Friday, June 12, 2009

Trapped

Last night Amy and I attended her company’s summer event, Elvis Costello at Wolftrap. I quickly realized two things, Wolftrap has become my second favorite concert venue behind Red Rocks and Elvis Costello was one of the worst shows I’ve seen there.

Because I’m a glass full kind of guy let’s start with Wolftrap. As you walk into the venue from the parking lot you pass a series of tents. One is a restaurant, one is for VIP’s and the others are for private events. Because I am VRP (Very Regular Person) and not a VIP we hit the restaurant tent where her company supplied copious amounts of wine in addition to a ridiculously delicious buffet. I had the pork tenderloin and this mac-n-cheese that I would have made sweet love to all night had Amy’s CEO not been there. Don’t even get me started on the dessert tray, I’m getting half a stalk just thinking about it.

The food and drink is all well and good, but here is why Wolftrap is Matchbox Twenty money. They treat you like a fucking adult! You can bring in any kind of alcohol and you can bring in any kind of food. They have picnic tables all over the place and the venue is set against a backdrop of huge ass trees that would make Bob Ross premature ejaculate. You know, if he were still alive and got over his erectile dysfunction. Ok, I made that E.D. part up, but he just looks like a poster child for Viagara. Sometimes you gotta pop a little blue pill before you can successfully touch little boys. Oh snap! Wow, I’m really pissing all over Bob’s grave today. Sorry Bob!

Now that we’ve established the greatness of the Trap, let’s turn our attention to why Elvis Costello sucked dingle-berry covered donkey balls. First off, I like approximately six EC songs and of those tunes maybe 3 are essentials (Veronica, The Angels Wanna Wear My Red Shoes and Peace, Love & Understanding). So he takes the stage and like most aging performers he has a group of about eight other guys with him, and they launch into a series of tunes that would give Bill Monroe a hard on. I seem to be obsessed with dead guys and their junk today. David Carradine must be in my subconscious. Hey, if a guy likes to wear women’s clothes and hang from a noose in a hotel closet while rubbing one out, who am I to judge.

As Costello is plucking away on his third ditty, I fire up the iPhone and look up his setlist from the night before. Well spank my ass and call me Charlie this fucker is going to play 32 songs and we don’t get to a song I know until the encore. Look, I like a little bluegrass as much as the next guy, but if I want to bluegrass out with my huge ass out I’ll go see Sam Bush or David Grisman. Amy is a much bigger fan of EC than I, but luckily she was getting bitter at his back woods versions of the songs she likes too, so we quickly said our good-byes and made a bee line for the exit after an hour or so.

Now if you’ll excuse me I need to throw on the Pens Jersey, goalie equipment and prep the noose in my garage for a little ‘Carradine' tribute before the game 7.

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