***I feel the need to inform you here that I am not being paid by the Legends Show. As a matter of fact, I’m not being paid by anybody. I wish to hell someone would take pity on me and shoot me a couple of bills, but alas...nada, zilch, zippo. I bet I could come up with something super nice to say about anyone who paid me (with the exception of Wal-Mart and Dick Cheney because they are just plain evil).
So, how did I end up sitting in the audience of an impersonator—excuse me—celebrity tribute show in Myrtle Beach last week? Funny story.
As you know, Baby Belle 1 is a huge Michael Jackson fan. As you also know, the knowledge that Baby Belle 1 is a huge Michael Jackson fan keeps me awake at night and makes my blood run cold. Nonetheless, when we took my eldest precious pumpkin to Myrtle Beach for her birthday, I noticed that the tribute show—Legends—sported a King of Pop act, but the show hadn’t geared back up for the summer season yet. Of course, Baby Belle 1 was quick to notice the “Michael Jackson” pictures plastered on all of the show advertisements, so I ended up conceding that I would take her to the show if she got straight A’s on her next report card.
...and darn it if the little stinker didn’t get straight A’s on her report card.
So, last week Baby Belle 1 and I tootled down the road to Myrtle Beach to catch a show and—boy—did we get a show. As usual, the real show for me was the audience. It didn’t escape my notice that Baby Belle 1 and I were the youngest folks in the theater by about thirty years. It also didn’t escape my notice that beer and wine were served at the snack bar in the lobby and the rest of the audience was taking liberal advantage of its availability. I sent up a quick prayer asking the Lord to endeavor to keep it G-rated (or at least PG) for the sake of my precious pumpkin.
I’d already spotted the usuals:
There was the swinging 70’s Farrah Fawcett follower who simply hasn’t been able to make the multi-decade jump. Her skin is darkly tanned shoe leather and her feathered hair has been bleached within an inch of its life. She’s still trying to rock the halter top and the short skirt, although I can promise you that nobody wants to see what she has to offer. She’s complaining in a loud and gruff smoking voice about not being allowed to smoke in the theater while settling for downing one beer after another. Yes, the Good Time Girl who doesn’t want to admit or can’t comprehend with her fried brain cells that she now qualifies for Social Security.
Then there were the husbands who obviously didn’t want to be there. They have been dragged off the golf courses or away from the stools at the tiki bars by wives looking for “together time” that doesn’t involve being forced to carry on an actual conversation. Their sunburned heads rest in their hands as they either fall asleep from the day’s exertion or pass out from the day’s alcohol consumption. They look a lot like little boys who are being punished by their mothers.
Let’s not forget the grannies. The grannies are dressed up like they are going to church and they are twittering excitedly like they think they’re being naughty. They have their sweaters draped over their shoulders like school marms and their eyeglasses secured by neck chains. They smell like baby powder. They also (quite rightly) think that Baby Belle 1 is the cutest thing they’ve ever seen and she’s playing to her audience in what appears to be a mash-up of her most recent tap and ballet recital performances.
We had seats in the third row, but the noise was too much for Baby Belle 1, so we moved to the back row—the seats were plenty fine and it gave me even more of an opportunity to watch the crowd. Elvis was the first act and Farrah (it was only fitting that we had a Farrah impersonator at an impersonation show—even if she was in her 60’s) was out of her seat, clapping her hands over her head and shaking her hips. I’m sure she thought she was sexy as hell, but it looked kind of like some slow-motion, drunken hula/belly dance hybrid. Her performance was rendered even more painful by the fact that she was the only person in the entire audience who was busting a move. Yes, either the Good Time Girl was trying to start the party by getting the crowd to stand and dance with her or Wannabe Farrah was trying to wow the crowd with her sexual magnetism—regardless, she was crashing with the full force and fury of the Hindenburg.
Elvis signed off with Blue Suede Shoes. Baby Belle 1 actually enjoyed him, but I wasn’t surprised: Her grandma loves Elvis, so it has to be in the genes. Madonna came on next and Baby Belle made me feel very old by asking me who Madonna was. The hapless hubbies perked up for the Material Girl’s performance, but they mentally signed off again when she left the stage for the final time.
What came next? Tom Jones. Sheesh. I don’t give a fig about Tom Jones or his music, but I do have to say that Wannabe Tom Jones had the real thing nailed. A song or two into Wannabe Tom’s set, one of the grannies got up out of her seat and started shuffling toward the aisle. Tom Jones hadn’t been listed on the performance schedule, so I presumed that she—like I—wasn’t overly thrilled and decided that What’s New Pussycat was as good a time as any to take a potty break.
The funny thing was that Granny didn’t head toward the lobby—she headed toward the stage. As she made the trip, I was reminded of the little old lady character on the Carol Burnett Show who took forever to get somewhere as she shuffled along rubbing her gums together. As I watched the lady’s glacially slow progression toward the stage, I wondered if she was confused with the lights and the noise and perhaps thought she was heading to the lobby.
Nope. Grandma knew exactly where she was going.
Tom was just finishing up one very energetic booty shake when he looked down and saw his elderly fan. The moment their eyes appeared to meet, Grandma whipped something out of her purse, tossed it on the stage and turned around to start her doddering trip back to her seat. Wannabe Tom walked over to the object and picked it up to reveal pink granny panties.
Try and explain that one to your seven year-old.
Oh, and if you’re wondering, Michael Jackson was pretty darn good.