2002-08-12

Dude.

Ten years ago, when I was fresh out of college and full of shit, I had very grandiose and very set ideas of what constituted fun. "Fun," to my way of thinking, involved a lot of drugs and a lot of like-minded people: self-congratulatory aesthetes who piled on as much ennui as they did black eyeliner, people who used terms like mise en scene in everyday conversation without a trace of irony, people who sneered at anything even barely resembling "legitimate theatre." I'd dutifully drink red wine out of antique shaving mugs, make frequent mention of the paper I'd once written on "symbolism in non-representational art," and think myself quite the clever little spore, indeed.

I could never let on to these people that when I was by myself, in my room, I'd watch "West Side Story" and cry and cry and cry. That I still found fart jokes incredibly funny. And that I listened to Hall & Oates.

Fast forward to 2002. A master's degree, a marriage, and countless therapy appointments later, I can now use "schadenfreude" and "Anna Nicole Smith" in the same sentence. Fart jokes are never not funny. And I am becoming quite open about the whole Hall & Oates thing.

Case in point: this weekend my sister Tina and I, accompanied by the ever-patient houseboy, went to see Hall & Oates at the First Annual Hot Air Balloon Festival, held at the old South Weymouth Naval Air Station.

Some things you need to know about me and Tina. 1) We are both highly educated, youngish, "professional" women who preface every statement, query and expletive to one another with the word "dude," or a variation thereof (i.e. - "Duu'hu-huuuuuuude!" "Doooood!" "Ohmigod, DUDE!") More to the point, it is a verbal condiment, the salsa of our communications with one another, sometimes used sparingly, sometimes used after every other qualifier. 2) We are both obsessed with Hall & Oates. Indeed, Hall & Oates are as much a part of our genetic makeup as are our almond-shaped eyes, rotated incisors and freakishly large foreheads.

Needless to say, the idea of seeing Hall & Oates in so intimate a setting was a source of great excitement.

I won't go into all the hideous details of organizing the trip, the hellacious 2-hour traffic jam we endured just to get to the exit ramp, and of trying to find our father, who so generously snagged a pair of very good tickets for us by virtue of having to work said event. All you need to know is that Tina was practically incontinent with excitement as she grabbed my hand and dragged me through the departing crowds, yelling, "You people are leaving before Hall & Oates go on?! What are you......MAD?!"

And Hall & Oates were, well.....what can I possibly say? They were awesome. Several months ago, Paula and I were quite worried about Daryl Hall, having seen him on VH-1. His overall appearance was just....worrisome.

My God, chickens. I know the guy is in his fifties now, but.....God. He just could not be any sexier. Tina pummeled my arm in rapture. "Dude. Listen to him. I cannot believe how amazing he sounds, dude."

"Dude, I know, right?"

"Dude! He's like, 55 or something! �Cause he was born in 1946, so....no. He's 56, dude!"

"Dude. I would do him. I would totally do him."

"Oh, my God, dude. You said that so loud."

"Holy shit. I know, dude."

"I can't believe I didn't bring my camera, dude. Dude, that was totally fucking stupid."

lisamcc at 10:09 a.m.

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