What's the Frequency, Coffey?

Quick report: Saturday's R.E.M. show was beyond amazing. I've written a full blog post — in my head — but have yet to find the time to put fingers to keyboard. Look for a full report (with groovy pix) in the coming days.

The kids in the R.E.M. office think it was an amazing show, too. According to REMHQ.com:

R.E.M. Returns Home in Style
R.E.M. ripped through a muscular 27-song set Saturday at Atlanta's Lakewood Amphitheatre on a balmy Georgia night, the last of the sixteen dates on the band's North American leg of their current world tour. It was arguably the finest show on a tour replete with stellar performances and highlights. The near capacity crowd, teeming with friends and family, witnessed a band at the top of its game, blending high energy rock, including a generous helping of the high-octane tracks from ACCELERATE, with some of the more poignant numbers from their vast catalog of songs — Time After Time, Let Me In, and Nightswimming.

For those who cannot wait, here's the setlist:

These Days
Living Well Is the Best Revenge
So Fast, So Numb
What's the Frequency, Kenneth?
Time After Time
Driver 8
Man-Sized Wreath
Walk Unafraid
Hollow Man
Ignoreland
Houston
Electrolite
(Don’t Go Back to) Rockville
Auctioneer
Harborcoat
The One I Love
I've Been High
Let Me In
Bad Day
Horse to Water
Orange Crush
I'm Gonna DJ

Encore:
Supernatural Superserious
Losing My Religion
Pretty Persuasion
Nightswimming
Fall on Me (w/ Johnny Marr)
Man on the Moon (w/ Johnny Marr)

Brilliant set of songs, huh? Just wait until you can read my gushing, workshipful review of the show.

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The Belittling of the Little America Tour

Remember the excitement over my Little America Tour announcement, soon followed by God mocking and taunting me? Well, once again The Big Guy wins.

The Little America Tour has been whittled and belittled to two shows: Raleigh and Atlanta. No DC or NYC, Boston or Phillie. No visits with my beloveds … no meetups with beloved bloggers … not nearly enough nights dancing to my dearly beloveds.

Frickin’ sucks, doesn’t it? The reasons are many, but only a few are shared:

• The car is still teasing me with a Check Engine light that blinks on and off like Rudolph’s nose.

• Financial unexpecteds have drained the pennies my mechanic left in my savings account.

• I forgot my parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary falls during that first week, and I want to spend that evening with my mom.

But I’ll get to see my favorite boys with Favorite Boy. And I’ll be dancing my ample a** off in the Atlanta pit.

Still … I’m cuing up “Everybody Hurts,” throwing myself on the bed like Lana Turner in a Douglas Sirk flick, and sobbing like a little girl.

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God Said "HA!"

The Little America Tour is coming soon — just five or six weeks away. And, boy, am I looking forward to it. An escape from my adult life and stresses. Me, the Beetle, the iPod, the road. Friends at every stop, bloggers at every cocktail bar. And R.E.M. to curl my toes at night. Yep, it’s a dream come true.

But methinks He doesn’t want me to go.

A couple of weeks ago, I did the unthinkable (well, the unthinkable in MY world). While balancing my checkbook, I found I was way ahead cashwise, so I transferred $650 from my check account into my savings account, earmarked for the tour. I paid off my credit cards about 18 months ago, and so far have kept the balances to nil — a balance I want to keep in anticipation of upcoming (and intentionally cryptic) life decisions.

Got up for work the next morning … pop into the previously mentioned Beetle … and nothing happened when I turn the key. The damn car is as dead as Abe Vigoda was once rumored to be. I had wisely reupped with AAA last month, so I called. The heroes showed up in less than thirty. It wasn’t a battery issue as I’d prayed to the God mocking me above. Oh, no. It looked to be the fuel pump. And so my silver Beetle hopped on the back of a tow truck while I hopped in the cab, and we headed to my friendly neighborhood mechanic.

Cost to replace the fuel pump? $661. My vacation savings, just twelve hours old, went back into my checking account.

But my mechanic is a class act. He detailed my car before I picked it up — at no charge.


God Laughs Again

Two days later. I had a fun, jam-packed [continue inserting clichés here] Saturday planned. Favorite Boy was in town, caring for his post-op mama. We went to high school together, so I’d arranged for us to hang with some of our favorites: Janice, my CHS BFF during the day, then dinner with Holly and Randy that night. We were going to spend the day in our old school ‘hood since it’s seen a major revitalization and none of us live there anymore.

Well, so much for plans well made. Hop in the car … turn the key … the same nothing. I quickly called Janice to make alternate plans in my little corner of the world, while the Beetle sat in the drive, mocking me with its disabilities.

The day was great, however. Many mojitas and a martini later, I was relaxed, laughing, enjoying the day, my friends, my man. I have so many great people in my life.

But Monday morning brought another tow-de-force for me. The AAA wrecker met me after breakfast and carted my car back to my mechanic. The wallet got a reprieve; it appeared to be a bad fuel pump. They replaced it at no charge and sent me on my merry way.

Readers wonder: Just how many trite phrases can she squeeze in one blog post?

And so I spent the next several days saying silent prayers as I turned the key. Made it to work … to Nick Lowe … to Tapes ‘n’ Tapes ... to dinner with Favorite Boy. A good week after all.


Okay, Yahweh, It’s No Longer Funny

Turn the calendar to this past Saturday. I’m watching the news and eating lunch before meeting Swirly Girl at an arts festival. The weekend anchor mentions that the Dubya rebates will be direct-deposited in the coming days. I think, “I can transfer that cash into my vaca-savings account, and my balance will be where it was last week.”

One hour later, I’m dressed and ready to fill my pockets with new baubles and unnecessary plastic objects. Pop in the car … turn the key … nothing happens. A-f*cking-gain. The Lord obviously heard my vacation savings plan, and continued his toying. Is this Groundhog Day: The Musical?

I slam the car door … call Favorite Boy to whine and snivel … and walked to the nearest MARTA station. Swirly Girl knew how to turn that frown into a smile, taking me out for post-baubling swirls. Nothing like tequila and sangria to relax a carless girl.

So, we’re duplicating Monday. I really am beginning to feel like Bill Murray. Mechanic David apologizes and promises to install a cross. I wait, gnawing nails and calculating just how much I can afford to pay to have my car’s internal organs rebuilt. (I come up with $57.28.) The MD calls late in the afternoon to let me know they can’t figure out what’s burning up fuel pumps. They’re going to take apart my fuel system to see if there’s something wrong in my tank.

“Is there anyone who hates you enough to put sugar in your tank?” he asks.

Sugar in my bowl, yes. My tank? No.

And so they keep my car overnight, while I spend the evening saying shiva to my vacation plans. I start tentatively canceling the week’s dinner plans … fill Favorite Boy’s text message inbox with car lamentations … and gnaw on the few remaining nails.

I get The Call at 2 p.m. this afternoon. Volkswagen has finally ‘fessed up that there’s a bad lot of fuel pumps out there; several VWs have landed again and again at the dealer in the last several days.

New fuel pump is installed. Car is running.

But I’m still saying prayers. And wondering what else He has planned to f*ck with my Little America Tour.

* * * * * *

Little America

I have friends up and down the Eastern Seaboard, and for years I’ve dreamed of taking a roadtrip to drop in on each one for a day or two. I’d get to spend time with my beloveds — and have time to myself, the sunroof open, the iPod blaring, the mind relaxing. I love roadtrips.

I’ve long fantasized about following R.E.M. on tour, catching as many shows as I can. I want to dance and sing and be twentysomething again. This may be my last chance — plus, Modest Mouse and The National are opening.

Like a Reese’s Cup, I’m combining two fab wannas into one great trip: The Cup of Coffey 2008 Summer Tour.

Here are the tour details:

B. June 10: Raleigh. Favorite Boy and I are going to this show — and we wouldn’t mind some R.E.M.-loving company.

C. June 11: Washington DC. Evil Genius (or maybe it's Evil Evil Genius) says he may be there with Red or Pezda’s Ghost. We’re trying to get Pistols at Dawn to join us — because I’m convinced he secretly loves R.E.M. and hates Journey. I bet I can get him to shoot for a beer, though.

D. June 13: Boston. After DC, I’ll hop in the car and head to Connecticut and BFF Renae’s house. We’ll work our way up to the Boston show, where The Bastard may join us. Who else wants to dance on Tweeter Center grass with us?

E. June 14: Jones Beach. This is a maybe show. I may decide to crash on Renae’s sofa and have some girl time — unless one or seven of you New York-based bloggers want to meet me at the show.

F. June 18: Philadelphia. This is another maybe show, as my Phillie pal may be across the country on business.

G. June 21: Atlanta. The last night of my tour, appropriately back at home. Scrivener, Swirly Girl, and I have pit tix. It’s gonna be a night of whirling dervishes.

I can promise this will be a night you’ll remember for years … if only to experience Beth in R.E.M. Mode.

I’m getting lawn tickets — which means you can join me if you’re going to be in North Carolina, or DC, or Boston, or New York, or Phillie in June. We’ll dance. Cocktail. Dish and laugh. And enjoy one helluva great show.

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