended up just North of the Cheddar Curtain and decided to mope rather than go and tell ourselves a tale of a band we loved that once played their instruments in the same giant hemisphere as we lived.

I handled this very maturely so when my husband came home from work, I was weeping incoherently about Chris Martin, once again, not sending passes.  There were a series of events that followed, but, in a nut shell, my husband came to my rescue with a American Express card and the promise of VIP seating if he threw money at said company.  He did so and added, “Merry Christmas,” which made me worry that I would get no other presents.  Not only was that not so, but he rocked last Christmas, for which he should be nominated for Knighthood.  Or at least a public, “What a guy!”

So, skipping forward, I arrived at the United Center on August 7, 2012 to a seat so well placed, that I not only was absolutely sure that all four members were who they claimed to be, (I tried to frisk them ahead of the show, but a large man said I should, “move along.”) but, I could hear the music!  I am not kidding.

It should be said that, Chris Martin throws himself into a performance like someone wound him up, just a bit too tightly, force-fed  several pots of coffee and then released, and I mean that in the best possible way.  He dances, he leaps over invisible barriers, he gallops from one end of a runway to another as if I were chasing him. (I was not.)  He rolls on the floor and gyrates like…like none of your business, all the while performing songs that uplifted me and everyone else (with the notable exception of the girl sitting next to me), to staggering heights of delirious joy and satisfaction.  Which leads to the question: why am I so often seated near less than enjoyable people at concerts.

Wait.  One more thing.  During the show, Martin and Company set up a small stage toward the back of the arena to assure those in attendance that they are indeed, Coldplay.  As they returned to the main stage, they passed by me and I, never one to neglect the opportunity to touch Chris Martin, reached out my hand and patted bass player Guy on the shoulder, as a warm up.  (Please do not report this to him, I’m sure he’s feeling very special about now.)   I exchanged the geekiest high five with Jonny, lead guitar, as a result of a last minute decision he made to high five an unsuspecting me.  And, finally, with much love and admiration, I  slapped Chris Martin so hard on the chest the paint came off his t-shirt.  I have included photographic evidence.

Chris seemed to have recovered enough as to put on another show the following night and since there was no mention of broken ribs or public reports of a mugging, I feel certain I have left him unscathed.

If any reader knows Mr. Martin personally, I would embrace the chance to apologize for any serious bruising I caused.

Why I Shouldn’t Have Gone to Lollapalooza

Last summer, against my better judgement, I went to Lollapalooza with my adult son.  The most surprising aspect of this situation?  From my perspective, it’s the fact that I am in possession of an adult human that I initially made from materials I had around the house twenty-three years ago.

 

From the grownup contingent in my life?  Most were less surprised than amused and slightly concerned that I might not live through Lollapalooza.  I once was in the same camp, i.e. grownups who have, by necessity, recognized the limitations of middle age, yet I chose to move forward.

 

I have learned to ignore the long-lived portion of my inner self when convenient.  If my advanced age were walking toward me on the street, I would most certainly snub her, pretending to be fascinated by gravel and/or undispatched dog poop.  I hate her.  I know what she says about me behind my back, (and in reflective surfaces) and I think she’s a…less than lovable individual.  (I don’t want to be tagged as having mature content on the occasion of my first post, but wouldn’t that be ironic?)

 

She tried to tell me that thousands of ecstatic kids, heat and humidity and the inability to so much as squat during my time at the show would render me either unconscious or embittered by the fact that she was indeed correct.  I bought two tickets.  One for me and one for my son.  She stayed home practicing her “I told you so,” face.

 

I had an extremely good excuse for attending the hellish mix of heat and youthful exuberance and his name is Chris Martin.  Here’s when your personal reality takes a beating if you’ve passed the GO-> of old age: Everyone under 40 is familiar with Chris Martin.  He is the lead singer of Coldplay, probably one of the most popular bands in the world today.  Ten points if you knew who Chris Martin was before being informed.  Five points if you’ve heard of Coldplay.  Minus twenty if you find this declaration of popularity  completely impossible as this band is not The Beatles.

 

I probably should attempt to explain why I felt an overwhelming desire to be near or arrested for stalking Chris Martin.  The explanation is simple and uniquely humiliating; I find my myself in the awkward position of having a crush on the aforementioned Mr. Martin, mostly because he’s dreamy and David Cassidy has become an asshole.  Also, Coldplay’s music, which I swear I loved before the lead singer.  Mr. Martin’s possession of said awesomeness was a gobsmacking discovery because, for the first time since God was a boy, (the eighties) a band enraptured me with a single.  The album was equalling satisfying and I became a giddy, albeit reluctant fangirl at 50-years-old.

 

To make a long story short,

 

English: Coldplay taking a bow after performing in support of their 2008 tour. From left to right: Guy Berryman, Jonny Buckland, Chris Martin, and Will Champion (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

(I understand it’s too late now, just go with it before I forget what I was talking about) I found myself waiting through two bands that could best be described as ear-splitting monotony to stake a claim on the nearest piece of beer soaked land to the stage, where I hoped to set eyes and ears on my band, who, as I have pointed out, are awesome.  (For those keeping score, that was my third awesome.)

 

While I stood, tilting only slightly to one side, teenagers approached me cautiously and inquired about my health more times than was polite, beholding me with wide-eyed wonder  on the assumption that I must have seen Coldplay  dozens of times due to my advanced age.

 

Before Coldplay hit the stage, kids started wobbling and hitting the ground because it’s impossible to condition the air at Grant Park.  However, I had one small bottle of water, a two-hour wait and the dedication to not die in this humiliating setting if only because everyone who has met me would nod knowingly when told the news of my demise a few feet away from Chris Martin.

 

Finally, out they came.  I think.  Despite being only a half-dozen people back from the stage, these “people” were teenagers who felt compelled to jump up and down with their arms in the air for the entire concert.  I was pulling out every tool in my don’t pass out belt and these monkeys were swinging from invisible trapezes.  How I hated them.  I even hated Chris momentarily when the crowd briefly settled and he cajoled, “Jump with me!”  Bastard. Darling Bastard.

 

Every view I had of the young man with whom I’m having a very secret affair (please let me be the one to break it to him and his housefrau, Gwyneth Paltrow) had a fringe of arm pit hair as if I possessed unnaturally long and stinky eyelashes. I could no more jump up and down than fly, so I came away from the show having only glimpsed my beloved under the sweaty, unkempt, under region of some fascist kid’s saluting, ever-upright arm.

 

Did I mention I couldn’t hear anything but whistles and chirps for two days after?  My son, who had the good sense to watch the show from a safe distance caught sight of me, post-trampoline and looked at me with much the same concern as the youngsters before the show, whispering “Are you all right?” with the kind of fear only expressed by kids about to be orphaned.  I could be wrong though.  I don’t lip read.

 

After some time and fluids, I realized my position in front of the stage that night summed up my position in the grand scheme these days: close enough to glimpse the action, having the desire to participate but relegated to just beyond land of ability to do so, yet not far enough away to avoid being pelted with enormous yellow balloons and barely escaping third degree burns compliments of  a wayward piece of fireworks that scattered the crowd just behind me.  (I suppose they were in their sixties.)

 

I wish I could make the balls and the fireworks part of the  metaphor, unfortunately I have become exhausted by the retelling of my afternoon from hell and I have to save my energy for August, when I have tickets to see Coldplay for the first time, complete with a chair for my sorry ass.  My grownup self is not invited.