oops!

the White Stripes love me.
they love me not.
the White Stripes love me.
they love me not.
the White Stripes love me.
they love me not.
the White Stripes love me.
they love me not.
the White Stripes love me.
they love me not.
the White Stripes love me.
they love me not.
the White Stripes love me.
they love me not.
the White Stripes love me.
they love me not.
the White Stripes love me.
they love me not.
the White Stripes love me.
they love me . . . not.

yes, a very close (and ultimately disappointing) call indeed, sports fans.

late this afternoon (say, just before five) I get a call saying that, yes, holy moley, it appears there's a photo pass with my name on it to tonight's big rock show. and I'm a sucker for such summonses so I rush to Queens, don cool rock photographer clothes (not really - I don't have any and I'm not even sure if I know what they look like) and rush back into Manhattan to keep my previously scheduled dinner reservation at the Cowgirl. I order the catfish po' boy, which should be a sign that something's not quite right (I'm pretty much a chicken fried chicken man). no frozen strawberry margarita either. food comes (and not on a hero, but rather a hamburger bun - fresh, lightly toasted, but still a bit surprising), I take a bite, maybe two, and am no longer hungry. nerves. cramps. something. I feel like a victim of menopause. hot flashes, etc.

furthermore, we're unable to make Kim Richey's set at The Living Room. I feel bad as I'd talked to Kim earlier in the day (for the first time in years) and told her I would be there. I call again, just as her set is supposed to start (expecting voice mail, of course), to let her know we won't be there (let loose the passes or something) and she picks up. I feel like a big poo. like Mr. Hankey on steroids. she is completely understanding as Kim is want to be (buy her new album, Chinese Boxes, available on July 10). I continue to feel like a big poo.

we drop my brother and sister-in-law off at The Strand (because when my family visits New York they like to go to the Cowgirl and The Strand, and pretty much in that order) and proceed northwards toward Irving Plaza. there is quite a line waiting to get in as doors opened at 8 p.m. (it's about ten after). we're approached by several wannabe ticket holders, including one skinny kid who asks "press list?" hoping to snag an unused plus one. he offers his tickets to the Stripes show at MSG. rebuffed, he ups his offer to $200. we do our best to appear disinterested (didn't want to get his hopes up), which was actually no problem at all.

ah, but it seems there is but one ticket and one photo pass behind the sacred ticket counter and I am low man on the cool rock critic totem pole (deservedly so, I might add - even if I had the clothes). this has happened before. most recently at the Fall Out Boy show at Hammerstein. but given the high school skewed crowd, the ticket taker that night knew damn well (or thought he did) that I was just a pitiable shutterbug trying to do his job. "no ticket? no problem. just head down to the right hand side of the stage and they'll take you in." we don't even try that tonight.

we discuss. we're approached. we discuss. we change the topic. we go over to Union Square to purchase sodas, almost lose a cell phone, avail ourselves of the restroom facilities (second floor out of order) at the nearby Barnes and Noble as one of us is not getting in to the big rock show, and return to Irving Plaza.

the line has now flipflopped. all civilian ticketholders are safely inside enjoying (or not) the opening band while guest list and press folk (all the cool kids, really - some of whom have obviously been tipped off to the 10:40 Stripes starting time) circle the block, waiting to get their tickets at 10 p.m.

on my way to the subway I call the spouse to tell her I'm headed home and to shut the party down early.

the White Stripes love me.
they love me . . . not.