Today was a day planned full of excitement. A Clay Aiken book signing followed by his Christmas concert. All within the span of 12 hours. Ain’t it wonderful to be alive.

Chicago is a town blessed with the advantage of cold. It must have been 10 degrees below outside. Lining up before the sun in the bitter cold with a sea of Claymates is not my idea of fun, but if it’s what it takes to meet the Clayton, then it’s what I shall do.

As I was tucked warmly in my sleeping bag, a pair of silver hooker boots with red trim stepped on my face. The owner apologized profusely. She turned out to be the girl in Vegas who got arrested in the strip club back in September. Her name was Jenn and she was there with the other girl that was at the strip club. Her name was Brittney. I wouldn’t have recognized either one of them if it hadn’t been for Jenn’s boots.

We talked for hours about Britt’s obsession with Ryan Seacrest and why Jenn had been dragged out of the strip club by security that night. I wasn’t really listening, but it had something to do with a flat iron and a wad of chewing gum.

Eventually the lined moved inside the building and we spent a few more hours waiting in there. As Britt was taking notes about my story of the night in Ryan’s Porsche, some girl loudly proclaimed that she was going to marry Clay. Didn’t she know who I was? Didn’t she know I was Clay’s future wife? I thought of the movie ‘Fame’. Ryan had dragged me to his house last night and made me watch it 3 times. At least he didn’t try to make out with me. But he did cop a feel when he helped me on with my coat.

I jumped to my feet, and using my hand as a microphone, began belting out the title track from ‘Fame’.

“Don’t you know who I am? Remember my name!”

I threw in the choreography that Ryan had forced me to learn last night. Apparently, he had done the same to Jenn and Britt, as they joined me and knew every step.

We made our way to the end of the line, stepping over sleeping bodies, singing our hearts out. Jenn jumped in front and took the lead. “I’m gonna live forever. I’m gonna learn how to fly.”

We ran out into the hall and danced around on the staircase. We pranced, bounced, and hollered. We were a fantastic trio, harmonizing as only three tone deaf girls can.

“Remember. Remember. Remember.”

We went into a third round, then a fourth, then a 27th, until we were hoarse. We held hands; we did the mambo, the mashed potato, the waltz. We whirled and twirled and giggled like school girls. Until we heard the click of a light switch and the hallway went dark.

“What’s happening?” Britt shouted.

“It’s 7PM! The building’s closed!” A voice bellowed through the darkness.

I cursed loudly. Because of our tomfoolery, we had missed meeting The Aiken. I kicked myself in the butt. Then I kicked each of them in the butt. Then I stole Jenn’s hooker boots when she was busy wiping her tears on Britt’s sleeve.

We went outside and said our goodbyes. We planned on meeting up at the concert in the washroom during ‘Silver Bells’ wearing pink bikinis. But then Jenn said she didn’t want to show her midriff to anyone other than her husband on their wedding night. So we settled on pink togas.

The day the tickets for tonight’s show went on sale, I had to attend an anger management seminar. It was called “I’m angry. Now what?” and was hosted by Richard Simmons and the guy who played Cody on Step By Step. The seminar was court appointed after an incident at The Foot Shoppe involving and old lady and a pair of red shoes.

I took out a credit card in the name of Bigguns Winnaford and gave it to Pat. “10am they go on sale.” I told him.

“Okay.”

“10am!!”

“I will buy your tickets!” He had yelled.

“Don’t screw it up!” I had yelled back.

As bad as the seats are, he still managed to order the tickets, and have them sent to the correct address 2 weeks later. I wrapped them up in cotton balls and stuck them in a glass case. I stuck the case inside a fire proof safe.

The second ticket was for Jason, but we had a falling out the other day and I had to go to the show alone. I won’t get into details, but let’s just say we’re no longer allowed in Home Depot.

After parting ways with Jenn and Britt, I stopped at a pancake house to grab a waffle, and then I hit the streets. I didn’t see dozens of yellow cabs like in the movies. It was for the best though. Other than lifting my shirt and flashing what puberty tried to give me, I didn’t know how to hail a cab. So instead I half ran, half walked.

The sparse crowd that was gathered outside the theater was not as menacing as they normally are. A few people even smiled at me. When the doors opened, I followed the crowd of older women inside. To my dismay, there was no souvenir stand selling overpriced t-shirts and red novelty thongs.

I headed straight for the washroom to hide my toga behind one of the toilets. Then I went into the seating area. An usher directed me towards my seat, which was in the second to last row in the rear balcony. It gave me a perfect view of the air in front of me. And nothing else.

The theater was relatively empty for what I thought was a sold out show. In fact, I was the only person sitting in the balcony.

The concert started promptly at 8. Clay walked onto the stage and addressed the audience. I was the only one who screamed. Then he put a saxophone to his lips and began to play. “Clay plays saxophone?” I said out loud.

I moved a few rows up to get a better look. It was still hard to see, but it looked like Clay had grown his hair to his shoulders and permed it. It was disturbing. Plus, I didn’t recognize any of the songs he played on his sax.

He never sang ‘Silver Bells’. He never sang anything. I went to the bathroom after every other song to wait for Jenn and Britt, but neither of them showed up. I was getting tired of changing in and out of my toga every time I went to the bathroom, so finally I just left it on.

When the show was over, I hurried outside. The day had been a disappointment and all I wanted to do was go home and sleep.

Of course, as soon as I stepped outside, Ryan Seacrest was there to greet me. He asked me why I was at there.

“Duh. Clay Aiken.”

“Duh. Kenny G.”

He pointed to a giant poster of Kenny G. That explained everything. The long curly hair. The saxophone. Him being introduced as Kenny G. Home | Entries | Previous | Next