#stories for the after party

elcoyote907:

Yes, this is completely true. Picture post to follow.

I first saw An Evening with Noel Fielding on March 10th at his first show in Boston. I met some great people, had an unbelievable time, and we all begrudgingly staggered away, out of the Fantasy Zone and back into bleak reality, thinking “Wow, what do we do now?” I tried explaining the wondrous things I had seen to those who weren’t there, but apparently some people have issues with the fundamental concept of anthropomorphic triangles, so that didn’t go well. I then answered the burning question of “What next?” by consulting the Internet (as you do) to follow the tour and see other people’s experiences, wishing that I had bought a ticket for one of the New York shows as well. Living in New Hampshire, it’s far, but certainly doable.

Well, on the following Monday, a message pops up on Reddit about 3 spare tickets for the show on March 18th - the original owner now unable to go. Serendipitously, I had that day off of work. “Well fuck me sideways,” I thought, “This is meant to be. I have to try to get a ticket. Otherwise, there will be an empty seat, and Noel will see it and he’ll never come to America again because we’re a bunch of fat, ungrateful, gun-toting bastards. I can’t have that.” So I sent a message. When I didn’t hear back on Tuesday or early Wednesday, I had all but given up hope. Then, Wednesday night, I logged in to find that I had received a response! There was one ticket left. I sent off a message to procure the ticket. And then, I hear nothing. 10 o’clock Thursday night. Still nothing. Now, for some perspective, it takes about 5 hours for me to get to NYC, so if I’m going to go, I sort of need to know. I reluctantly go to bed, tossing and turning until 5am when I see that I had gotten another response! The ticket was still available, and we were ready to proceed with the transaction. So, Friday morning I give my e-mail for the ticket transfer. I figure if I get it before 11am, I can head off with my ticket in hand (so to speak) and no worries. The hours go by. No ticket. Regardless, I get ready to leave. Really, I know I’m a fucking idiot to embark on a 5-hour journey without a ticket, just trusting that a stranger on the Internet will come through and actually give it to me, but I reason that even if the ticket doesn’t come through, I’ll get a nice day trip to NYC. How bad could it be?

Well, as it turns out, pretty fucking bad. I’m driving along I-91 in Springfield, MA when we hit construction and the narrow, 2-lane highway becomes lined with concrete barriers just a little too close for comfort, like mouth-breathing strangers sitting next to you on an otherwise empty subway car. Naturally, because life is unfair and I’m an idiot driving to NYC for a show I don’t have a ticket for, I find myself next to an 18-wheeler tractor trailer, who decides that his one lane isn’t big enough. So, he crosses the center line, into my lane. I lay on my horn and inch closer to the barrier on my driver’s side, hitting the brakes so I can hopefully avoid him altogether if he doesn’t get the message. And still he inches closer. I stare at my passenger side-view mirror, watching the space between it and this fucking massive truck become a foot, then inches, then centimeters. And honestly, I don’t have any profound thoughts or even the realization that, as we are going 60mph on a highway, I could easily just get crushed to death. All I could think was how stupid car horns really are when the people you want to hear them don’t, and that if I die, I won’t get to see Noel’s show again tonight. That’s it. My priorities are very much in order. As the truck makes contact with my side mirror, I hear a crunch like when you step on a chip or a Cheerio that has fallen on the floor, blunt and muffled, yet still jarring, and then I see my side-view mirror just limply hanging there, the actual mirror portion dangling in the wind by a wire, flapping about like a running naked man’s penis. I finally manage to slow down enough that the truck goes by, driving in the middle of both lanes like nothing is wrong, and I do a quick check to make sure nothing else is wrong with my car. I can’t stop, obviously, or I won’t make it to the city on time. Fuck police reports or insurance estimates. I’ll do that later. I have actual important things to do, like go see Noel Fielding’s show for a second time. Using a ticket I don’t have.

Anyway, so I make it to the train station, hop on and get to the city without trouble. I walk down Park Street to the theater, past a homeless man shouting at a woman in patterned leggings, “Hey fancy pants, lady, help me out! C’mon fancy pants lady!” (Not really relevant to the story, but it was fucking hilarious to see.) Then, I make it to the theater. It’s perfect and magical. I stand there and check my phone, sure that the ticket transfer will have gone through by now. Wrong. Fuck. I talk briefly with a guy named Rafael, who recommends I talk to one of the managers, then wishes me luck and gives me a hug. Another guy comes out, and I explain to him my situation, applying the flawless logic of “Well if I know there is going to be an empty seat, and I can tell you where it is, then even if the ticket doesn’t get transferred, you’ll see that I’m right and that I have rightful claim to that seat. So you should let me in.” Surprisingly, this doesn’t work, and I’m standing there around 5:30-5:45, frantically checking my phone every 5 seconds with a concerned look on my face.

I’m checking it yet again when I look up and see that coming around the corner are Noel, Rich, and Mike. They stop to talk to a few other fans there waiting for the doors to open. Naturally I lose my capacity for rational thought and most language, and so when I walk over, all I can do is look at Rich, say, “Hi, Rich!” (smooth AF), and shake his hand. Next thing I know, Noel is right in front of me, and as I’m 5’1”, he stoops his head down a bit and says, “Hello. How are you?” like a perfectly nice human being and wonderful fucking modern gentleman. I look into his blue-lensed sunglasses and say (again, smooth AF), “Hi! I’m…good!” We shake hands, and I’m pretty sure I black out. I had dreams of witty banter, and oh the clever things I’d say, but in the end, a simple greeting was all I could manage. It was perfectly lovely. Another fan wanted a picture, and next thing I know, Mike is standing next to me and says hi, and I just go “Wow. Hi, Mike!” (you guessed it, smooth AF), shake his hand, and then wave as the three of them make their way into the theater. I briefly contemplate how many diseases I would get if I never washed my hand again, and promptly decide that even if my ticket doesn’t come through, the journey and almost getting killed were worth it. Not 5 minutes later (I’m assuming because of the magic of meeting the 3 of them), I get an e-mail saying that the ticket has been transferred. It was meant to be. I stood in line, smiling in a dazed state as they came out again to take pictures, sat in a dazed state as I waited for the show, and once again enjoyed the ever-loving shit out of the show itself, particularly the bacon-themed improv that came out of the video camera not working at the beginning of the second half. I have ultimately decided that Noel Fielding fans are some of the only trustworthy people on the Internet, and that almost getting killed is a small price to pay for getting to enter the Fantasy Zone. 10/10, would do again.

TL;DR – In true Sandy Fantasy Man fashion, I went on an epic quest to save Princess Noel from having an empty seat on his 3/18 show, while not really having a ticket myself, and almost died in the process. It was well worth it for what ended up happening.