9-3-01, Side Streets, Kimra Traynor Herb, 946 words
People watching is best
By Kimra Traynor Herb
IPS Features
Watching the
people is the best part." This is what my father used to say about going to
amusement parks. As a child, I thought he was crazy, man, who didn't think the
best part about any amusement park was the rides?
Swirling and
dipping and zig-zagging around 'til you felt like you were about to throw up-
now THAT was what fun was all about! People? Were there other people there? I
only noticed if they held up the line too much and never could understand my
dad's fascination with people watching.
Of course I was
young then. Things change a lot when you get older. People tell you that
throughout your life, and it is like, "yeah, sure, one day I'll enjoy
WATCHING the people more than I'll enjoy riding the rides.....uh-huh." No
one can tell you ANYTHING when you are young; because you have invented
life; you are the first to REALLY experience it.
I knew I was
heading in my dad's direction a few years ago, after the birth of my third son
when I discovered that even swinging on the swing set put me into such a state
of vertigo that I had to lie very still and focus on the horizon for several
minutes after just a minor swing. And rides? Forget about it! EVERYTHING, and I
do mean EVERYTHING, even the mildest of rides somehow put me into such a state
of nausea that death would have been a relief. Whew. So I started people
watching. Just like Dad.
Last night my
husband and I went to a Matchbox 20 concert at our local arena. For those of you
who know Matchbox 20, you know that they are a hip and happening bunch of cool
skinny dudes with a heap of talent. For those of you who don't, see above. I was
really excited about the concert because it was the first time in 14 years we
had managed to break free of the mom and pop routine and get out to see a
concert.
The previous
concert had been in 1987 when I was pregnant with my first son- a Cindi Lauper
concert. I spent that whole concert alternating between worry that my unborn
child would suffer irreparable damage due to all the cigarette smoke floating
around in the arena (we saw the concert in Savannah, Georgia) and horror that my
formerly trim stomach was bulging so much under the very unappealing outfit I
had thrown together over my burgeoning body.
This time was
different. I was pretty secure in my bod and outfit (or resigned might be a more
apt word), and though I don't enjoy second hand smoke, the concert was at least
outside which brought the hope of some fresh air. I was, in my own words,
"Looking forward to rocking out to the dulcet tones of Rob Thomas."
Five minutes
into the concert, which was supreme, I was more fascinated with "Dancing
Beer Man" as I dubbed him, than I was with the aforementioned rock star. My
hubby thought the guy in front of us, a great burly bear of a man, probably
about 6'5" and 300 pounds, with a perpetual beer in his hand and a great
love of motion, was annoying.
"He keeps
blocking our view!" He complained.
(In my husband's
defense, he had shelled out some dough to get us front and center seats about 10
rows back so he really wanted to keep the band close in sight.) I, on the other
hand, was LOVING Dancing Beer Man. He somehow managed to boogy from the area in
front of his seat to far reaching spots, gliding, dipping, shaking his head,
rattling that giant beefy rump, without ever splashing a drop of beer. The dude
was graceful!
He wasn't one of
those "low dancers" either...... who just barely move, tapping maybe a
toe and one finger...... he was all over the place. His hips were swiveling, his
arms were flying (even the one with the beer which added to my amazement) and
his thick head of black hair was swishing around to the beat.
I was bummed
when Dancing Beer Man disappeared. "Where did Dancing Beer Man go?" I
screamed, over the ear-splitting music to my husband.
"What?"
He asked, motioning that I move closer to his head so he could hear me. (He had
brought ear plugs from work which he had stowed in his pocket, in case, he told
me, we turned out to be too big of geezers to enjoy the enhanced audible level-
we never used them).
"WHERE'S
DANCING BEER MAN?!" I yelled into his ear.
"Oh, that
guy." My husband said dismissively. "I don't know, maybe he had to go
to the bathroom after drinking all that beer."
I doubted it. I
had been watching the great big bear of a man all night and it seemed to me that
with the ratio of his body to the beer, he was probably holding his own just
fine. I went back to watching the concert, when the REAL entertainment returned.
Why, of course, he had to get some more beer! He had another full glass in his
hand, and was already dancing his way down the aisle, dipping and spinning as he
returned, once again, without spilling a drop.
It was a great
concert. Dancing Beer Man was amazing; shaking, shimmying, boogying his
Sasquatch-esqe body around in the limited space with the grace of a
ballerina, always, always with the perpetual beer. He was awesome! Oh, and
Matchbox 20 wasn't bad either.
Dad was right.
People watching IS the best part!