Concert Endy Time Starts With The Old Handy-Smack-Hand

Last night at the big round hally place with the lights and the seats and all the people with the flags and the waving of the arms and the gung-ho whacha-gonna-do-about-it-it’s-my-time-now-boy-get-outta-my-face-I’m-just-having-a-good-time, it came to the concert-endy time, yes the concert-endy time, some time after the starting time and a little bit of less time after the middle-bit-with-the-drinks-and-the-holy-hell-is-that-the-queue-for-the-toilet time which we all know and love much like a distant relative you can’t avoid meeting every so often but after which you are always more relieved, at least partly because you know you are coming closer and closer toward the concert-endy time with each and every scritch and scratch of the fiddles and the fat-fiddles and the fatty-footed-fiddles and the fat-tastic-fiddledeedumdee-fiddle-daddies and each and every spittled swish of the big, shining, brass spartas, spilling brash refuse of sound and solubles across the stageway, coming closer and nearer and altogether more proximal to the giddy concert-endy time with every wump and wallop of the conductor’s little baby T-Rex hand-whip stick-with-a-knob accoutrement, toilet-miseries steadily forgotten, even that horrible part of the queue inside the restroom itself in which no one knows where to stand or look and this facility should be bigger really, coming closer and not further and definitely not farther to the nigh time which always begins with, you guessed it, the veritable, the venal, the voluptuous handy-smack-hand, the unassailable, mass crumple-rumble of human-limbed approval, tickling and tizzling the near-ear with relatively consistent power spectral density if you must know, a swathe of eager gesticulators fighting endless, unknown wars, a herd of magnet-milking muppeteers and their mistressed memories coming to terms with the abyss, and me, there in the middle, stuck in the middle of it all, a fresh-faced vixen, as in, cunning little, here to stay and there to go, with each and every step toward the nether another hand-wrung voiceless turbulence wielded at once against the dying of the bright shiny spit-valved vessels of god and at another once to the overcrowded porcelain tubs of despair which, really, I mean why don’t they just build bigger restrooms with more toilets in them because they must know how many people they were expecting to use a hall of this size on a regular basis for goodness sake, unless they were genuinely surprised by the first few thousand walking in and with their deeply felt desires to ablute periodically, in which case they could have easily made adjustments over time, carpentry is an incredible, versatile profession and I wouldn’t put it past an erstwhile agent of the hand to come up with a witty architectonic parry for this sort of scato-space-time conundrum, for such a hall as this or any hall of this in any hall but this can resound with all the types of the glorious echoes of the human hand, not once, not another once, but in all at once in all the last nights we could ever have imagined like last night, but once.

2 thoughts on “Concert Endy Time Starts With The Old Handy-Smack-Hand

  • September 14, 2015 at 8:19 pm


  • June 6, 2016 at 1:49 pm

    People are clapping, the brass players have made an absolute mess of the stage and the author needs a piss.

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