Stamped: January 29th, 2007 | Toggle Similar
Tagged: around town, body parts, complaint dept., dress up, friends and losers.

My first concert ever was to see The Cure. I borrowed my parents' car in 11th grade, loaded up my two friends, and headed to Albany on a school night. Not before, of course, piling on the eyeliner and collecting some excellent mix tapes for our road-trip soundtrack.

Maybe a year later, I found out that Radiohead was playing at the Hammerstein Ballroom. Excellent news! The problem was that the concert was the next night, sold out, and I naturally had no tickets. Solution? Grab my two friends again, pile on the grungy-punk clothing, and hop on the train to Grand Central. That's what scalpers are for! Unfortunately, I also learned what "friends" are for that evening…for bailing out on the concert plans when they realized that the tickets were $80 from the man in the greasy coat. I had no choice but to pay for the two freeloaders in addition to myself, but at the time I couldn't care less. I was getting in to see my future husband, Thom Yorke. What's $240 to a teenager in heat love?!

Being kids on a mission, we were there way early and had tons of time to score excellent seats. But this is where my complaint begins (there's always one lurking below the surface). We sat through Teenage Fanclub, the opening act, a band that I wouldn't appreciate until years later, just waiting for the main event. There were whispers through the crowd about Courtney Love and Marilyn Manson sitting in the balcony or something, but who cared? Ok, maybe we did a little bit, but we were fucking high school kids!

When Thom and company finally took the stage, I was completely besides myself. I'm certain that if I needed to undergo a psychiatric evaulation at that exact moment, I'd be diagnosed as clinically insane. The humungous speaker on my left side kept the music vibrating through my bones and drowned out any possible sing-along I was attempting.

But then the couple arrived.

The dude was leading the way, but he wasn't exactly the type of guy that commaded a room. He was on the short side and had a very clean-cut hair-do. Once he shoved his way past me and my friends and planted himself, and his female counterpart, directly in front of me, I wanted to stomp him into the floor. Now, mind you, I was a freshman to this whole scene really, and, therefore, could not be held fully accountable for what I was about to do. The fanaticism took control, and I only knew one existence…to get that motherfucker out of my place. This was, after all, my spot on the GA floor. How dare he shove in front of me for the better view?! I imagine that my shock could only equal that of a kid in Disney World being pushed aside for the front seat of the Batman Rollercoaster after having just waited for 3 hours. And then being told that the park was closing. Or maybe a fat guy on the beer line being shoved aside by some frat kid as the beer truck gets tapped out. You get the fucking picture. I was irate, at the least.

Like a wave, the fury too control. After tapping the guy on the shoulder, asking him to move, telling him to move, and then screaming in his ear that he move, I was greeted by his oblivious smiles. Silly boy thought he could ignore me away! Bah! I think at that very moment, the band started playing Planet Telex or something. That anger blended with my bouncing excitement and I began to jump up and down to the song, using the man's shoulder as a balance for my leaping. Soon, he became a leverage so I could project myself even further into the air. The entire time, he did not budge. What's more is that he never even turned around to tell my highschooled punk ass to grow the fuck up or he'd bully me out of the place. Later in life, I'd wonder about the chick and why she'd date such a spineless bastard.

Anway, I still love going to concerts, but the idea of General Admission gives me flashbacks of that evening in Manhattan over ten years ago. But whatever. I'm a big girl now, and my permanent scowl typically scares would-be spot-grabbers away before they ever think of striking. Besides, there's nothing better than dressing up for the evening and pretending, for a moment, that you could possibly score the lead singer. He's totally going to see me singing along to every song and be so fully impressed. Plus I'm sure he thinks my shirt is hot, and OH MY GOD, he totally just fucking made eye contact…! His people will be coming to find me after the show to invite me backstage, I'm sure…I better linger at the bar…possibly by the back entrance…

*I know, my guy wasn't a chick with a "pom-pom head," but that picture cracks me up.

Last 5 posts by Jenna

• peace out, my lovlies - June 8th, 2007
• bringing sexy back - May 28th, 2007
• I'm no James Woods - May 21st, 2007
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• No, no I don't. - May 7th, 2007