Tickled pink…

           I am flabbergasted to say that all my whining and depression got me great seats at the Kettering Chris Isaak concert.  I would write a review but you really need to go see him yourself (besides I am terrible at writing reviews).  His concert was funny, fashionable, rockin’, rollin’, and in his own words “tight and sassy.” 

            For the show he wore a baby blue diamond studded suit (a modern Porter Wagner) and for the encore, god help me, the mirrored suit.  Very few singers sound as clear and crisp as he does on stage and very few take the time to sign autographs afterward.  This time I did not hesitate to wait in line for an autograph because I did not want to regret it another seven years…also I remembered to pay less attention to his ass. 

           However, I am still fashion whore scum.  When the assistant asked if I wanted Chris to sign my concert t-shirt I hesitated.  What???  Let that man scribble all over my new pink shirt with a sharpie??  Do you know how much that cost??  Then, I decided, well, he is Chris Isaak and he did design the t-shirt picture...it did make sense.  The artist is going to sign the creation.  "Okay," I said…

           "Front or back?" 

           "Back!" Of course!  He’s not scribbling all over the front!! 

           So while Chris looked over the tattoos on the girl beside us I took some mental notes…he had changed out of his mirrored suit and into a light and airy cotton white button front long sleeved shirt with dark blue pinstripes, light khaki pants and black alligator shoes, pointed toe.  They made me check my camera at the gate or else I would have a very nice shot of him.

           “So, I won’t need a magazine if I’m waiting with you,” he said to her. 

           Maybe he noticed me drooling when he stepped over and shook Jim’s hand because he figured out we were together.  He turned to me and smiled like he had known me all my life.

           “Hey trouble maker!” he said and then shook my hand too. 

           I laughed of course then watched him quickly scribble out his name on our merchandise.  He whips out these little drawings on everyone's stuff like a caricature artist at the fair, microphones, hearts, whatever he thinks looks good on the shirt. 

           Above his picture he drew a halo, “That’s the only way I’m ever going to get one,” he mumbled.  We thanked him for his autograph and he shook my hand again, “Stick with the big guy,” he said.

           He’s so damned cool.