The Flaming Lips are playing at the Harrah's Casino Concert Cove in Council Bluffs on August 25th. In terms of absurdity, this by far surpasses Ghostface Killah's merely riot-catalyzing performance at the Sokol Underground. The last band Harrah's hosted was Sister Hazel. The last show The Flaming Lips played was probably somewhere in space. This is existentially shattering. This is Kafkaesque. No, this is downright Latkaesque. If I woke up tomorrow morning having metamorphosized into a giant insect, I would put on some pants, scurry downtown to the Old Market, pick up a copy of the Omaha World-Herald, use my two frothing mandibles to flip the paper open to the Living section, and standing on my hind legs, hissing and screeching in the middle of the 11th and Jackson intersection, I would chomp incredulously on the "FLAMING LIPS TO PERFORM IN SKOAL-ENCRUSTED IOWAN SHITHOLE" feature until I had motivated at least seven hipster short-order cooks to quit their jobs out of sheer disillusionment.
Speaking of Council Bluffs, I saw Superman last night at the esteemed Star Cinema: Where Internet Pedophiles Take Undercover Police Officers Posing As 12 Year-Old Girls On Their First Dates. Some super-troglodyte in a unitard and cape started hooting during the opening credits and an upstanding Council Bluffalo kept the peace by yelling out, "Shut yer goddamn mouth!" As a haughty Niles Crane aside muttered mostly to myself, I said, "Oh, right. I forgot. We're in Council Bluffs." This remark penetrated much more audibly than I had intended, and lest we forget: well-timed quips directed at the status quo are redneck kryptonite. The seething, incestuous rage was palpable. Luckily, there were some minorities in the audience. Otherwise, it could have been me getting lynched in the parking lot.
Tomorrow marks the Bi-Millennial Petit Family Yard Sale. This means that a lot of expensive electronics equipment will sit outside in the rain while an obese woman in an Atlanta Falcons jersey and a shower cap price haggles with my mom about the Danielle Steel novels in the 10 cent bin. I, meanwhile, will be lurking in the background, slipping He-Man figurines into my pockets when nobody is looking. It seems like I have to do this every time we have a yard sale. They're collectibles, mom.