dave chappelle is a goddamn miracle. BUT FIRST, NASHVILLE. in the interest of having something heartfelt and engrossing to put in this goddamn book i'm tirelessly working on, i can't divulge all of the details of my trip in this dumb blog. listen, i'm an asshole on a deadline. if i could dream up other poignant, interesting shit to put in this book before my manuscript is due june 15th i'd tell you in explicit detail how i 1 mistakenly called some gnarly old perv's house in a fruitless attempt to locate my oldest brother 2 hung out with and got tattooed by a couple adorable slick-haired rockabilly dudes in west nashville who told us the best places to get drunk and eat chicken and 3 how, after sneaking onto a snooty golf course on easter sunday and waiting for the motherfucking wind to die down while anxiously checking over my shoulder to make sure the police weren't coming to arrest my trespassing ass, i picked what i thought was the perfect moment to tip the canister containing my father's ashes into the gently lapping waves of the river when a hateful breeze whipped around a corner and rewarded my efforts with a mouthful of my dead father's old incinerated skull and butthole. HALLELUJAH CHRIST IS RISEN.
i am no longer doing any more things. i am officially too old for concerts, shows, festivals, and special events. if you said to me, "hey sam, would you like to go see dave chappelle do stand up?" my answer would be "HELL YES, MY DUDE. ASK IF THEY HAVE DISCOUNTED HANDICAPPED SEATS." but if you were to instead say, "hey sam, would you like to put on a real shirt and actual pants to be herded like cattle in a single file line into a steamy theater with a malfunctioning bathroom where a gentleman wearing a bluetooth in all earnestness will shout threats about confiscating your phone if you so much as check the weather on it as he forces you to throw your leftover meatloaf sandwich into the trash, only to then be shown to an expensive-ass section of bare wooden church pew on which you must suffer the indignity of the call-and-response dj playing 50 cent asking 'where my 90s babies at?' (FUCKKKK I WAS A BONAFIDE ADULT WHEN IN DA CLUB CAME OUT MURDER ME PLS) while people who intentionally selected seats in the center of the row sprinkle half of their $9 budweisers in your lap as they squeeze past a dozen times coming to and from the bar to see ashy larry do his best impersonation of magic johnson's son while waiting for your comedy hero to grace the stage?" i'ma say "NO THANKS" and quietly delete your number out of my fucking phone. then i'ma use some scissors to cut the elastic waist on my inside pants and watch "killin' them softly" on the stolen hbo go on my ipad.
and oh, i hear you. stay the fuck home you bitter old herb. and you're right, i should. I WILL. i'm smart enough to know that the list of shit i hate is getting longer while the probability of any of those things being fixed is dwindling to nothing. is it too much to ask the people who are going to be up and down all goddamn night, awkwardly shimmying past bitches in their church clothes to choose seats at the end of the motherfucking row? i bore easily and have to shit all the time, so i always buy a goddamn aisle seat because i don't like it when people hate me. YOU KNOW IF YOU ARE A BEER DURING A SHOW GUY. i'm not, because even though i'm not cheap stadium prices are fucking staggering. and now i'm old and crabby enough to notice that the buzz from expensive-ass, lukewarm beers (or worse, expensive-ass, flat mixed drinks) < the blissed-out euphoria of an expensive cab ride home so you don't have to deal with rude drunks that you can actually afford since you didn't waste any money on expensive-ass, watered-down drinks. also i don't want to miss anything, and listening to the show over shitty speakers while shifting awkwardly from foot to foot in the pee line is the absolute worst.
i can faintly remember a time when everything wasn't so goddamn irritating. i was young once. i didn't always require 27 advil with a vicodin chaser to get through social events. one time in 2001 i went to a de la soul show that started at 11pm! I USED TO BE COOL. it used to not make me want to dig my eyeballs out of their sockets to be pressed butts to nuts with other drunk, sweaty concertgoers. nowadays if there isn't a waitress and a comfortable chair i'm not fucking going. mya and i saw bilal a few months ago and there was grown up stuff like table service and unnecessarily complicated flatbreads and a wine list and my swollen left ankle and i were like YES GAWD. we chased handfuls of aleve with expensive pinot grigio before blocking the exit row with our bulky walkers. living the fucking dream, man. you couldn't pay me to go to pitchfork. stand around glistening in the unobstructed heat watching bands i'm too old to have heard of? nope. i can't go to things that aren't temperature-controlled and accompanied by a sturdy chair anymore. remember when you reached that age in childhood when your mom was content to watch you on the swings from a shady bench on which she sat filing her nails while you "used your imagination" instead of wrinkling her high-waisted jc penney jeans chasing you up the slide and shit? THAT'S WHERE I'M AT, BRUH.
i want dave chappelle's rider next time i do a goddamn show. how fucking famous do you have to be to ensure that no one in the building has even the slimmest chance of taking a blurry iphone shot of your spotlighted cellulite and jowls!? that dude is not playing. some monster tweeted me a horrendous photograph of myself doing a reading in your grandmother's cardigan that she obviously snatched off google and i spent the entire afternoon rethinking every single one of my life choices. WHY DO YOU HATE ME, LISTENING AUDIENCE. jesus, it was one of those pictures that reminds you of every single calorie you ate the year you decided ice cream > therapy. fuckkkkkkk. anyway, if dave comes to your town you need to drag your old ass out to see him. i haven't laughed so hard since the first time i saw black bush (mars! red rocks!) or maybe at that one bit about how white people will never tell you who they're voting for. but keep your blood pressure meds handy, you old fuck. because despite the many posted signs, PA announcements, and warnings from various ushers and security-type personnel, some asshole is going to think that HE is the special snowflake who can check in on facebook so all his friends know how cool he is and then a security guard is going to roughly escort that crying young man out of the auditorium and eject him from the premises. and yes, grandma, you will laugh smugly to yourself for being such a law-abiding goody goody whose phone sits silently in airplane mode inside the purse at her feet, but yours will be a hollow victory as you watch 19 year old after 19 year old attempt to send one last snapchat as off-duty cops chug painfully up and down the stairs plucking them out of the crowd and tossing them into the street. without a refund.
at first the shit was hilarious. but after the fourth or fifth one i just started benjamin buttoning the fuck out: my skin melting like a candle as stiff porcupine needles sprouted from my craggy old chin. i started daydreaming about slipping out of my shoes and unhooking my bra, scrubbing my makeup off and liberally applying unscented aspercreme to every joint on my body before crawling into those creamy fresh hotel sheets in my scratched-up night glasses and my CPAP mask to read a few chapters of that nonfiction bestseller that NPR suggested people read so they can sound smart at parties before the opening comic had even come on stage. i longingly wondered what i was missing on the good wife. by the time dave ambled out i remembered that i'd left a box of fresh donuts in our room and i nudged k in the ribs and was like, "if we leave before he finishes are you cool? i'll pay for the uber." she tapped her arthritic rain-sensing knee and nodded, stifling a yawn. old ass bitches.
we were back at the hotel by 1045 from a show that started at 10 and i regret nothing. not glaring at the dude juggling six real beers who broke my second toe as he stepped on it trying to get back to his seat (I AM NOT AN ASSHOLE, I FUCKING STOOD UP); not laughing on the inside as a girl had her fancy phone snatched by security like a kid with some forbidden candy; not even missing the last ten minutes of dave's set so that we could get the bathroom and elevator to ourselves and get first dibs on a cab. i am thirty-five and i now officially know my fucking limit. my feet need to be elevated by the time the evening news comes on, and i am not ashamed. i'm taking myself out of the game before it gets embarrassing. you kids enjoy your standing room only shows and your late night comedy. you know he's going to put out a dvd of the shit anyway; it'll be like we never left. and besides, like i said, we fucking had donuts.