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"Um, were you planning on telling me that you were sitting up here?" she asked when she finally got to the table. Which was in the area where we always sit at The Pageant.

"No Kara. I was going to run and hide when I saw you come out of the bathroom."

"I wasn't in the bathroom. I was sitting down there," she said, pointing to the level below us. I'm pretty sure she uttered the word "dumbass" at the end of that sentence, but I can't be sure.

Chalk my inattention up to my pursuit of this weekend's goals. You see, my parents and grandparents are in town, because my mom didn't bother to ask if I might have plans before making their plans. Regardless, they insist on staying at a hotel for two nights with my child, and then taking her home with them until Wednesday. Considering the difficulties of the past month, I think a little break is a fine idea. It will give me an opportunity to pursue two goals that are difficult with a 19-month in tow. Those goals are:

1. Pursuing my freelance writing opportunities Sleeping

-and-

2. Partaking in autumnal housekeeping Drinking bourbon.

I began working on #2 upon arriving at the Pageant, long before I left Kara sitting by herself. Blame the bourbon.

I partially blame the bourbon for the intense, stomach-mangling rage I felt towards the first opening band, Cut Copy. Be warned: their website is just as annoying as the band.

These words should never, ever be spoken from a concert stage:

"This song is about dreams. And dancing."

Yeah, well, that's the kind of dancing I see in my nightmares and it makes me wanna cut you, you motherfucker.

God, they sucked.

Shortly after Cut Copy was finished inflicting their dancing dreaming torture on us, we were approached by a guy who'd been sitting a few tables away. I'd noticed him earlier and thought he looked familiar, but couldn't pinpoint why (bourbon).

"Excuse me," he asked a little nervously. "Are you StL Bloggers?"

I didn't hear the initial question because I was running my mouth (bourbon). But I eventually shut up and looked at the guy. "Hey! It's Hot Out Herre!" Not that I could have called him by his first name, which he'd just used to introduce himself (Mike) or even his online moniker (DJ Early Bird) because I'm a dork (I'd like to blame the bourbon, but we all know I'd be just as inept had the bourbon not been present.).

In case you're looking for some actual music content in this recap, you might as well leave and go read Mike's preview of show that appeared in the St. Louis and KC alternative weeklies this week.

I was excited, though, because his blog was the first local blog I started reading shortly before I started my own last year. He and his wife Callie have a little girl who's a few months younger than Clara "Maker's Mark" Jane. We only talked for a few minutes, since he was saving a seat for Callie, who's six months pregnant (brave). Kara and I pondered how he knew who we were. I figured it was because I had been loudly telling H. a few of my tales that I have posted on my blog (bourbon).

After the second opening act, Kara and I paid a visit to Mike and Callie, which included us asking how he recognized us. Because of our Flickr photos. Duh. To my defense, I didn't realize Mike ever read my blog. And to his credit, he recognized me while I was wearing a rather modest t-shirt, considering that the only photo I've put of myself on Flickr was 2/3 cleavage and 1/3 forehead.

Speaking of cleavage, it takes exactly five gin and tonics for someone at our table to disclose that she once frolicked topless at a topless beach with her male companion and two friends, who she really hasn't been friends with since that day.

"That's because, by exposing The Girls™, you achieved a level of intimacy that usually requires years and years of friendship to build," I explained (bourbon). "There was nowhere left to go after that."

Can you imagine what that friendship-ending letter would look like?

Dear Jane,

You have been a wonderful friend. We've had some good times. However, you have seen my tits in a situation in which I was not bleeding and in need of a tourniquette. I'm afraid this is the end of the road for us.

Good luck with your future friendship endeavors. Please keep your shirt on,
Me and The Girls™

Somewhere in the midst of this gin and bourbon disclosure, Pretty Girls Make Graves did their set. I'm not sure why this was necessary. It really wasn't. I mean, if I wanted to hear excessive whining, I would have stayed home with my daughter. Really. PGMG's lead singer, Andrea Zollo, has a fairly deep speaking voice. Last year I downloaded one of their albums. While I only listened to it once or twice, I remembered her vocals to be rather alto-y. But last night - holy crap. She must have needed a nap or a sippy cup because she whined every single word that she sang. A high-pitched, not-getting-her-way whine.

And it made me angry. Very, very angry (bourbon).

Despite the opening act suckassedness, Franz Ferdinand was great. I wasn't expecting much, since they've got a fairly small library, and they're so light and fluffy. But you know, I was in need of some light and fluffy fun, and they provided. Just a damn fun band to watch, and they sounded great. They didn't whine at all. Not once.

Interpretive Dance Girl™ was there, of course, but she wasn't sitting in our section. She was all the way up in the balcony. We watched as she encountered some guy who apparently fell under the spell of her jerky, arms-akimbo interpretive dance siren song, and she was rapidly transformed from Interpretive Dance Girl™ to Spontaneous Makeout Girl™.

There was also a woman a few rows in front of us who kept pointing skyward. I don't know what was up with all the pointing. Cut Copy kept pointing, which pissed me off (bourbon). That whiny bitch from Pretty Girls Make Graves kept pointing which really pissed me off (bourbon). Even the Franz Ferdinand guys patook in a bit of pointing. And of course, at our table, we all pointed at each other. Because we're rude. And 3/4 of us were drinking. But this woman in front of us was pointing skyward in a manner reminescent of a tent revival.

"She's pointing to God," Holley said.

"Yeah, well, she's so into it that I'm a little afraid she's gonna pull some snakes. 'Praise Jesus! I call the big one Franz!'". (bourbon)

But the real interpretive dancing occured in the row in front of us and was committed by a gaggle of ... men.

Now, I don't want to engage in unfair stereotypes and prejudice, but I wouldn't have been one bit surprised to see Greek letters seared into the skin on their asses from their days of being paddled as pledges. And I'll leave it at that.

I also won't pretend that I understand men. I don't. I don't even understand the one I married, and I spend a good portion of my time asking him to repeat himself in a manner that my mind can grasp. I don't understand women for that matter, either, but that's beside the point.

What I really don't understand is the concert behavior of guys of this nature. They're as ever-present at shows as Interpretive Dance Girl™. In fact, they're often accompanied by Interpretive Dance Girl™. Last night's group consisted of six guys in polo shirts with the collars turned up, and two drunk blonde girls, sucking on cigarettes but never inhaling (Bud Light).

The boys, they do get excited. Oh, the air-drumming! The air-guitaring! The air-accordianing! And the high-fiving that they did after a particularly blistering air-bass lick!

And they danced! Lord, how they danced - manic and sloppy, with moves borrowed from a hockey brawl (vodka and Red Bull).

"See that one?" Holley said, pointing to the particularly enthusiastic guy in a striped polo who was so overcome with joy that he was starting to look for someone to head-butt. "I'll bet his favorite song is 'Michael',"

And sure enough, when that anthem of boy-on-boy dancing on the dancefloors like beautiful dance whores opened the encore, the dudes in front of us were on their feet, fists pumping the air. But a few of them did feel the need to go fondle their blonde girls during the song. You know. Because they're not queer or nothing.

I came home and partook in a bit of post-midnight-hour emailing that probably shouldn't have occured (bourbon), then settled in for a restful night's sleep (bourbon). Today, it was lunch with the family. This evening will involved playing dominoes and eating fried chicken with my parents and tee-totalling grandparents. Shirts will be kept on and bourbon will not be involved.