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Trans-Siberian Transudation


Trans-Siberian Transudation
Transudation: To have one’s socks blown off; to be overwhelmed, awed, left slack-jawed, wowed, feeling spent, limp, saturated beyond capacity, thrilled, extreme excitement, walloped.

You won’t find that definition in any dictionary. I just made it up.

I hope that at some time in your life that you have at least a few of these sock-blowing moments. They’re a lot of fun. But don’t worry if you die without having experienced this feeling. In every picture I have ever seen of angels, they’re ALL barefooted. So, apparently, being in the presence of God is also a cure for any remaining foot clothing you may be wearing when you die.

My family of two teenagers, Beloved Spouse and I felt the cold shock of naked feet as we walked out of the Rose Garden in Portland, Oregon after witnessing the extraordinary performance by the Trans-Siberian Orchestra. But we were very happy about it.

We’ve listened to the CDs.

We’ve watched the DVDs.

And as wonderful as they are, they don’t even hold a candle to the live show.

My socks shot off into the atmosphere and are probably orbiting the Space Station right about now; panicking the occupants into thinking they’re under attack by Hanes, The Alien Underwear Planet.

I can see the movie trailer: “You thought they disappeared in the dryer. Erma Bombeck told her children they went to live with Jesus. But the truth is far more sinister. The missing socks have organized and are poised to invade Planet Earth: The Attack of the Vengeful Sock Army!!!”

I have a feeling my own personal pair of socks has a little company up there. The Rose Garden was packed having been sold out months before anyone was even thinking of the holiday season.

From the opening notes to the final thunder of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, a roar that I’m sure even Beethoven heard despite being deaf and dead 179 years, the joint was rocked.

The first half was mostly from their CD/DVDs of Christmas carols between the story from “Christmas Eve” of an angel’s journey across our planet and the reconciliation between a father and daughter as witnessed by the angel. The poetry of the narration was so powerful; it was as if the story teller was singing without notes.

And that was only the first half.

The light and laser show would have been worth the price of admission alone. A crew of 63 had spent the last 15 hours setting up the stage and pyrotechnic system that included synchronized lights, an extensive laser show that erased all memory of Pink Floyd, explosions, fireworks (yes, inside of a sports arena,) falling sudsy snowflakes and plumes of fire.

The fire was shot off across the back of the stage as well as at the control center right behind our seats. When I turned around and felt the blast of heat on my face, my immediate thought was, “We are going to die.” Because I knew, if the fire got out of control, there was no way I could get my babies safely out of that packed arena from our floor-level seats.

But my next thought was that I doubted I would know the difference. I would just transfer from one heaven to the next.

The second half started with the audience being informed that Now They Were Going to Rock.

And then, the screaming guitar solo notes to “Layla” blasted from the speakers.

“Layla” was rocked to the extent that can only come from four guitars, two pianos, an extensive keyboard system, drum set, nine-voice choir, small string section and the vocals of Mad Max from New York.

If Patti Harrison had heard that rendition, she not only would have left her husband for Eric Clapton, George would have probably asked if he could come along, too.

They played “The Flight of the Bumblebee” faster than my ears could listen. The extreme violinist from England dueled the guitarists in turn and I’m sure if a real bee had been anywhere in the vicinity, this rendition would have shorted out its antennae.

I couldn’t help but think about a certain individual who was standing behind me in line at the concession stand. He was completely freaking out because the menu board read “Regular Soda.” Here was a grown-ass man who wanted a Diet Coke and was fretting over the concession stand only having regular sodas. It never occurred to him in his impassioned rant that the “regular” on the menu board was referring to the size of the beverage. I knew this because just below “Regular Soda” it said “Large Soda,” ergo “regular” did not have anything to do with the level of sugar, calories or caffeine of the liquid refreshment.

As we picked up our order, I just had to turn around and see what Diet Soda Man looked like.

I still don’t know.

I couldn’t get past the feet.

Not only was Diet Soda Man wearing socks with sandals and yes, although it pains me to say it, shorts, the socks were of the “gold-toed” variety.

My eyes bulged at the sight and I simply could not get past those two hairy knees without realizing I had seen quite enough, thank you very much.

Regardless, I am sure, that as we all trundled out of the Rose Garden into the night, that even Diet Soda Man had visible toes.

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