Charo, Fay, Debbie, and Some Pregnant Chick in a Tube Top
I’ve been having a recurring dream where I’m teamed with Charo on a new reality TV series called “Don’t Drop the Taco!” At first I’m annoyed because a forty year old bag-boy from Cleveland gets paired with Hall of Famer Jim Palmer, clearly the most athletic of the bunch, while I’m paired with a has-been flamenco guitar player and geriatric booty shaker. Yeah, that’s fair. But later we’re all amazed to discover that Jim Palmer absolutely no good on water skis and a florist from Sacramento and Patti LaBelle prove to be stiffer competition in the Wacky Water Round. Although I’m relieved that our taco is soggy but undropped, I can’t help but feel that the only reason Charo is here is to plug her forthcoming album with the Salsoul Orchestra, Cuchi-Cuchi. “I haven’t been this exhilarated since I was a young girl growing up in Murcia, Spain,” Charo pants at the Wacky Water Round finish line, shaking the water from her sequined bathing suit, “the beautiful sounds of guitars flows there with the winds all the time. It’s the same sounds that flow in my new album, Cuchi-Cuchi, available in stores next month!” The show’s host, Tony Danza, nods enthusiastically while staring at the 65 year old Charo’s cleavage, which is considerably younger than the rest of her and promises to be on prominent display during the next round at The Pogo Stick Pagoda.

I wake up when the show ends and the grand prize, a 1994 Mazda Miata with only one original owner, is won by a chipmunk from Sarasota and Paris Hilton, Charo having long ago dropped her end of the taco when the 5 inch spike on her shoe becomes firmly embedded in the soft grassy field of the obstacle course. She fell flat on her face right there at the starting line. Brushing dirt from her sequins, Charo said, “At night, in Spain, breathtaking melodies serenade everybody, which is why I am so happy to share these songs with you on my latest album, Cuchi-Cuchi. Also, I have a house in Hawaii.” Why I would continue to dream about an event after I’ve been disqualified from it is possibly more mysterious than the dream itself. What does it all mean? Professional analysis of thematic elements has yielded one irrefutable conclusion: Shawn doesn’t buy me enough presents.

In other news concerning myself, Shawn and I were able to take in the “2006 Road Rage Tour” when it came to Phoenix last month. It featured The New Cars, who are actually the old Cars, minus Rick Ocasek and Benjamin Orr. Claiming to be the Cars of any vintage when you haven’t got Rick Ocasek is shameful, but I suppose it sounds better than Crappy Band of Nobodies. Shawn and I figured they’d be opening the tour, and since we were only interested in seeing the other band on the tour, not only did we take our time getting to the venue, we also decided to wait in the long, slow-moving line for $35.00 t-shirts. A video monitor near the line desperately attempted to make Ashlee Simpson “concert” seem appealing, and a squat and drunken homosexual man wearing eye makeup and holding a drink in both hands stood beside us is line making loud comments to no one in particular.

And there we stood while two women at the front of the line each requested a shirt in a size small. Each of them unfolded the shirts and held them against themselves and said to other, “What do you think?” While they both agreed that certainly the small size would fit, they both decided the next size up might me more comfortable. And so it went through sizes medium, large, and finally extra-large, which is the size they both decided to buy, 20 minutes later, and they waddled away from the counter saying something about how the extra-large would be better to sleep in. And this is why t-shirt lines always move so slowly.

We had been waiting in the t-shirt line for about half an hour when we were horrified to hear the opening cords of the song Call Me coming from the auditorium. It what rational universe does the legendary Blondie open for some upstart band of loser drummers and keyboard players like the New Cars? Has the world gone insane? First Bush was reelected, and now this. No wonder I get so many headaches.

We made it to our seats about halfway through Call Me, which is good. The original version of Call Me is about 10 minutes long and is never played on the radio. It contains a verse with the lines “Dress me up and show me off and put me on the scene. Dress me in the fashions of the 1980’s.” Last time I saw Blondie, this had been changed to “The fashions of the 1990’s.” I was curious to hear what it would be this time around, and we sat down just as Debbie was singing “Dress me in the fashions of the 21st century." For better or worse, that should be the last change to the song she’ll ever have to make.

I’m not sure which century Debbie’s lime green day-glo jumpsuit and white vest combo came from, but it doesn’t matter. She’s Debbie Harry. Debbie skipped entire choruses of Maria and Good Boys, spoke rather than sang the song Atomic, and held the microphone out toward the audience to avoid Heart of Glass’s “ooh ooh, oh oh’s” entirely. Debbie’s never been an especially strong vocalist, and at 61, she’s clearly no longer interested in trying. It doesn’t matter. She’s Debbie Harry. She spent a good amount of time kicking at a fan on the side of the stage in an effort to redirect it, lost an earring and found it two songs later, and constantly interrupted songs to wave at someone in the audience and say “Hi! I see you!”

We were enjoying the show immensely until a pregnant chick in a tube top arrived late a few rows ahead of us and decided she’d like to stand up and dance with her purse. Now, I love watching pregnant bimbos dance in tube tops as much as the next person, which is to say not at all, but there is a time and a place for everything. Pregnant tube top dancing is an activity best confined to one’s home, like nail clipping or ear-wax removal. Farther down the rows, a woman and her preteen daughter were also dancing to Heart of Glass. Debbie had just finished singing about how her love was no longer a gas and abruptly shouted in the microphone, “You know I always say to those guys! So long, motherfucker!” The mother leapt to cover her daughter’s ears, as though she could somehow beat the sound we had all already heard to her daughter’s ears, and Debbie moved on, riding high on love toward the bluish light. The whole thing reminded me immediately of Fay Fredricks.

Fay Fredricks is channel 12 News’ premiere blond anchor bimbo in Phoenix. She and her co-host, Mark Curtis, were discussing the then upcoming movie about September 11, United 93. Much ballyhoo was being made about whether or not the movie had been made too soon and if America was ready to see it. Mark admitted he felt it was too soon, and doubted he’d be comfortable watching real footage of the attack in a movie. “What do you think, Fay,” he asked, “is it too soon? Are you going to see it?” “Well,” said Fay, seriously, “I’m going to do something I rarely do. I’m going to reserve judgment. Until after I see it.” Yep. That’s what she said. Methinks perhaps Fay didn’t quite understand the question. Mark stared at her blankly for second, and I turned the channel.

There is no turning the channel on pregnant chicks in tube tops, however, and we had to make do with occasional glimpses of Debbie from behind the swaying fetus. The pregnant chick finally sat down after the guy she came with refused to get up and dance with her, I don’t think anyone blamed him. When Debbie, and the rest of Blondie, left the stage, Shawn and I got up and attempted to leave the theatre when we were set upon by a hoard of security personnel. “Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!” they hooted. “You guys won’t be able to get back in!” “Sorry, gentlemen,” we said, “you can keep your so-called New Cars. Blondie has left the building, and so shall we.”