Guest Blog: Wise Girl Singer Abby Weitz Plays a Show While Playing the Field
Being a single 20-something-year-old in New York City is a really conflicting, awkward and unpleasant situation to be in, so you’ve got to make the best of it. It’s really nothing like Carrie Bradshaw’s glamorous and luxurious interpretation on the show ‘Sex And The City,’ at least not in the music scene.
The countless awkward “dates” where you meet at a crusty dive bar and both parties feel the need to drink to the point of intoxication, just to get through the awkwardness of the fact that the male doesn’t make enough money to buy the female’s drinks. The evening usually ends with you stumbling home drunk and cursing the male species after you’ve turned down the guy’s 16 offers to go back to his place during the first three-hour encounter. Unless, of course, you were in beer-goggle mode and actually accepted the invitation (we’ve all been there). This is typically followed by the 1AM booty calls from that same guy for days, sometimes even weeks after those three hours of your life that you will never get back, ever.
And he wonders why he didn’t get a response?
There are also the sweet, shy, introverted ones who latch on to you like they’re hanging from a cliff, about to fall to their death. They need you to speak for them because they don’t have the balls to say what they really want to say and need to be slapped around a bit when their passive aggressiveness slips out because let’s get real, they don’t know how to be straightforward.
I call these the “cliff hangers”. We have all had one at some point and if you haven’t, consider yourself lucky.
These are the two types of guys (notice how I haven’t used the term “men”) that I’ve found myself in situations with. A few exceptions include sociopaths living double lives, pathological liars, jealous and resentful crybabies with “I went to catholic school and they told me I was a bad person” issues. The list goes on.
To my surprise I happened to meet two guys who were none of the above. Two good looking, funny, awesome, supportive guys who didn’t let me get away with my Jewish neurosis and my “I used to be fat so I have issues” nonsense. And neither of them were musicians? These were men of a rare breed, I had to keep them both!
I’d been seeing one of the guys who’d moved to Omaha and we were staying in touch, but a few months later, I met Mr. Queens borough (sorry Omaha). Queens and I were having a lot of fun, and about a month in, I found out that Omaha was coming back to New York to visit. My band Wise Girl happened to be playing when he was going to be in town. He seemed really excited that he was going to finally see my band play. I kept seeing Queens but never mentioned the show because I knew Omaha would be there, and that would be straight up awkward.
It was a Thursday night, and I got to the venue early and sound-checked. At that point, a bunch of my friends had arrived. Iwalked to the bar to order a drink and felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to Queens standing there with his friend, both clearly drunk.
I stood there for a minute, frozen. I couldn’t speak or move as my thoughts had taken me to another land. A land of bombs and explosions, a war zone, all I could think about was the fact that I was f—ed.
Omaha was on his way to the show, and Queens was at my show, drunk and all over me. He introduced me to his friend and put his arm around me, trying to pull me in and kiss me. I smiled and pulled away saying, “How did you know about the show”? He told me that he had seen the event on Facebook and wanted to surprised me. Well, he definitely got his wish. Then he drew me in close and tried to kiss me again saying, “I want you to be my girl.”
Holy s—! What was going on? Was this a sick joke? Joan Osbourne’s ‘What If God Was One of Us?’ started playing in my head, and I wondered if this was the case. Was Queens actually God, being “one of us” by f—ing with me?
I turned to my right, and there was my mother. Perfect timing! I could now escape. I told Queens that I had to say hi to my mom, and that I’d be back. I ran over to her and blurted out, “Look, mom, remember when you used to sing ‘Instant Karma’s gonna get you’ to me when I was being a brat? Well you were right! I’m seeing two guys that don’t know about each other, one showed up to the show and the other is on his way here so I need you to play interference.”
My mom smirked and asked, “Which one is he”? I pointed him out and she shot me the most obvious, awkward wink. It looked like a grain of sand had just flown into her eye causing a severe twitch. She dramatically dashed over to introduce herself to Queens and his creepy friend who proceeded to hit on her in front of my dad.
I ran backstage to inform my band about my dilemma and asked their advice. All I got from the boys were eyes rolling and mumbles under my guitarist’s breath saying, “How do you always get into these situations?” Thanks for the support, assholes!
Finally it was time to play. I got on stage and there was a huge light melting not only my eyes but my face. It was so f—ing hot up there, but at least I couldn’t see anyone in the crowd. I could hear Queens and his drunken “supportive” yells — “Yeah babe you rock!” — which made me want to curl up into a ball and die. I am not your “babe,” buddy. Take it down a notch.
As we were speeding through the songs, the lights got hotter and hotter, and while battling a full-on sweat-‘stached panic attack, all I could think about was, “Can Omaha hear Queens yelling? Is he going to know that there is something going on? Should I just pretend not to know him after the show?”
Halfway through the set, I stopped playing, turned around and walked toward my drummer screaming, “It’s so f—ing hot in here? Why am I sweating so much?” He told me to relax and confirmed that the whole band was hot and sweating. “Come on, Abby, let’s just get through the set,” he said. He was right, what the f— did I care if I was sweating so much, battling a near heart attack because of my own stupidity? This is rock ‘n’ roll! I gave every bit of energy that I had and rocked out the rest of the set, Wise Girl style, leaving behind a sweat trail as I left the stage.
After the show, Queens, who was inebriated at this point, walked backstage and tried to kiss my sweat-drenched face, in front of my band and my mom. That was the last straw; he was now on my shit list. I told him that he had to leave and begged his friend to take him home. I couldn’t deal with his drunk, disorderly ass anymore, and he had already ruined my night up to this point. As they were leaving, Queens stared at me with puppy dog eyes while I cheesed real hard and waved goodbye. “BYE GUYS, THANKS FOR COMING!”
I walked to the bar where Omaha was standing and introduced him to a bunch of my friends. We all had a blast drinking, talking, joking around and it turned out to be an awesome time. Later that night when everyone was gone, Omaha and I were re- capping the show.
“It was so hot, I felt like I was gonna die, was it just me?” I said to him. He replied, “No I was brutally hot in there, but what was up with that drunk dude screaming all of that weird stuff?”
My heart started racing as I tried to figure out what to say, “Oh I know, that was so weird right? I don’t even know him, what a freak,” was what came out.
It turns out Omaha got to the show right before we played and didn’t see any of the craziness with Queens. I was in the clear. That s— show made me realize that lying to get your way is not worth the pain of having to ask your mom to play interference. My mom still brings up that story to this day, every year at passover dinner.
I never spoke to Queens again after that show.