Sunday Confessions: Never Again

In the midst of a whirling circle of shirtless men whose pungent musk brought tears to my eyes and whose fists and elbows kept, magically I suppose, connecting with my breasts, I had a Final Destination moment.

I was certain I was going to die before the night was over, and this spot, the bar I was in, would become another stop on someone’s cross-country music tour like The Station—the place that caught fire during a White Snake concert killing 100 people.

I was in this bar to see a NOFX concert. I know, I know…I really should have thought this through since I’ve never really been much of a punk fan anyway. But there I was. Slightly terrified yet also somewhat amused.

My Final Destination moment was based on several factors:

1. I was on the second floor of this bar, The Masquerade in Atlanta, Georgia, and I can feel the vibrations of the bass drum from the band playing on the floor below me.

2. The entire building seems to be made completely of wood.

3. There are numerous “men”, many of who are rather large, jumping around and punching one another.

4. When these “men” jump, the floor under my feet actually bounces up and down like I am on a fucking trampoline.

1+2+3+4= Death Trap.

In my mind, I see the jumping and chaos eventually pushing the floor past its limits. It would splinter like a frozen sheet of ice covering a lake and break away beneath us. The stage would begin to collapse, sparks would fly from the equipment, and all the wood, alcohol-soaked as it was, would begin to burn just as fast and hard as the music buzzing in my ears. The entire place would be engulfed in minutes. After suffering a broken ankle falling from the second floor, I would be trampled while trying to drag myself to the exit eventually drowning in the fat cells of the motherfuckers who fell on top of me in their unsuccessful push to freedom.

It was a dark moment. But, I didn’t die. I might have had marginally more fun than had I lived out my Final Destination 17 scene alongside the guy that had just elbowed me in the tit while spastically punching and jumping around to the tune of My Orphan Year. The key point there is “might have.”

I don’t understand the point of throwing a ham sandwich at a Jewish guy. That is the theme of the evening.

We all paid money to go to this event (ok someone paid for me and dragged me along, but still). So, why would you pay to see a band headed by a Jewish guy and plan before hand to purchase a convenience store ham sandwich packaged in a flimsy, white, triangular package; shove it in your pocket; then, throw it at him in the middle of his performance? I don’t think I’ve ever been in a worse crowd in all the many concerts I’ve been to in my lifetime and I’ve been in some rough ones. It doesn’t take much when you’re 5’4 and have a vagina. Unless I’m there with a guy as a pretty, tattooed accessory, I’m in the way. But still, Metalheads seem to have nothing when it comes to the sheer unadulterated ignorance of a collective punker crowd.

“We’re going to hurl crushed, mostly empty beer cans at a band we paid 30 bucks to see. We’re going to insult them by tossing processed pork. We will smoke pot in the middle of the crowd because we’re rebels, baby. We don’t have any rules. It’s anarchy, bitches. Fuck yeah. And we’re going to run around a room in a circle punching and kicking other people in a mass of sweat and stink and cigarette smoke. It’s ironic dancing. Everything we do is ironic. And that’s how we fight the system to take it down, doll face. We do drugs that people have negative opinions about then act in completely inane, violent ways. IT’S THE GREATEST PLAN EVEEEEEEER.”

What? What’s that you say? That doesn’t seem like a sensible approach to accomplishing a single fucking thing? Yeah, you’re probably right.

NOFX, though not exactly my thing, put on a great show. But as I stood there frozen to the spot in midst of my Final Destination montage with beer drying on my Chucks and jeans, sore, possibly bruised and bleeding, makeup ruined from the water that had been splashed in my face from a hurtling plastic bottle, I realized this is really not how I would like to spend the last few moments of my life. There’s no value in this experience to say the least. So I squeezed through the crowd to go sit in my car to work on my book. I’d rather have been mugged and murdered sitting in my car in the middle of Atlanta than drown in adipose while flames licked my toes and creeped up the legs of my beer soaked jeans. In fact, after measuring my options, the risk of getting mugged and murdered on my way to the car or while in the car seemed trivial in comparison to sharing one more moment of my time with such a negative entity. Never again.

Tips for Punks (and anyone else at a music-based social event):

1. I don’t care how hot it is--do not take off your shirt in a crowd. You look like a dick. Keeping the shirt on minimizes the amount of sweat you insist on depositing on someone else when you rub against them on your way to do more punching.

2. A band will likely not come back if you throw lunchmeat at them. I know this is hard to process, but I would never lie to you.

3. Learn phrases like “pardon me” and “my bad.” When you trample someone a foot shorter than you, he or she may be less likely to elbow the fuck out of your ribs on your way by if you simple use such a phrase.

4. It’s probably a bad idea to pound 8 beers while participating in the equivalent of the Running of the Bulls.

5. Having a standard look is the same as a uniform. Uniforms are, ironically, a symbol of oppression. This leads me to think you are, likely, oppressing not liberating yourselves. Being a “punker” is not a way of dress. It’s supposed to be a way of life.

6. Respect the fact that some people came to actually watch the band. It’s tough to understand right now, I know, but it’s true. Just think about it for a while. There are people in these crowds who have no less right to be there than you who absolutely do not have any desire to run around all crazy-like and get punched or knocked down onto a hard concrete (or alcohol-laden wooden) floor.

7. Some of you come to these events just for the punching. I know you got made fun of when you were younger, but let it go. Between fight-dancing and Call of Duty addiction, you’re all becoming pretty scary, and you will never get laid.

8. Not wearing some form of deodorant is not a form of rebellion. It’s fucking smelly.

9. Those guys at the front of the crowd who work for the venue get tired of picking your drunk asses up and redistributing you when you’re having a “blast” crowd surfing. They’re doing it for a reason. If one of you happened to fall and break your neck while this was allowed to go on, your pathetic ass would sue the shit out of said venue. This rule has a reason. No one wants to pick up 30 people over the course of 4 hours because you all persist in your stupidity. You’re not sneaky. You’re not cool. It’s not cute, and you’re not funny. Some rules are created for a reason and are not made to be broken just for the fuck of it.

10. If 1-9 are still giving you some trouble, perhaps you should stick to something simple. Use some common fucking sense.