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I wasn't pregnant when the concert tickets went on sale, so it seemed perfectly logical to buy tickets for the St. Louis and Kansas City shows. Kristina bought a plane ticket to St. Louis, and the plan was to drive to Kansas City for the Saturday night show, spend some time playing in KC, then amble back to St. Louis for Monday's show. The tickets were general admission at small venues, and we had every intention of getting in line early so we could nab a spot right against the stage because, well, Jack White doesn't wear underwear.

The plan didn't include wearing a pair of very sweaty anti-nausea wristbands and worrying about destroying my child's eardrums by standing next to the biggest speaker stack in the house, even though she didn't even have a real head yet, much less ears. But that's how things happen, right?

We abbreviated our Kansas City trip, since my pregnancy-induced need to sleep 18 hours a day and eat during the remaining six made it difficult to drive across the state in a safe and efficient manner. Instead, we drove to my parents' house the day before the show, where I was able to get my required sleep. Then we rushed to KC and had just enough time to peek inside the American Jazz Museum and snarf down some barbeque while I repeatedly screamed, "Fetus needs BEEF!!!!" before hustling to the show.

Which was incredible. Seriously. One of my best concert experiences ever. Not that I remember much of it, aside from "Miniature magical horses! Miniature magical horses!", trying to not vomit my burnt ends, and fretting over my child's unformed ears.

We ambled back to my parents' house that night, where I slept for another 18 hours, then eventually made our way back to St. Louis.

The show here wasn't quite as great. For one thing, there were no burnt ends and the fetus was ANGRY!!! at the lack of BEEF!!! There were also some major tech problems during the show. Jack was agitated, but not nearly as much as the crowd. Once again we were in the pit, next to the stage, surrounded by throngs of 14-year-old boys who were just beginning to realize that maybe they, too, should be ANGRY!!! at the lack of BEEF!!! or something. Or maybe it was the puppet show that set them on edge, I don't know. Regardless, we were pushed and crushed in the throng. At the beginning of "The Hardest Button to Button", the young chap behind me decided to place his hands on my shoulders so he could propel himself off the floor in rhythm to the guitar's pulsations.

When Kristina and I decided we'd had enough of the insanity, my hormone-addled mind saw absolutely nothing wrong with looking that youngster in the eye before slamming the open palm of my hand into the center of his face. Luckily, he was too stunned from being smacked by a thirtysomething pregnant woman to use his adolescent rage against me and I made a clean escape.

The other weirdness with the show ... I had made the mistake a few months earlier of setting up Kristina with one of B.'s good friends, Spanker. You know how you can be friends with someone, and he can be a great person, but then you find out how he is in a romantic relationship and you're shocked to find out that he's really kind of an ass? Well, that pretty much sums it up. Without going into too much detail, there had been a great deal of drama concerning this coupling.

Let me just put it this way: forget spaying and neutering your pets. Sometimes you should spay and neuter your friends.

Spanker was looking to make a booty call, but he had to go through me. He was going to be at the concert, and B. warned him, "Dude, just leave Robin alone. Don't call her phone to talk to Kristina. Seriously. The pregnancy hormones are bad. She's been peeling shards of lead paint off the walls with her bare fingers and muttering about shoving the peelings into several of your favorite sphincters. Don't call her."

So what did he do? He started calling me between set, when I was at the apex of my "Miniature magical horses! Miniature magical horses!" progesterone-fueled rage. I could see him in the balcony, waving down to me as he called. Twice. I didn't answer either time and turned my phone off. I am not Kristina's pimp. Don't call me.

Long story short, things eventually came to an end with Kristina and Spanker. I urged B. to not let my anger influence him, for I was pregnant and my emotions were powered solely by the fact that there was never, ever enough sleep or beef to satisfy the fetus. He needed to maintain his friendship with Spanker. They had been friends long before us girls came in and messed things up.

That didn't happen. I think the differences in their lifestyles - Spanker was out macking on hot babes at the trendiest of clubs every night, while B. was at home, flinging hunks of raw beef my way and washing the barnicles off the underside of my massively pregnant gut - was the nail in the coffin. That, and Spanker was afraid of me.

On Tuesday, the day before the most recent White Stripes show, I guess I had Spanker on the brain, thinking back to my last White Stripes adventure. B., Clara Jane and I were having dinner at a Thai restaurant down the street from the venue where that show took place, and I asked B. if he'd heard from Spanker recently. The last he had heard was last fall when we both recieved a mass email announcing that Spanker had bought a house with his girlfriend

Wednesday afternoon, B. and I were having our usual midday phone conversation. "You will never guess who I heard from today."

Um, Spanker? Because, you know, I have that power, summoning the unwanted simply by mentioning their names aloud.

Actually, I wouldn't say "unwanted", because I always felt bad that B. and Spanker's friendship had faltered and I've always felt a little responsible for it. Had I not played pimp cupid ... had I not been such a bitch to him (even though he deserved it for the way he treated Kristina) ...

B. got an email from Spanker Wednesday morning, announcing his pending nuptuals. He's getting married in late April and wants B. in the wedding party. Instead of going out every night, he's spending his evenings at home, caring for his 5-year-old future stepson while his fiance' works.

When B. and Spanker used to get together, it usually involved a lot of alcohol. Now they're talking about visiting at home some evening while the children play. And where will I be? Probably at some show, crowing about the underwear-free rock star and punching young hoodlums in the face.

Oh, yeah ... Wednesday's show. Awesome. Not a puppet to be found. We had incredible seats - front row, center in the mezzanine. Kara gave a much more detailed account, along with a link to the local newspaper review. McDao also has a review, and Summer's review includes a couple of sweet, arty b&W cameraphone shots for her penis-viewing perch near the stage. Holley, however, didn't have a damn thing to say about the show, even though she was there and kept touching me the entire time.