Today, as I sifted through my daily e-mail deluge of penis creams, Ugandan princes asking for cash and forwarded lists of pot jokes from my grandpa, I spied a rather curious message.
It seems my registration to buy Spice Girls tickets was successful. I vaguely remember the ex using my e-mail address to register for these things back in the early summer. The group is mounting some sort of comeback tour, and the clamor for tickets was so great that there had to be a lottery system in place. My registration is good for their two-night stand in Los Angeles.
The only thing I can gather is that all those pop-afflicted pre-teen girls and sexually confused pubescent boys from the Spice Girls’s heyday have grown up and are now a very powerful spending contingent. I’m just imagining a bunch of tattooed hipster chicks, wearing little black flats and leg warmers, rocking out at a cool $250 a pop. It’s funny how pop culture and its tributaries so viciously cut a tacky, glittered path.
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I’ll admit right here and now I saw the Girls at the Woodlands Pavilion back in 1998. I went with a girl who at one point had carved Baby Spice’s initials into her skin. It wasn’t a bad show, if you like tear-stained girls and embarrassed dudes. It’s actually kind of like the bar scene I find myself frequenting now. Did I say bars? I meant all-nude strip clubs off Edgebrook. Ah, delicious tragedy.
Did anyone ever see their movie Spiceworld? Why that cinematic triumph doesn’t play at River Oaks at midnight I’ll never know. It’s just as twisted as Rocky Horror. – Craig Hlavaty