Dear Ms. Puffy-haired, missed-a-spot-when-you-blew-it-straight, stranger:
I am unamused by the fact that you a.) decided to re-position yourself in the crowd during a pinnacle moment of a musical icon’s performance and, b.) that you chose to do so, within5 inches of my face. Although I’m sure your high-lighted locks are well worth the money to some, I do not enjoy breathing them in as the backdrop to “Panic” and “Lucky Lisp”. You are worse than a close-talker, you’re a close, back-to-me-stander. Shame on you.
Furthermore, is it really necessary to supplement the obstruction of my view with your extended arm, amateur videographer attempts? Let me fill you in a bit of reality. It’s dark. There are strobing lights…lots of them. The star himself, is dressed head-to-toe in black. We’re a good 50 feet from the stage. These things don’t add up to picture making perfection, my friend. Not to mention, you’re using a cell phone video camera that was likely FREE WITH YOUR T-MOBILE PLAN–Spielberg himself couldn’t get the shot you’re attempting! Seriously, stop. You’re kidding yourself.
5’3″ Surly Red-head Behind You
Last night Dave and I went to see Morrissey with our friends J.P. & Jamie, at The Backyard here in Austin. Besides the aforementioned incident and the woman who decided to throw herself while singing, onto a red-faced J.P., the experience was damn near musical utopia. After 20+ beautifully angst-filled years of entertaining the masses, the man’s still got it. His voice, still powerful, playful and heartbreaking. His band of young, handsome men, uniformly dressed in a Robert Palmer Girl-esque ode to beauty. His ability to be cocky and self-deprecating almost simultaneoulsy. All of it, fantastic. Anti-woman or not, the Last International Playboy can serenade me (amongst a crowd of thousands), anytime.
That is all. Thank you.