Anaheim Concert

After a brief San Jose concert shmooze and decompress in the Hotel DeAnza lobby, Churchmouse, Surf4Sue and I strolled back to my car to take off for Anaheim. We were going to -- what else? -- FOLLOW THE BUSES. We drove over to the back of the arena where the buses should be coming out. We thought we had time.

My first inkling was as we turned the corner to go to the back of the arena; the fans had already dispersed. Not a good sign. The security gates were wide open and the enormous semis that haul the stage equipment were lined up on each side of the street. We hailed a group of fans walking away, and, sure enough, we'd missed them! The buses had left five or ten minutes earlier.

Well, how hard could this be? There's only one way from San Jose to LA! So we maneuvered our way to a freeway ramp, and roared off into the night. They could only have at most a fifteen-minute head start on us; spotlightnobodycanoutrunmelover's on the case!

After thirty minutes on Highway 101 at (mumble, mumble) miles an hour, and then another thirty minutes negotiating a two-lane road over Pacheco Pass to I-5, it was clear we weren't going to find them. At that point we hatched a theory that they were not driving the Idols to LA, but took them to the airport to fly! Yeah, that's it! So we cursed our bad bus karma once again, and settled in for the long drive.

I made a brief stop after we reached I-5. As I was reaching down to tie the lace on my lead-footed sneaker, suddenly I was grabbed from behind, shoved inside a pillowcase, and duct-taped into submission. Mmmmph phmmm rrrrrmmm MMMMMPHHH!! Unceremoniously tossed into my own back seat like a sack of day-old Krispy Kremes, I was imprisoned for the next several hours. If you didn't like my driving, all you had to do was SAY SO!! Hmmmmph!

After being released somewhere south of the grapevine (because I threatened to pee in the back seat on Churchmouse's jacket), we made our way to the outskirts of Anaheim. Just as we started seeing signs for Disney-this and Disney-that, my cell phone chortled TITN. It was Bina, traveling with agape and Maggie.

"EEEEEEEE!! We just caught up to the BUSES!" They had been behind us all the time.

Surf4Sue briefly considers a U-turn in the middle of I-5 -- it was 5 a.m., after all -- but decides against it. (And they complain about MY driving.) We slow to a 40 mph crawl on the Santa Ana Freeway. Hitchhikers are passing us.

"Wait, that's way over HERE! They're not on I-5, they're on 91!" "How could they be on 91?" "No, look up here!" "Where are my damn glasses? Why do maps have such f**king tiny print?" "Let's turn around and go back to meet them!"

"Uh..wait a minute..." (sounds of scuffling, discussion) "Okay, there's a Subway...and a Texaco station..." (I'm grinding my teeth at this point) "Okay, STANTON! And Artesia Boulevard!"

"Where the f**k is that? Where are WE? Have we passed it yet? WAIT, I SEE A TEXACO, GET OFF HERE!!" "Where? I don't see one?" "That was the wrong exit!" "How do we get back on now?" "DAMN!!"

"Okay, this is good, this is GOOD, it will take a while to fill those big buses! We can do this!"

Several U-turns and "discussions" later, we actually DID find the correct Texaco station! The buses were guzzling diesel in a truck stop which had a small store. Bina was parked on the opposite side of the store, in the faaar end of the parking area, under all the lights. Not at all obvious. Unh-huh. We parked near the store and went inside for a quick surveillance and a potty stop, then walked to Bina's car. At first she wouldn't roll down the windows.

Just then we saw one of the buses start to move. "EEEEEEE! They're leaving!" Surf4Sue sprints (not easy in flip-flops) back to the car and Churchmouse and I follow. Bina is horrified, sure we've been spotted. Sue whips out of the parking place and pull up to a light at the station exit, ready to rumble. Unfortunately, the light is red, the buses all pass us going to our left, and we're stuck at the light. After a frustrating minute, it occurs to our sleep-deprived brains that (a) it's five in the morning, (b) there's nobody else there, and (c) if ever there was a time to run a light this was it. So out we roar. Bina had pulled out on a different side street.

Now there will be some disagreement as to this next point. I DISTINCTLY saw the buses go under an overpass and turn to the LEFT. Churchmouse, who has the sense of direction of a homing pigeon raised on crack, swears they turned RIGHT. At any rate, we attempted to follow and found ourselves on a wide, empty boulevard with nothing in sight for miles. WHERE DID THEY GO?!?!

We backtracked and found a freeway entrance we'd missed, right under the overpass, a sharp u-turn. THEY MUST HAVE GONE THERE! After ten minutes charging down an empty freeway, we realized we had been foiled again. NASA had no doubt developed a Cloaking Device (or is that Clacking Device?) just for the American Idol buses to foil Clay fans.

So we continued on our way to the exit for our hotel, pooped and discouraged. The cell phone rings again.

"OK, you guys, I'm looking at the buses RIGHT NOW. They pulled into the HOTEL."

The ensuing conversation is best described as (expletive deleted). She wouldn't tell. We pouted and hung up and went to our hotel.

I was not present to witness the next part, but suffice it to say that Bina continued to withhold prime information, AND drove Faye Parker out of our hotel where she was supposed to stay! A contract hit is being negotiated.

Despite this outrageous betrayal of PRoC loyalty, Churchmouse managed to find out through other nefarious means that the Idols were registered at the Doubletree. Armed with this useless but somehow vital-to-have information, we went up to our room and collapsed for two hours of restless exhaustion. I plopped my Aerobed on the floor and inflated it, but Surf4Sue promised not to bite or thrash too much, so I gave the nice beddy-bye a try and decided I could sleep with her. I mean, she's not CLAY, but she's still a looker, y'know?

Awakening again all too soon, we debated weakly the merits of spending the day in the Doubletree lobby. Just to see Bina's face if she showed up there. We debated this while lying down. A lot. Finally, ten minutes before the free breakfast ended, we decided on food. We met Clay fans in the hotel restaurant. Red shirts everywhere. Duh.

I was barely functioning, so I opted for another nap while Sue and Mouse went shopping. They returned with fresh EW magazines and posterboard. They made signs. I doused my head under a faucet. It didn't help. I'm too old to stay up all night. Even for Clay.

Finally it was time to head for the gathering. There were several different affairs being held; we opted for a smaller PRoC gathering at El Torito, organized by the lovely Placebo Effect. I reunited with PermaSwooned and Mr.Swooned and met DaughterSwooned. ncgurrl and Bina made more signs. brahmasatan regaled. We ate. We talked, I'm sure. I was borderline comatose. Goood Baby Brush picked my head up when it banged against the table.

Placebo Effect administered LadyPBnJ's trivia quiz. Then I got a stalker award for going to seven concerts. It consisted of:

a Krispy Kreme
Grape Dimetapp
a grape-scented candle
grape Bubble Yum
Cinnamon Toast Crunch
Kraft Mac 'n Cheese
a black Sharpie
a toy train car labeled 'Debacle'
a goooood baby brush
a Pop-Tart shuttle with photos of the most popular passengers
Bob, the dead horse

Very clever, P.E. I will especially treasure Bob. I beat my husband with Bob when he made a gay joke.

We drove back to park at the hotel just across from the venue, giving Goood Baby Brush a ride. We walked across the street admiring the Clay garb, Clay signs, Clay hats, Clay, Clay, CLAY. I had this brief narcoleptic vision that Claypod-people had taken over the world.

Arrowhead Pond was metal detector-city. But they didn't seem to care about the plate in my head, so we went in. Our group was spread all over the place, so we separated to our various locations. Sue and I were in the lower-level section near the left side of the stage. MrsLoki spotted us from two rows up and came over to chat; ncgurrl was just below us. We had brought the "These Girls are YOURS" banner from San Jose and quickly recruited the rest of our Clay-row to hold it up at the appointed time.

Five rows below us, I spotted a PRoC shirt and the sign, "Husbands for Clay". This turned out to be Artquest and hubby; we chatted for a while until it was showtime.

I saw the famous "panty altar" for the first time, hanging on the edge of the stage. My leopard-panties from the San Jose panty-string were hanging proudly near the middle. I was fulfilled. I was happy. I am a panty-famewhore.

Here come the AI clips, here come the screams. My favorite part. I started to wake up a little with the anticipation. Sue was jazzed, this was her second and last time at bat.

I thought our seats would have a pretty good view, but nobody informed the Jumbotron cameraman. He had a lovely butt, but (!) it really wasn't what I came to see!

The opening acts passed in a haze. Or rather, I watched them in a haze. We sure weren't in the front row this time, and I missed it and I was sleep-deprived. Finally it was That Time. For the first time in seven concerts, I was ABOVE the level of the stage. We watched the center platform lower as Kimberley introduced Clay. We saw the microphone appear to levitate itself into place. And then, as the opening notes of TITN played, that hedgehog-head suddenly popped up as he stepped quickly into place and the platform began to rise. And the shrieks rose with it. Ho, hum, just another night at The Clay Show.

He was gorgeous, he sang purty, Shift-F1. After TITN he looked around for a long time to find his mom and introduce her. He got mouse ears thrown onstage and put them on, saying, "As if my ears weren't big enough already." He took them off quickly, always conscious of the hair. He said nice things about the audience and the tour and the crew and Ruben. And then I napped a bit.

At intermission I whined to everyone in sight about the cameraman situation. Sue slapped me a couple of times and told me to suck it up. I gave up on getting good photos due to angle and distance. Act II began.

The performers were a bit different in Anaheim; as Sue has reported, they seemed to be more interested in performing for each other. It was their farewell performance, and they were having extra fun with each other onstage. The crew got into the act a bit too; on the Bee Gees medley, the giant disco ball, usually suspended high above the stage, was lowered to within a couple of feet of the performer's heads. When Clay and the others rose up on the center platform, he almost couldn't sing for laughing about the surprise. Clay made a great show of "ducking" underneath it during the number, even though it handily cleared even his 73 inches. (Shut UP, Brandi!)

Before TGIM there was the usual rain of panties and other gifts. After the audience finished their barrage, a crew member dropped from above the entire collection of underwear thrown during the tour; it was an impressive pile and I was proud to have done my part. Clay laughed and laughed. Clay and Ruben skipped the whole intro to TGIM and just went right into the song. We held up our "Girls are Yours" banner, and while I'm sure Clay saw it (how could he NOT?), he chose to ignore it this time. We'd had our moment in the sun. But of course, the sign did catch the notice of that lovely, sweet reviewer who mentioned us. Dormant sexuality, indeed. Hmph.

The rest of the show is a bit of a blur. It was all good, they were all good, but it didn't seem to have the same energy as San Jose or even Sacramento, and the performers were definitely into mostly sharing it with each other onstage. There were many, many long thank-you speeches, meaningless to the audience, many crew and staff members mentioned by name. Debra Byrd and Michael Orland were introduced from the audience. It seemed a bit like the closing night of a high-school production, not a professional tour. For those seeing their only concert in Anaheim, I felt they were cheated a bit. But for me the idea was to be there, to see it all come full circle.

The great shirt-unbuttoning has been fully discussed and documented; I'm so glad I was there to see it. Clay thinks he's going to give us this little tease, flip one button open, be all in control, and then KimberMe just rips his shirt from stem to stern; we owe her big-time for this one.

There was one moment at Anaheim which ranks among my all-time favorites. Clay, Kim and Ruben were being lowered on the center platform; it must have been at the end of the show but I'm not sure. Ruben goe into his mock-rabbit-punching-Clay routine, Kim acts as if she's breaking it up. Clay actually throws a BIG punch right into Ruben's stomach! If it was an act, it sure looked real! In my projecting little imagination, that was "Take THAT for stealing my title!"

Invisible was hot. Invisible was always hot. GBTUSA was more emotional for us than for them, they looked truly joyous singing it and listening to the LOUD audience singing. I think they were all very happy to be moving on, to get some rest from this exciting but grueling life on the road. As the performers left the stage for the last time and the curtain closed and the music faded, Sue and I cheered and cried and hugged; we simultaneously mourned and celebrated the end of The Summer of Clay.

We waited for our group outside the Pond. Two very young girls in mouse ears walked by; one was wearing a PRoC shirt, so I called out to her. We introduced ourselves with our board names; the PRoC girl's board name was LuckyCharm and she was the one who threw Clay the mouse ears. The girls were very shy so the conversation died and they wandered away. Sue and I stood for a little while longer, observing the crowd, when the girls came back. "I just love your recaps," said LuckyCharm timidly. I laughed and thanked her sweetly, and they left again. What a hoot to be the infamous spotlightlover.

I was dead on my feet but reluctant to have it all end. We hooked back up with Churchmouse and made for the wake at the Marriott. Everyone was gathering on the patio; I snuck off for a brief nap on a lobby sofa, waking to find the party had moved to me. I rejoined the living and even survived a margarita at last call. It was a great gathering and I especially enjoyed chatting with webweaver and artquest, being entertained by brahmasatan, and watching HeidiHo sitting on the floor with her laptop, composing the most brilliantly incoherent concert review on record. Eventually the party broke up, and we drove back to our hotel for some much-needed sleep.

The next morning we had breakfast with couchtomato, who taught us how to lie convincingly to our families about our Clack addictions. We met more Clay fans and snatched the last three copies of the fabulous local review of The Clay Show. We returned to our room, sorted through the debris of what -- only twenty-seven hours? How could we make this big a mess? -- and were packed and on our way by 9:30.

To avoid another abduction scenario, I agreed to only drive a short way. We had a safe and unremarkable trip home (OK, I'm leaving out a little about getting onto 99 instead of I-5 and the fifty-mile detour, but hey, it's my story). Churchmouse and I took Sue home and allowed her husband and sons to sniff us thoroughly and pat us down for drugs and guns. We passed the test; at least they didn't call the cops. We said our goodbyes, and at my house Churchmouse joined me and Mr. Spot for a barbecue he graciously cooked. No, I don't deserve him; why do you ask?

It was a fitting finale to a wonderful summer. I wouldn't trade it for anything. Even for an hour with Clay.

Now, a MONTH with Clay, in a beach house on Maui....aw, heck no. I mean, sex, is just SEX, y'know? The PRoC is FOREVER! Are you buying this? I didn't think so.