“We didn’t start the fire” … in Large’s colon

Took the wife to see Billy Joel at Shea Stadium last week because I am old and I’m white, and that’s what we do. Lots to talk about, so lets get started.

First off, Billy Joel sounds great but looks fucking terrible. He’s very compact and sweaty, and even though his proficiency on a piano is unquestionable, it’s amazing that he’s able to pull off intricate melodies with those grubby little hands of his. He really is built like a fucking Hobbit. I would even put him up there as a candidate for “What The Fuck?- Wednesday”, but I don’t think that son-of-a-bitch was ever attractive.

That being said, he was married to Christie Brinkley, is currently married to some little piece-of-ass 30 years his junior, and he even dated Elle Macpherson for a brief stint when she was only 19 years-old (he was 33). Truth be told, I would rather have skipped the whole fucking concert and opt to see some of this cocksman’s home videos.

He had a handful of surprise performers, including 87 year-old Tony Bennett singing “New York State of Mind”, and were I a betting man I’d would bet my house Bennett outlives The Piano Man.

John Mayer was another one of Joel’s surprise guests… he played guitar during one of the slow songs. And although I could give a fuck less about Mayer or Joel, you gotta respect the scattered ass these two have left in their collective wake… Jessica Simpson, Christie Brinkley, Jennifer Anniston, Elle Macpherson, Jennifer Love Hewitt, etc.

Beautiful night weather-wise, but I forgot just how much of a dump Shea Stadium is. The new place they are building next door looks great, but the obvious dichotomy between the old and new Shea really drives home how Met fans have been paying good money to go to what is essentially a modified tool shed to watch their team play since the early 70’s.

And I really fucked myself with the pre-concert plans. My wife and I met 3 other couples for dinner at a German restaurant in Queens. I had been to this shit-hole at least a half-dozen times before, but haven’t been in a decade or so. I order everything on the menu, and wash it down with a couple of those Weiss-beers. As soon as I step outside of the restaurant, I get hit with a wave of that Summer-time-late-day-mugginess, and I start to swell up like a tick. We pile into a couple of Gypsy cabs, and I can slowly feel everything that I just ingested start to move South.

You and I, face to face, in our favorite German restaurant…

We get to the show and I’m waiting on the beer-line just minutes before the concert is scheduled to start, and my saint of a wife asks, “What’s wrong? Your top lip is covered in sweat, and your as pale as a ghost.”

And then I level with her, and say, “Honey, I feel like there’s a sleeve of hot golf balls in my rectum, and I’m starting to feel some anxiety about dropping wolf-bait in this dump with all these fucking people around.”

“Ladies and gentleman… Long Island’s own… Billy Joel!” blares across the loudspeaker, and everyone rushes in to the arena. I let my wife and friends go without me, and I wait outside of the Men’s Room as I watch the last couple of stragglers rush out to see the beginning of the show. Went in to one of the stalls and wiped the place down as much as I can.

— SIDEBAR — I gotta be honest, the bathroom wasn’t nearly as disgraceful as I had envisioned, but you’d have to think I wouldn’t be so lucky if I was at the “Monsters of Rap” tour… I’m just saying.–

Anyhoo, I sit down, begin dumping, and immediately notice the crack in the door– the one between the side of the door that locks, and the wall it locks into– has a half-inch gap. Now normally a half-inch doesn’t mean much (That’s what she said!), but I’m telling you, no less than 10 guys looked into the stall through that fucking crack while I was dumping. And to top it all off, I had a hissing steam pipe above my head that concentrated so much heat, that I felt like I was having a movement at a bus station in Laos.

I clean up and go back to my seat just as the third song was starting, and I immediately standup, turn around, and head back to that same bathroom for round 2… That German place should be brought up on charges after the horrors it inflicted on my colon. I spent the first third of the concert losing weight.

But this time I am a little wiser, so I take a 4 foot strip of that cardboard’ish hand-towel out of the dispenser, and tuck it into the door crack, creating a virtual “shit curtain”, which leaves me with a modicum of privacy in the tumultuous climes of Shea Stadium’s Loge Men’s Room. I felt so much better, that I actually took my shirt off to combat the heat from the ever present steam pipe that loomed overhead.

And a buddy of mine made a good point… You know why we have less and less privacy in our public bathroom stalls? Homosexuals, that’s why. They spent so much time in public restrooms destroying each other’s pails, and now we all have to pay for it. I just wish the gays would all just get together and make a conscious effort to own vans. That way, they can fire into each other with reckless abandon, and we’d all be none the wiser. Shit, they could probably fit a SOLOFLEX in the van also, just so they can stay in shape on the road.

One last thing, one of the guys in my “posse” had seen Billy Joel in concert 38 times previous to that show. He wore this accomplishment like a badge of honor, but I found it to be stalker-ish and downright creepy. And the creepiness is probably augmented by the fact that this particular individual is A) A big fan of Sarah Jessica Parker, and B) Has a thick pelt of hair covering his entire body… So you basically have a gigantic, hairy Italian man who watches Sex & The City while wearing a concert t-shirt from the Glass Houses Tour in ’76.

That’s the type of crowd I roll with, I guess.