2005-06-10 - 4:16 p.m.
Encapsulated Clay
At a work conference in January 2004, I won a little 64mb mp3 player. It was a purdy little grey and lilac number, and I soon loaded it up with all kinds of Clay songs, which I rotated regularly with a few other faves. I would dangle that baby around my neck or tuck him discreetly into my bra and he would sing romantic songs of longing directly into my brain. We were practically inseparable. *sigh* How I loved my encapsulated Clay.
Fast forward to March 27, 2004 and the Las Vegas IT performance. Now I was lucky enough to receive a cellcert that night (aside: remember when Clay used to perform in several western states and we didn’t have to time our takeout ordering dinner preparations around our cellcerts?), so I know that my friends made it there safely and I know that Clay performed as scheduled. But this:
What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.
is an advertising slogan which is apparently so effective that all the Clayfans seemed to believe they were completely exonerated of their responsibility to report back on their concert experiences with their fellow fans.
Those of us left behind were getting restless, checking in on the boards on Sunday morning, trying to see if anyone had anything to say beyond the aforementioned slogan. A few driveby posts mentioned drinking, and a couple others mentioned riding the infamous roller coaster.
Back to Saturday night. Obviously my cellcert trumped my regularly scheduled date with encapsulated Clay, who was left to his own devices on the coffee table. That’s when tragedy struck.
When I discovered what happened the following morning, I had to share my tragic tale of caution with my friends, but because of the eerie silence coming from Vegas, I decided to try my hand at something a little more creative to fill that void.
The posts which follow, all from Sunday, March 28, 2004, are my first real attempts at creative posting.
Oh mah goodness, I’m up early this morning. I think I’ll wake up encapsulated Clay and take a long, romantic walk. We had such a lovely day at work yesterday, even though people interrupted us not once, but three times while he was singing Solitaire. Oh well, I would just tickle him a little and he’d start the song again from the beginning. That was sweet. [Who decided to put me in charge at work anyway? I thought they gave me the nice office so we could have a little privacy. Can’t these people make any decisions on their own?]
Hang on a minute...where are my beautiful, discreet light gray headphones? These black ones do not match. at. all. Clay, have you been rummaging through my drawers? You know I told you not to do that – ok, no I didn’t. But you know I don’t like you digging through my stuff – hang on, that’s not true either...oh, yeah - Don’t borrow my things without asking! C’mon, Clay, you know you can’t dress yourself without assistance. And now I’ve got some weird Frankenfugly mp3 player *sheesh*, but that’s okay. Everyone says that once you start singing, it doesn’t matter what you’re wearing (sure, but they’re all begging for the thin grey slacks when the tour comes to their town, and to please tuck in that shirt...but I digress).
Press the button and...Okay, you’re not Clay.
Don’t panic. Just hit the next song. Okay, you’re not Clay either. Starting to freak out a little.
Let me see if I can find one of your neighbors. Maybe Sir Paul or Maroon Five know where you are. Okay, it looks like they’re not here anymore either. Definitely panicking now.
Simply Red? Seal? No....let me go three doors down (oddly enough, their name and location). Where is everybody?
I know. Maybe the Pet Shop Boys threw a costume party last night, and everyone’s still hanging out there. Nope, not even home. Should I even bother looking for the Original Broadway Cast of Hair? I know Clay never really liked having them around. But they don’t seem to be here anymore either.
What has happened here? Has the entire neighborhood up and walked away? Or did somebody force them out? And who are all these other people? Tenacious D? Kazzer? Metallica? Okay, at least I know who you are. And the rest of you suspiciously resemble members of my teenage son’s music files.
Well, I suppose I’ve found the culprit. And he will pay dearly. But how am I supposed to take a walk with multiple Clays and his buddies? My poor discman seems to have disappeared around the time that mp3 came into my life. [though if someone would ever do any housework around here, I’m sure they’d find it hasn’t strayed too far.] Uh oh. I just had a horrid thought. What if we were playing hide and go seek and then when it was discman MoaM’s turn to hide, we got so caught up in our tickle fights that we forgot to seek...? Oops. Well, I guess I’d better find him now. Goodness knows I can’t strap computer MoaM on my ass and walk through the park.
Before I update you on my morning’s tale of woe (for those who read the pages backward, as I do, my teenage son went all P*TA on my mp3 player and freed Clay from his cage, er, capsule), it is a glorious day in Vancouver! I just came back from walking the dog, and could see the snow-covered mountains behind my house and dozens of orange and yellow tulips blooming in front of it, all while being serenaded by my boyfriend. [So why doesn’t he ever want to visit me? Why must I always go to him?] *sigh*
Anyway, to continue my tale. My front and back lawns are freshly mown, my car is sparkling clean, and Clay has upgraded his living quarters! Yes, more space for more Clays to stretch out those long legs, and swing gracefully around my neck. Vintage Clay can tell me how the river feels. AI Clay can build me up with his greasy hips. And Superstah Clay can do whatever the heck he wants. I finally have enough room for his most tumescent incarnations – acoustic MoaM, Me and You, and Solitaire Clay all together (I only wish it were in the altogether). Whew! That is a lot of testosterone. Even a bad perm can’t hide it.
And yes, he is gracious enough to allow additional space for some of his best friends. Sir Paul and Maroon 5 were both upgraded. And we’ve got some swanky new neighbours in The Corrs and Josh Groban. Not bad company, Clay. And the best part? No Justin. No Britney. And no – what the? Christina – what are you doing here? Well, okay, you and your voice can stay within as long as you promise to just sing purdy. But I swear, if you remove one stitch of clothing or make the tiniest move on my man, you are so outta here!
[editorial note: the encapsulated Clay tale was finished, but we still hadn’t heard a word from any Vegas peeps, and I guess I get a little long-winded when I get restless....or anytime for any reason. *sigh* ]
Whew! So I go outside with my Clorno mag and my new and improved encapsulated Clay, and come back nearly two hours later drenched in sweat, with a sore right forearm and a desperate need to change my pants. [Now, before you all shriek "Oh, Eeyore, for the love of God, please tell me you were at least in your back yard!", I say, "Get your minds out of the gutter."]
Yes, my non-contrite son challenged me to some athletic competition. Whereupon the alleged "best badminton player in his p.e. class" was schooled mercilessly by his mother (teach him to mess with my clack). Okay, I fib. I didn't school him. It was close, but I was still the victor (not that there’s anything wrong with coming in second). My secrets? A supple wrist and cat-like reflexes (ooh, sorry, Clay, I meant to arouse you, not frighten you.)
Actually, we started by playing catch, and I’ll confess that wasn’t going so well. When did I suddenly start throwing like a girl? Or Clay? Not dissin’ my boyfriend’s throwing arm, just sayin’ I had that same post-pitch reaction – y’know, where you throw your head back with that "Doh!" expression? That was me twenty times over. But I quickly regained my athletic standing. [Yes, Clay, you skated while singing, so maybe you’re still the better athlete.]
But, y’know, I can honestly say I’m probably the better dancer. Which isn’t really saying much. Because the only people who could possibly be turned on by that video download would be Mr. Eeyore and a handful of prisoners. *whine* I wanna see Clay dance in Vegas. Where oh where is all the Clack? And where are all the Vegas peeps?
People, this is what happens when I have no fresh clack to entertain me.
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