Holy comments Batman! I never expected such a huge turnout for some piddly camera. Just where are all you lurkers when I promise to show my boobs on the internet?

My ego is *crushed*. Sniff. Surely my goodies, flapjacks, beavertails or whatever you choose to call them are worth more than a brand spanking new digital camera.

Oh, all right. Maybe not. Let me have a second for self-delusion and then let’s move on, shall we?

(Takes a moment to imagine said boobs are rival to the mounds of boobiliciousness like Dolly Parton’s.)

Moving on. Ahem.

After reading everyone’s comments and emails about their favourite or most memorable concert moments, I realized I lied to you, my readers.

It wasn’t intentional. When I wrote about my deep and abiding love for Sir Elton I wasn’t exaggerating. I meant every word. In fact, if you are reading this dear Elton, please know I would willingly tattoo your name on my arse just for the privilege of knowing every time I sit I’d be sitting on you.

(Wow. Wayyyyy dirtier sounding when I type it than when I thought it.)

Still, after reading about everyone’s experience I realized there was one concert moment I will never, ever be able to forget. It’s branded into my grey matter and haunts me when I sleep. (Like the 80 year old women who walk around naked in the swimming pool’s change rooms, taunting me with images of my future self. Shudder.)

I was 27 and my sister invited me to a concert being held in a small watering hole downtown. (That is a fancy way of saying it was a remarkably scuzzy dive located on the corner where local hookers and drug dealers made their livings.) The invitation was a rare occurence as I spent most of my twenties making and raising babies while my darling sister spent her time going to school and shaking her booty at night clubs.

What made the concert even more thrilling than being able to escape diaper duty and house cleaning for a night was the fact that it was my brother, Stretch’s gig. He had been in a band for years and while I had heard his music many, many times (in fact, his music may be slightly responsible for my current hearing loss) I had never actually seen him perform.

My siblings, of course, are evil. Evil in a lovable way. They are much like me. But since neither of them had children at that point in their lives, they didn’t focus their laser beams of evil on their spawn like I like to do. No, they focused on me.

As I wandered around making a complete and utter jackass of myself, they grinned quietly into their beers and enjoyed the show I was inadvertently putting on.

That’s the finest example of sibling love my parents could ever hope for. Heh. But that’s not the only reason why this concert stands out like Richard Simmons at a country fair.

I was thrilled to be able to watch my brother perform live in front of an audience. It’s the concert where I met the love of his life, Stump, for the first time. And it was the first time I got to see my brother as not just the goober who would sit on me and fart but the man he grew into.

Although, I will admit it was freaking weird to watch other women toss their panties at him like he was a rock star or something. I mean, I know for a fact the dude has one single black chest hair sprouting from his left nipple. It’s not like he oozes sex appeal. (Admittedly, I may be slightly coloured in my sibling perception of him. Sorry Stump. I’m sure he is sexy to you. Ew. That sentence hurt to type.)

It was surreal to be standing on the dance floor watching people in leather collars with more metal in their bodies than are in the automobiles in the nearby parking lot, thrash around and pay homage to the cookie monster music my brother made.

It was surreal to realize my brother was actually talented. That the years of me having been forced to listen to him rip on his electric guitar in the basement actually morphed into music.

More surreal to the experience was the pig’s blood tossed around, the thump of the bass and the crazy drunkards who actually enjoyed the loud screams of the singer as my ears started to slightly bleed. I realized then what an actual fuddy duddy I had turned into during my years of raising babies.

Still, it was an event to be remembered. Maybe not repeated any time soon, but I could safely go to my grave knowing I had seen my brother strum his guitar and sing his anti-establishment songs that other’s seemed to genuinely enjoy.

Just when I thought the evening couldn’t get any stranger, a lone dancer on the dance floor caught my eye. She was a skinny, lanky woman wearing a leather collar and a shirt so short if she bent over her little hairs would peep out and wave hello. She tossed her stringy hair around like her life depended on it while alternately taking swigs from the beer bottle she tightly clenched in one hand.

She mesmerized the people sitting at the tables near the dance floor. I’m not sure if it was the over-sized tank top that kept slipping down her shoulder and exposing her left breasticle to everyone or just her bizarre chicken dancing skills. What ever it was, she had captured the audience’s attention with her antics and she knew it.

Just when I was about to look away and head to the bar where my brother was entertaining his fans during a break in his gig, she lowered the beer bottle to the floor and gently swayed her hips while swaying over the bottle.

For a split second, I was sure she was going to try and pee in the bottle. At that point in the evening, nothing would have surprised me. I was surrounded by, well, freaks. Freaks do freaky things. But she didn’t.

Instead, she jacked up her already short skirt (hello little hairs! It’s good to see one woman believes in going au naturel,) and started grinding her hips lower and lower towards the floor like some weird limbo dance, all the while making sure the bottle was directly center underneath her.

I watched, entranced with the woman who looked so frail she may actually break and wondered if my body could bend the way hers did. Not bloody likely I thought, just as she squatted over the bottle.

And then, as if time stood still, she did the unimaginable. (At least to my prim and pure imagination.) She lowered herself onto the beer bottle and picked it up with her vay-jay-jay. The crowd immediately hushed as everyone turned to watch this weirdo on the dance floor, grooving with a beer bottle stuck in her hoo-ha.

I was repulsed. Yet strangely fascinated. She twirled about and amazingly that damn bottle didn’t fly out of her cooter. I thought she was going to show off her limber technique to lower the bottle back to the floor (because I’m amazingly naive like that) when suddenly she reached down and grabbed the bottle from her nether regions.

(Must have started to slip.) Heh. Instead of putting the bottle back on the dance floor, she freaking took a swig from it. The ‘Ewwws‘ could be heard all the way down the noisy city block. Then she fell flat on her ass and crawled off the dance floor.

Who knew I’d get a concert and a sex show when I went to see Stretch perform?

It was one of those freakish things I had wished I had never seen nor will I ever forget.

That won’t ever stop me from wondering just how long I could hold a half-full bottle of beer in my tulip lips, though. Not that I’ve been tempted to try. But a girl can ponder can’t she?

It turned out to be a concert to remember. I walked away with a new found respect for my brother and a renewed pledge to work on my kegels.

What more could a girl ask for?

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Thanks to everyone who entered my concert. I must admit, I wish I had a camera to give to every person who entered. But there can only be one winner and after consulting the stars (or the random number generator) I found a winner.

Congratulations to the winner, Katie Jennings, who learned not to judge a book by it’s cover with her concert experience. Your spanky new camera is in the mail. Or will be later today, when I get my arse to the post office.

Stay tuned for my next big giveaway. I had so much fun with this one, I’ve decided to toss more freebies in my reader’s direction.