“Mr. Blue Sky”

I’m not one of those people for whom the perfect retort, clapback, burn, dig, or witty remark flows naturally in any given situation. Sure, it happens from time to time. And in those moments, it’s glorious to be that dialed in. A more common scenario is a cerebral replay of interactions, where, in my retrospection and slowed-down processing, I think of the absolute banger comment I should have said.

This isn’t limited to commentary and responses. Sometimes, I can clearly envision an action I should or could have taken. Recently, I’ve repurposed a few of these could-have scenarios as dialogue or scenes in my stories because what else am I supposed to do with them? My time machine is busted. Other times, the visions are more like what-ifs and can morph or shift depending on which fantasy thread I weave or pull. My batshit crazy idea (BCI)™ started as a visualized what-if.

Not to get all woo-woo and shit, but I believe in the power of visualization. I don’t meditate, per se, or use this mechanism to channel energy or expect change–no shade to those who do. I can’t sit still for long enough, especially in quiet, which seems to be the point. When I was a ballet dancer (before my body sprouted boobs too large to pursue that skill with any conviction) and a cheerleader during junior and senior high school (when boobs were a value-add), if, in my head, I could visualize myself doing a cheer, combination, or a dance routine, my body would follow through. See it. Do it. The what-ifs are essentially my mind’s free-form jazz of a visualization. Most of the time, they remain ensconced in gray matter.

On Friday, September 11th, while I got ready for bed, a what-if snippet took root. At this point, I knew it was a BCI. I still know. But I could clearly see its bare bones. Overwhelmed by relentless footage flooding my social feeds with 25th-anniversary terrorist attacks and the sadness and mayhem that ensued as buildings crumbled and the American way of life forever changed, I was emotionally drained and craved forward momentum. My visualizations rarely occur for future events. They’re typically a “wish-I-had” or mental choreography practice. But this was something actionable. No time machine required. So, I ran my BCI by my husband.

At first, I beat around the bush. I started with the why. And there are reasons why I wanted to do this. But my husband wanted to know what.

Me: What if I go to the Johnny Blue Skies and the Dark Clouds concert dressed as Freddie Mercury? And …

Him: And? There’s more?

Me: Yes … and at a choice moment I hold up a sign that reads, “Let me sing backup on Pollywog?”

Aside: I didn’t think the full song title would fit on a posterboard.

So yeah. I’m guessing your reaction is the same as the husband’s.

Well, our conversation got a bit circular and eventually ended with me knowing he was not on board. Like, so not on board that we were on different ships. And I got it. As Clark Griswold mutters over and over while contemplating skinny-dipping with a hottie who was not his wife, this is crazy.

My husband doesn’t particularly enjoy concerts. He can muscle through outdoor shows or ones with assigned seats. (Ones where people truly sit.) Loud noises and music set off his tinnitus, and crowds are his kryptonite. He earned the tinnitus and some PTSD from his army service, and masses of people and high volumes are triggering.

I, on the other hand, want to be all up in the pit when I attend a concert. I want to dance and sing and sweat my ass off as close as I can get without pissing people off. Our preferred concerts are diametric experiences, and he knew that if I did this, I’d need to go alone. And … I’d be alone. In a venue of 12,000+ country music fans, most of whom would be men. Dressed (incongruously) as Freddie Mercury. That potential attention set off his alarm bells.

But the attention was the whole point.

Husband: And if nothing comes of your attempt at a viral moment?

Me: Then I’ll get three solid hours of face-melting rock ‘n’ roll that I desperately want to hear.

Him: Fair.

Aside: I didn’t honestly expect a viral moment. I’m not inherently lucky. Life ain't fair and the world is mean. But it hurt nothing to go balls to the wall on the plan. What if …

The next morning, after a fitful night’s sleep, my husband worked through what part of my hair-brained scheme was at the root of his anxiety. It wasn’t me being alone in the venue. Gainbridge Fieldhouse is well run with courteous staff. His issue was my solo trek to and from the venue. Walking unescorted as Queen’s frontman could attract the wrong kind of attention. He volunteered to come on this adventure as Freddie’s pre- and post-concert chaperone. This change of heart was incredible, especially since I had already booked an affordable hotel room as close to the venue as possible and bought a ticket to the show. I made sure I could cancel the room and resell the ticket, just in case I chickened out.

So, what was the point? Well, as some of you know, I’m trying to find my readers and build an email list. As JBS sings, “The only thing in this world worse than dying is knowing you quit.” And I’ll admit that there have been a few times that I’ve wanted to do just that. I’ve doubted the merit of my stories and my writing skills. I’ve worried rock star characters are corny or trite and real-world women’s health issues are too scary. And that the two tropes are worlds apart. A few times I’ve convinced myself that no one will give a shit about a character who could be labeled as a “woman of a certain age”. Crones are supposed to be invisible, after all. Mostly, I’ve doubted myself. Well, fuck that noise in favor of a sweet, sweet free-form jazz what-if visualization.

I don’t have enough social media reach. I’m essentially speaking to the same limited audience I’ve already gathered. And I’m grateful for all of you (truly), but you’re only a fraction of what I need. Marketing efforts have produced limited results. I’ve mentioned in previous articles that, on social platforms, I’m on the fringe of invisibility (I am a crone after all). While financially irresponsible, I need to go where the music lovers are.

I produced four beautiful little art cards. A collage or painting filled side A, and a QR code on side B encouraged folks to visit my website where they’d learn about my path to publication and, hopefully, sign up for my newsletter. Distributing these cards, no matter how cool they are, would be hard out of context and as Maria Morris. Who would take metaphorical candy from this stranger? No one. But Freddie Mercury changed the dynamic.

I’m sure you’re asking, as my husband did, why Freddie Mercury?

1. He’s the GOAT.

2. He’s iconic.

3. He’s a capital “R” rock star.

4. I’m a huge fan.

5. I own the outfit.

Yes. Yes, I did buy a fanny pack for this ensemble. Of all the cookoo things about this adventure, the bag was probably the most sane choice.

Once committed to this path, I consumed as many JBS show snippets as the Gram and X fed me, dropping hearts for the posters. I know what you’re thinking. Obsessed. Nah. (OK. Maybe a tiny bit. He’s really fucking good.) But this was research. What could I expect at this show? What were the crowds like? What songs could provide a possible break? What were the Doods and Jaunita’s saying about the vibe and energy?

Key research findings and show takeaways:
All reports agreed the shows ran three or more hours long. Cool. And sweet! That’s some Taylor Swift Eras Tour shit right there. But that might require a bathroom break. Pit tickets were sold out by the time I pulled the Ticketmaster trigger, but I snagged the last dedicated seat in the first row behind the pit. Cool. Cool. I wouldn’t lose a place to dance if my bladder decided to be a little bitch.

I’m happy to report it didn’t. 🎉 Research showed that Sturgill is timely, like with military precision. Knowing he’d start when he said he would, I hit the ladies’ room 15 minutes before showtime. I skipped hydrating. Four Jolly Ranchers (one every 45 minutes or so) kept my thirst at bay.

Given how close my paid seat was to the pit, I hoped maybe Freddie Mercury could scoot right in. As sure as fuck, Maria Morris couldn’t, even if she wore her cutest pinup girl dress and victory-rolled her hair. I’m self-aware enough to admit I’m not a ten, so looks alone wouldn’t cut the mustard.

Sad to report that Freddie didn’t cut any mustard either. Two badass female pit “bosses”, whom I plied with kindness, attention, and art cards early in my pre-show recon, would have 100% let the scootin’ happen had the uptight, dick-swingin’ male security employee not cruised by at an inopportune moment. (Was he short, the ladies ask? Why yes. Yes, he was.) I wasn’t even trying to get in. I wanted to dance just outside it (without getting in anyone’s way, mind you) to escape the overbearing men on three of the four sides of my assigned seat. Nope. I could not scooter my blues away.

Reports from women Instagrammers claimed they felt safe at JBS shows, even considering the heightened awareness of the shit going down with the Cornell 7 and another hardcore wave of the #MeToo Movement. I’ll pause for a second and pile on my own #MeToo. I’m Jane Doe. Not as egregious, but still. (Some context.) Hopefully, this vague personal detail casts some light on my rigorous research. It’s sure as hell the reason why Husband acted hypervigilant about my safety. I felt it best to omit another finding to the husband–most JBS shows were sausage fests. Some women added that, when played, the songs laden with sexual innuendo and masculine bravado brought the creepers out of the woodwork–permission to behave badly.

I didn’t encounter any creepers. However, I did experience men’s entitlement to take up space, with little regard for the area occupied by the women around them. Men don’t seem to crowd other men, but they sure as hell expect women to shrink. It was a bit like flying coach, trapped in a middle seat, fighting for a sliver of armrest. I’m happy to report Freddie took up his allotted 256 square inches of paid floor space and danced unapologetically and enthusiastically within those boundaries. I did not shrink myself. Ironically, the armor of a male icon’s mustard-colored jacket allowed this gal to cut loose.

Freddie got mixed reactions, as I suspected, both during recon and on the dance floor. I handed out maybe 20 cards. (Hit me up in the comments or in email if you were one.)

I learned … hmm … maybe learned wasn’t the right word. Surmised? Theorized? … that Sturgill might be a bit rigid. Fame has a way of making the famous sort of two-dimensional. And fans, journalists, and sycophants can flatten the artist into the shape they want him to be, like a paper doll. Sturgill’s Sound and Fury album touches on this topic, if I’ve interpreted the lyrics correctly. So, my reaction is to a real human who’s possibly a bit neurospicy, filtered through the lens of concert-addicted superfans or paid writers and critics posting on the internet. Mr. Simpson presents as a fellow who wouldn’t necessarily appreciate spontaneity or being blindsided. Nothing I’ve seen/read/watched leads me to believe that, if discovered, Freddie Mercury would be a welcome surprise. This wasn’t a Foo Fighters show, after all.

Sturgill saw my sign. After discovering “Welcome to Earth (Pollywog)” was a staple of previous setlists, I changed my posterboard request to “Use Me”. This switch felt like a decent gamble since it’s a disco duet, maybe even Sturgill’s first foray into the genre so prevalent throughout Mutiny After Midnight. 🪩 I didn’t want to risk Pollywog being played too early, missing an opportunity because of bad timing. You can’t just whip out a sign whenever you feel like it. (Boy, ain’t that a mouthful.) A door must open. Research showed the band rarely took breaks or paused.

I found the perfect moment, but the song request was all wrong. JBS declined my request as graciously as someone put on the spot can respond. He shared he hadn’t sung it since it was recorded (2020). And… like a little dagger to the heart, the next song the band played was “Welcome to Earth (Pollywog).” Doh! 🤦‍♀️ Honestly, it’s all good. Given how my hands and knees shook during the exchange, I probably would have peed my Freddie-pants if he’d taken me up on my dare.

What-if scenario: Freddie yelled “Ay-Oh!”, catching JBS’s attention for a second time. A second sign (new color, obviously different) appeared over Freddie’s head, saying, “How about backup on Pollywog?” The answer still could have been no. But what if?

Enjoy the show! It was incredible and is now available on Nugs.net for a small fee. Maybe I’ll be part of the audio. 😉 Shout out some what-if scenarios that would have been cool or what you’d have done differently.