Tuesday, August 5, 2008

Transsexuals Love Me

I had the most fascinating story to tell today. It was about a concert I went to three years ago with a friend-of-a-friend. He had stepped up and agreed to go to a show in LA with me since my now ex-wife was beyond pregnant and unwilling to go. The show was at the Henry Fonda Theatre, now the Music Box at the Fonda (whatever that name change is supposed to imply), on Hollywood Boulevard. The story involves a pair of male-to-female transsexuals who were quite into the FOAF and I, and how they spent the evening trying to get us drunk and worse.

The problem with the story is that I can’t, for the life of me, remember who it was we were there to see. Just how do we get these odd holes in our memories? Being the sort of guy who remembers these sorts of things, I can’t figure out why I would forget such a personally important aspect of the story. I can tell you in detail about each of the 16 times I’ve seen Moving Units live. If I’ve seen a band open up for another band, I can tell you exactly which band it was and where the show was. And chances are I can tell you approximately when the show was.

But when it comes to the show where the FOAF and I were the target of a pair of horny transsexuals, I just can’t remember the band playing on a stage ten feet from us. I can’t even lay claim to the incident being particularly traumatizing. In fact, at the time, I thought it was hilarious! I’d never been hit on by a transsexual, and certainly not to that level. For once in my life, I can officially declare that the band on stage was secondary to the action going on directly in front of my face.

Was it The Dresden Dolls? The Futureheads? The Hives? I go over the list of bands I’ve seen live at the Henry Fonda Music Box Theatre at the Fonda in my head and can’t come up with the right combination. Trannies and TV On The Radio? No. Trannies and Yeah Yeah Yeahs? No. Trannies and Queens Of The Stone Age? Ironically, no. This story has become this giant blank spot in my brain. I wouldn’t even know how to go about contacting the FOAF, who floating off into the ether a year after that show, for information.

So, the story remains incomplete. To think of all the cute ways I could have juxtaposed the band’s lyrics with the cheesy pickup lines employed by the transsexuals! I’m sure there has to be some song titles from the mysterious band that jibe nicely with the way one of the “ladies” kept a half-inch from me the entire show, whispering in my right ear. The whole thing is just a huge missed opportunity.

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