An excerpt from Laurie Notaro's The Idiot Girls' Action Adventure Club
The Little Guy
"When my best friend Jamie fnally broke up with her evil boyfriend who had the personality of a raw potato, I considered it a hallowed day. It was the kind of relationship in which she had to carefully hide all of her best qualities, the qualities which i most admired in her: her pack-a-day devotion to Benson & Hedges, the talent she posessed to effortlessly paint a verbal masterpiece of profanity that could rival the mouth of any dockworker, and the facet of her that we called 'Fun and Frolic Jamie,' the portion of personality that could be easily talked into anything after a twelve-pack. Like the night we found her drunk, topless, and unconcious in a neighbor's desert front yard, a photo of which may have contributed to the disintigration of the love between Jamie and Potato Boy.
I was thrilled when she broke it off, because this meant that I would be the sole beneficiary of half of the pair of Page and Plant concert tickets Potato Boy had guven Jamie for her birthday-in addition to a surprise weekend trip. At the beginning of that trip, their plane landed near a swamp. Jamie looked confused, though Potato Boy responded with an unmistakable glow and the smile of a retarded child in a toy store.
'Weire in Salt Lake City!' he said gleefully. 'We're spending the WHOLE DAY at the Mormon temple! Happy birthday!'
To an atheist like Jamie, it was a slight disappointment, especially since she had packed swimsuits and cabana wear instead of undergarments and shirts with collars. The trip then took a definite turn for complete horror when Potato Boy suggested that they really make it a special birthday and asked her to join him ni a lifetime of happiness, fullfillment, and devotion.
She smiled and held out her hand.
It was the next logical step, he said, and she nodded with tears in her eyes.
Then he asked her to convert. He continued by saying that his entire ward had been praying for her soul to save her from hellish damnation, since it was apparent that she was gliding straight into the arms of Satan. When I heard that, I had no choice. I slipped the topless photo in the mail and licked the stamp.
After she told me the split was final, I jumped in my car and headed over to her house, making a pit stop at the drive-thru liquor store. When I walked through the front door, however, I saw her immersed in a full pout as she sat on the couch.
'I have all the ingredients to make Fun and Frolic Jamie!' I said, waving a twelve-pack in front of her.
She didn't say anything.
'What's the matter?' I asked. 'I bought imported!'
'It's not that,' she said bitterly. 'He kept the tickets! HE KEPT THE TICKETS!'
'The Page and Plant tickets?' I asked in disbelief. 'Potato Boy kept the Page and Plant tickets? He doesn't even know who they are! He thinks they sang 'Jesus Is Just Alright.''
'I know, I know!' Jamie said. 'I just let him think they were a Christian band so he'd buy good seats. My dastardly plan has backfired!'
'Don't worry,' I said quickly. 'I know somebody who knows somebody who knows somebody who works for the concert promoter.'
'It's a drug dealer, isn't it?' she questioned.
'You think it's a bad idea?' I asked.
'If he can get us good seats, I don't give a shit. I'll even throw in a copy of the topless photo,' she said.
Two days later, I got a package from FedEx with two Page and Plant tickets in it.
I bestowed these upon Jamie, but there still was one more problem.
A long time ago, when we were in seventh grade, we went to our one and only dance ever. Jamie was haunted by a short boy who had, judging by his aroma, bathed in a boiling vat of Brut and smoked several cigars. He chased her all night, until he begged her so shamefully to dance when 'Stairway to Heaven' was played that she considered it charity and said okay. He held her tight.She held her breath. He nestled his greasy little cigar head on her shoulders. She spotted his dandruff. Then he popped a boner. It was a very long song. Even to this day, when that snog comes on the radio, she actually smells the stench of cigars and cheap aftershave, and feels something little rubbing up and down her leg. It's torment, pure and simple.
'What if they play 'Stairway to Heaven,' and I can't get away from it?' she asked when I showed her the tickets.
I told her not to worry about it. I said I was sure that Robert and Jimmy were probably pretty embarassed by that song by now, and, unlike Don henley and Glenn Frey, who abandoned all of their Eagles pride by releasing 'The Boys of Summer' and 'Smuggler's Blues,' they'd rather drink gas than play it.
Anyway, we had other issues.
'Remember,' I told her, 'when we go to the show, dress like you once drove a Camaro.'
But when we got there, I wasn't at all prepared. Did you know that they still make ankle boots with fringe on them, and that tube tops are still alive and thrashing in certain parts of the city? I didn't. I thought for sure that elastic had some sort of expiration date, or a tag inside that was stamped with best if used by 1978. We were the only women in the whole damn arena waering bras.
'Somebody needs to tell these people that Stevie Nicks doesn't even wear gauze anymore unless she has an infected flesh wound,' Jamie said.
We decided to find our seats, which were not very good: directly offstage, but fourteen rows up and next to the stairs. We could see down into the backstage part, where all the equipment and roadies were.
That's when we saw an odd little foregin man in green shorts and argyle socks trying to squeeze his way backstage, and after a couple of ill-fated efforts, he finally suceeded.
He met up with a backstage guy who whispered to him, they both nodded, and they started making gestures with their hands as if they were measuring something, like a block of ice or a well-packed kilo of cocaine. The odd little man pulled something out of his back pocket and handed it to the backstage guy, and he took it.
We couldn't believe our good fortune. We were witnessing what was possibly a celebrity drug deal, and we couldn't take out eyes off it. We were hypnotized.
Until the little guy looked up and saw us.
'CAUGHT!'Jamie cried as she looked straight ahead. 'He saw us! He saw us! Don't look over!'
We stared ahead for five whole seconds before curiosity bored a hole in my self-restraint, and I HAD to look over. I got caught six more times, and the last time we were caught spying, the little guy was giving us the thumbs-up.
We, coridally, responded the greeting. Thumbs-up.
'I play bongos,' he yelled up to us,
'That's nice,' we yelled back.
'I play bongos for Led Zeppelin,' he insisted.
'sure you do,' I screamed back, 'And my dad's the singer. You can forget it, we're not going to have sex with you, you little man.'
Just then, the lights went down, the opening band took the stage, and the real fun began. Everyone in the arena was either piss drunk or crazy drunk, and due to our choice seats on the aisle next to the center stairs, we got to see a bunch of people fall down. As the night moved on, the harder they drank, the harder they fell. And some just plain stayed down.
Except for one man. He stumbled down the stairs, beer in hand and more, oh, so much more in his belly, and looked for a place to call his own.
'hey,' he slurred, tapping the man seated behind us, 'move over. Move over there. Lemme sit down. I wanna sit here.'
The man behind us stoutly refused, and the beggar continued down the isle until he tapped another man a couple of rows ahead of us. I saw the man stand up, turn around, cock his elbow, and pop the beggar square in the jaw with a crack so loud i heard it over the band. It was so hard that the beggar man caught air as he was lifted off the ground and flew three rows back, spraying himself and everybody else with what was left left in his beer, which I knew in my heart was pure backwash.
People clapped.
The beggar man didn't get the hint. He stood up, and, like the complete jackass he was, tried to shake hands with the man that had just busted his lip open. he probably thought that the punch was a manly way of kissing.
'Hey, clown,' the other man warned, 'You come near me and I'll clock you again!'
'WHY?' the beggar man whined. 'WHY? You're the one who spilled my beer! Is that fair, man? My BEER!'
He was about to get another kiss, this one puckered up to his nose, when security galloped down and took him away as he kicked and screamed and bucked.
That was when I noticed that Jimmy Page looked odd. He looked like my Pop Pop dressed up in my Nana's clothes, but his face was wide, as wide as my butt. I was staring at his face when I saw another face jumping up behind him, smiling widely and happily.
Thumbs-up!
'Jesus, Jamie!' I shouted. 'The drug dealer's onstage! The drug dealer is onstage, and he's got a bongo drum in his hand!'
'I know,' she answered with a laugh, 'but your dad's having a little trouble with the high notes.'
And there he was, our odd little man, dancing, playing, and waving at everyone, singing along. Our little guy. We were proud. We were really proud, especially when he had his little solo bongo-drum part, when the camera captured that smiling little face and projected him across three big screens above the stage. That was our guy!
He was having a great time, such a great time that after everybody left the stage, he remained, as if the thousands of people were clapping just for him.
Well, at least we were. We were clapping for him and for Page and for Plant, who had the very good sense not to make us climb the Stairway to Heaven.
The odd little man stayed, long after the rest of the stage had fallen dark, with the thunder of the crowd still roaring, looking out at them and smiling broadly, with his thumbs raised straight up toward the sky.
I doubt that Potato Boy, down in the good seats, had as much fun."
"When my best friend Jamie fnally broke up with her evil boyfriend who had the personality of a raw potato, I considered it a hallowed day. It was the kind of relationship in which she had to carefully hide all of her best qualities, the qualities which i most admired in her: her pack-a-day devotion to Benson & Hedges, the talent she posessed to effortlessly paint a verbal masterpiece of profanity that could rival the mouth of any dockworker, and the facet of her that we called 'Fun and Frolic Jamie,' the portion of personality that could be easily talked into anything after a twelve-pack. Like the night we found her drunk, topless, and unconcious in a neighbor's desert front yard, a photo of which may have contributed to the disintigration of the love between Jamie and Potato Boy.
I was thrilled when she broke it off, because this meant that I would be the sole beneficiary of half of the pair of Page and Plant concert tickets Potato Boy had guven Jamie for her birthday-in addition to a surprise weekend trip. At the beginning of that trip, their plane landed near a swamp. Jamie looked confused, though Potato Boy responded with an unmistakable glow and the smile of a retarded child in a toy store.
'Weire in Salt Lake City!' he said gleefully. 'We're spending the WHOLE DAY at the Mormon temple! Happy birthday!'
To an atheist like Jamie, it was a slight disappointment, especially since she had packed swimsuits and cabana wear instead of undergarments and shirts with collars. The trip then took a definite turn for complete horror when Potato Boy suggested that they really make it a special birthday and asked her to join him ni a lifetime of happiness, fullfillment, and devotion.
She smiled and held out her hand.
It was the next logical step, he said, and she nodded with tears in her eyes.
Then he asked her to convert. He continued by saying that his entire ward had been praying for her soul to save her from hellish damnation, since it was apparent that she was gliding straight into the arms of Satan. When I heard that, I had no choice. I slipped the topless photo in the mail and licked the stamp.
After she told me the split was final, I jumped in my car and headed over to her house, making a pit stop at the drive-thru liquor store. When I walked through the front door, however, I saw her immersed in a full pout as she sat on the couch.
'I have all the ingredients to make Fun and Frolic Jamie!' I said, waving a twelve-pack in front of her.
She didn't say anything.
'What's the matter?' I asked. 'I bought imported!'
'It's not that,' she said bitterly. 'He kept the tickets! HE KEPT THE TICKETS!'
'The Page and Plant tickets?' I asked in disbelief. 'Potato Boy kept the Page and Plant tickets? He doesn't even know who they are! He thinks they sang 'Jesus Is Just Alright.''
'I know, I know!' Jamie said. 'I just let him think they were a Christian band so he'd buy good seats. My dastardly plan has backfired!'
'Don't worry,' I said quickly. 'I know somebody who knows somebody who knows somebody who works for the concert promoter.'
'It's a drug dealer, isn't it?' she questioned.
'You think it's a bad idea?' I asked.
'If he can get us good seats, I don't give a shit. I'll even throw in a copy of the topless photo,' she said.
Two days later, I got a package from FedEx with two Page and Plant tickets in it.
I bestowed these upon Jamie, but there still was one more problem.
A long time ago, when we were in seventh grade, we went to our one and only dance ever. Jamie was haunted by a short boy who had, judging by his aroma, bathed in a boiling vat of Brut and smoked several cigars. He chased her all night, until he begged her so shamefully to dance when 'Stairway to Heaven' was played that she considered it charity and said okay. He held her tight.She held her breath. He nestled his greasy little cigar head on her shoulders. She spotted his dandruff. Then he popped a boner. It was a very long song. Even to this day, when that snog comes on the radio, she actually smells the stench of cigars and cheap aftershave, and feels something little rubbing up and down her leg. It's torment, pure and simple.
'What if they play 'Stairway to Heaven,' and I can't get away from it?' she asked when I showed her the tickets.
I told her not to worry about it. I said I was sure that Robert and Jimmy were probably pretty embarassed by that song by now, and, unlike Don henley and Glenn Frey, who abandoned all of their Eagles pride by releasing 'The Boys of Summer' and 'Smuggler's Blues,' they'd rather drink gas than play it.
Anyway, we had other issues.
'Remember,' I told her, 'when we go to the show, dress like you once drove a Camaro.'
But when we got there, I wasn't at all prepared. Did you know that they still make ankle boots with fringe on them, and that tube tops are still alive and thrashing in certain parts of the city? I didn't. I thought for sure that elastic had some sort of expiration date, or a tag inside that was stamped with best if used by 1978. We were the only women in the whole damn arena waering bras.
'Somebody needs to tell these people that Stevie Nicks doesn't even wear gauze anymore unless she has an infected flesh wound,' Jamie said.
We decided to find our seats, which were not very good: directly offstage, but fourteen rows up and next to the stairs. We could see down into the backstage part, where all the equipment and roadies were.
That's when we saw an odd little foregin man in green shorts and argyle socks trying to squeeze his way backstage, and after a couple of ill-fated efforts, he finally suceeded.
He met up with a backstage guy who whispered to him, they both nodded, and they started making gestures with their hands as if they were measuring something, like a block of ice or a well-packed kilo of cocaine. The odd little man pulled something out of his back pocket and handed it to the backstage guy, and he took it.
We couldn't believe our good fortune. We were witnessing what was possibly a celebrity drug deal, and we couldn't take out eyes off it. We were hypnotized.
Until the little guy looked up and saw us.
'CAUGHT!'Jamie cried as she looked straight ahead. 'He saw us! He saw us! Don't look over!'
We stared ahead for five whole seconds before curiosity bored a hole in my self-restraint, and I HAD to look over. I got caught six more times, and the last time we were caught spying, the little guy was giving us the thumbs-up.
We, coridally, responded the greeting. Thumbs-up.
'I play bongos,' he yelled up to us,
'That's nice,' we yelled back.
'I play bongos for Led Zeppelin,' he insisted.
'sure you do,' I screamed back, 'And my dad's the singer. You can forget it, we're not going to have sex with you, you little man.'
Just then, the lights went down, the opening band took the stage, and the real fun began. Everyone in the arena was either piss drunk or crazy drunk, and due to our choice seats on the aisle next to the center stairs, we got to see a bunch of people fall down. As the night moved on, the harder they drank, the harder they fell. And some just plain stayed down.
Except for one man. He stumbled down the stairs, beer in hand and more, oh, so much more in his belly, and looked for a place to call his own.
'hey,' he slurred, tapping the man seated behind us, 'move over. Move over there. Lemme sit down. I wanna sit here.'
The man behind us stoutly refused, and the beggar continued down the isle until he tapped another man a couple of rows ahead of us. I saw the man stand up, turn around, cock his elbow, and pop the beggar square in the jaw with a crack so loud i heard it over the band. It was so hard that the beggar man caught air as he was lifted off the ground and flew three rows back, spraying himself and everybody else with what was left left in his beer, which I knew in my heart was pure backwash.
People clapped.
The beggar man didn't get the hint. He stood up, and, like the complete jackass he was, tried to shake hands with the man that had just busted his lip open. he probably thought that the punch was a manly way of kissing.
'Hey, clown,' the other man warned, 'You come near me and I'll clock you again!'
'WHY?' the beggar man whined. 'WHY? You're the one who spilled my beer! Is that fair, man? My BEER!'
He was about to get another kiss, this one puckered up to his nose, when security galloped down and took him away as he kicked and screamed and bucked.
That was when I noticed that Jimmy Page looked odd. He looked like my Pop Pop dressed up in my Nana's clothes, but his face was wide, as wide as my butt. I was staring at his face when I saw another face jumping up behind him, smiling widely and happily.
Thumbs-up!
'Jesus, Jamie!' I shouted. 'The drug dealer's onstage! The drug dealer is onstage, and he's got a bongo drum in his hand!'
'I know,' she answered with a laugh, 'but your dad's having a little trouble with the high notes.'
And there he was, our odd little man, dancing, playing, and waving at everyone, singing along. Our little guy. We were proud. We were really proud, especially when he had his little solo bongo-drum part, when the camera captured that smiling little face and projected him across three big screens above the stage. That was our guy!
He was having a great time, such a great time that after everybody left the stage, he remained, as if the thousands of people were clapping just for him.
Well, at least we were. We were clapping for him and for Page and for Plant, who had the very good sense not to make us climb the Stairway to Heaven.
The odd little man stayed, long after the rest of the stage had fallen dark, with the thunder of the crowd still roaring, looking out at them and smiling broadly, with his thumbs raised straight up toward the sky.
I doubt that Potato Boy, down in the good seats, had as much fun."