Dave Matthews Peed His Pants, Part III

After drying my ass in a gas station bathroom and sitting in traffic for two hours I finally made it to Philly. Heather was already at the bar celebrating Birthday Girl's, well, birthday. Get it?

Birthday Girl: I hear you have a blog.
Me: Yea, I just started it.
Birthday Girl: I want to be in it.
Me: Really?
Birthday Girl: Yea, I do.

(I should mention that Birthday Girl was a little tipsy.)

Me: I don't think you understand, I have, like, five people who read this.
Birthday Girl: I don't care.

I told her if she got on the bar and danced she would be in it no problem. She failed. Probably for the best.

We were running late to the concert already, but not late enough to prevent me from slamming two shots and three beers in about 45 minutes. We said goodbye to Birthday Girl and her boyfriend, Norwegian, and hopped in a cab.

Taxi Driver drops us off at the Tweeter Center about 500 yards from the entrance.

We go inside, grab some beers and walk into the pavillion as Dave Matthews is taking the stage. Want to know how little I know about DMB? As I walk in I look at the stage and think "Oh, that's what he looks like."

We take our seats in Row J as Dave starts singing "Crash." Now, even though I am not a fan I have friends who are. Man, it would be nice to call them and make them jealous. I reach down for my phone. Not there.

Try another pocket.

Not there.

Another pocket.

Not there.

Ladies, I now understand how you feel when you can't find your purse.

My fucking life is on that phone. Everything. (Sad, I know.)

Me: Heather, my FUCKING phone is gone.
Heather: No shit? You sure?
Me: Yes, it's fucking GONE.

I snag Heather's phone. It's very, very pink. Perfect to be walking around talking on. Wow.

Anyway, I can't hear shit inside the pavilion, what with Dave being all rude and playing music for his fans. Ass.

(On a side note, if you like women, I would recommend heading to a Dave Matthew's concert. They are EVERYWHERE. And, of course, in the previous equation we are substituting "women" for "super-drunk high school girls wearing little clothing." So, yea, if that's your thing you know where to go.)

I call my phone. Someone answers. YES!

Me: Hello, Hi, Yes, Do you have my phone? (In retrosepct that's the dumbest thing I've ever said.)
Taxi Driver: Asdfksaoidfasdnfasoidsadfasdifsdfsdf
Me: Uhhh, I can't understand you.
Taxi Driver: Yesyouleftincab.
Me: OK. Great. I left my phone in your cab. (Second dumbest.)

As I am talking to him I go to the door of the venue. I get the nod from the ticket girl because I tell her that the cabbie has my phone. I run out the door.

Me: OK, are you still where you dropped us off?
Taxi Driver: Nono. Ibethere. TwentyThirtyminute.
Me: Oh, OK. Thanks so much. I'll be there waiting for you.

Ticket people let me back in, because ticket girl said I could leave. No problem. So, I just have to wait 20 or 30 minutes. I grab a beer. I use the bathroom. I get ready to head out there.

Ticket Guy: Dude, you can't leave again and come back.
Me: Why not?
Ticket Guy: You already left once man. I'm in shit for it. I'm sorry.
Me: You don't understand, I have to get my phone.
Ticket Guy: Sorry, man.

I ask who I can talk to. He points to ConcertNazi.

ConcertNazi flatly denies my request. He starts to walk away. I slip into Sales Mode and ask him if I can explain my story.

At the end, he relents. He tells Ticket Guy I have FIVE MINUTES to get the phone and come back.

....ahem.

Fine. I'll take your five minutes, fucker. I stand at the door and Ticket People ask me if I'm gonna go.

Me: Hell no, I have to time this just right.

I call cabbie and ask if he's close. He is.

OK. I sprint out of the gates like I'm a fucking thoroughbred on cocaine. The gate where we were dropped off at is, like I said, 500 yards away. It's still about 90 degrees out.

I lung-burn my way to the corner, regretting every cigarette I've ever smoked, just as Taxi Driver pulls up. I reach in and slip him a $20, thank him profusely and grab my phone.

I get to the gates, huffing and puffing like I'm a fat slow-pitch softball player who's trying to turn a double into a triple.

Ticket Guy: Sorry, dude, it took five minutes 20 seconds.

..........I guess the look on my face made them understand I was in no mood to fuck around, because they all started laughing and let me in. Thank you.

I finally get back to my seat after being gone for almost an hour and find that Heather has, in my absence, decided to hedge her bets and flirt with Green Muscle Shirt. She must like 19-year-old boys. Cradle Robber.

Heather: I didn't think you were coming back.

So. Let's get down to Brass Tax:

I'm sweating my fucking balls off. My little 1,000 yards sprint has overheated me. I am a fucking wreck. I can't wipe it from my face fast enough. Ever seen the movie Airplane? I was like Ted Stryker when he's trying to land the jet.

Fucking gross.

But, at least everybody is sweating.

Wait.

There's Dave Matthews. Bouncing around on stage. Under the bright lights. And that fucker's not evening glistening. What the FUCK IS GOING ON?

(I honestly have no idea why I demanded justice in this way. One of my quirks I guess. Shit, if I'm gonna suffer he better be suffering too, right? He didn't have to sprint like a fucking Olympian to get his life back.....now that would be a song I could dig. Been there brother.)

I am watching as his head fills the giant screen right in front of me. He's wearing a black shirt and jeans.

As the camera pans out you get a shot of his jeans.

Oh.

From the waist down DM was fucking SOAKED. It looked like he went swimming and put his pants on right over his suit.

Heather: What's so funny?
Me: Dude! DAVE MATTHEWS PEED HIS PANTS!!!!

At least I wasn't sweating that much.

My dehydrated ass paid the price the next day. We were up until 4 in the morning, boozing and laughing. But I had to get up early (when you go to bed at 4 in the morning I think everything is too early) to drive back for work.

I'm not sure how many nights like that I have in me.

Only one way to find out I guess.