Tom Jones delicious, but not nutritious
The home planet

Cheryl-Anne Millsap

A friend called the other night with a last-minute offer. She had a free ticket to the Tom Jones concert. I had an hour to grab a quick bite, get dressed and get downtown, but how could I pass that up?

The Opera House was crowded, and our seats were high in the "nosebleed" section, but that was fine with me. The view provided an opportunity for people-watching. And was it ever a show.

Before Jones even appeared onstage the women who were seated in the first few rows were already hooting and waving panties in the air like fans waving pompoms at a football game. When he appeared, they leaped to their feet and started dancing.

The women, most middle-aged and older, gathered at the foot of the stage to sway and dance, like thirsty animals gathered around a watering hole. It was a bizarre "mosh pit" of third-grade teachers, nurses, and well-groomed real estate agents.

They offered Jones roses, and "bought-especially-for" lingerie, and tried to hand him notes. Jones cast his smoldering gaze into the lights and launched into a show he must have done a million times before. It was fascinating.

One-upping the panty-tossers, a woman held out her arm so Jones could tease her bra off by pulling it out through her sleeve. He took it and made a show of mopping his sweaty brow and chest before he returned it. She danced back to her seat, thrilled with her souvenir.

I wondered if she would be as happy if the man on the treadmill next to her at the gym leaned over and wiped his sweaty forehead on her sleeve. I bet not.

What did the women write in the notes they were so determined to give him? Did they give e-mail addresses and phone numbers? Were they prepared to follow through if he actually called them?

Driving home, I thought about how, as a little girl, I chased robins and blue jays as they hopped around the yard. My grandmother would ask, "What on earth are you going to do with that thing if you manage to catch it?" I didn't have an answer because I never really expected to catch one.

What would those women do if Jones took the bait and called them? I imagined the phone ringing in a kitchen cluttered with books, cereal boxes, and dirty dishes. A woman answers, "Hello?"

"Hello. Is this Doris? Your name and number were on the leopard print Victoria's Secret boy-style panties that were thrown on the stage tonight. It's me, Tom."

"Tom who?"

"Tom Jones, from the show tonight."

"What? Oh my God... hold on a minute -- Frankie, you let go of your brother right this minute. Don't make me come over there. -- Sorry, who did you say this was?"

"It's me. Tom Jones, from the concert. The note on your panties said to call."

"Look mister, I don't know who you are but this isn't funny."

"Doris, listen to me. I'm a long way from Vegas, Doris. I'm lonely, Doris .. Hello?"

Most of the women who danced at the concert went home to husbands and children, or houseplants and housecats. They washed the make-up off their faces and eased into comfortable cotton underwear, faded sweatpants and T-shirts.

I think Jones went back to his hotel room, ordered a steak from room service and fell asleep watching the Weather Channel.

I guess it's all just part of the fantasy. Jones is paid handsomely to sing love songs, dance a few steps, and dodge panties. And women pay handsomely to pretend that the object of their adolescent crush is finally within reach, looking right at them as he sings.

But like a strutting blue jay, he doesn't intend to be caught, and the women are only playing at catching him anyway. So everyone comes away happy. What a show.