Cranberries, Cardigans ... Tomato, Tomahto
by Rockstar Mommy
Before I had kids, I would go to concerts and shows pretty much every night of the week. Good ones, bad ones, it didn't really matter. It was just something to do rather than sitting around my friends' apartments asking each other, "What do you want to do?", "I dunno. What do you want to do?". It got to the point where it was damned near impossible to name a band that was around at the time that I hadn't seen, probably multiple times. I'm glad I did, though, because even the shittiest of shows gave me some memories to hang on to to keep me entertained while I'm doing the 3AM hallway bounce with a baby crying in my ear.
Like the time I went to see the Beastie Boys and the guy standing next to me who kept asking me for my phone number by saying "Gimme the digits" got stabbed in the shoulder (it wasn't me, I swear, but I can't say I didn't think about it a few dozen times) by a complete stranger, for no reason at all, and the guy didn't even realize it. I had to tap him on the other non-bloody shoulder and tell him "Dude, you've got a knife in your back." He looked back at the knife and exclaimed, "Fuck." But it wasn't a "FUCK!" you would think you would hear someone yell in a moment of panic. It was a simple, quite matter-of-fact, "Fuck." As in, "Fuck. Now I gotta buy a new shirt."
Or like the time I thought I was buying tickets to see The Cranberries. (Shut up, I said it was something to do.) But, I guess I hadn't learned how to read just yet because I actually bought tickets to see The Cardigans and spent the night listening to some annoying, perky broad singing about kissing her by the broken tree house or some shit. There was this guy there who was visiting The States from Ireland who kept hitting on me and I let him because he was cute but mainly because I was under legal drinking age. I couldn't understand a word he said, though, because he didn't have an accent like the Lucky Charms guy and instead talked like he had a mouth full of shit. I just kept nodding my head and agreeing with everything he said because it was loud and I wasn't really all that interested anyway. Later on that night after the perky broad was done singing and I could understand him a little bit better, I found out that I had agreed to go back to Ireland with him and I had to act like I was an escaped mental patient in order to get him the hell away from me.
Then there was the time I went to a Beck show and decided I would give the mosh pit a visit since I didn't picture Beck fans getting all that rough in their white pleather shoes and brown polyester suits. I mean, honestly, who would expect anyone who looked like Mr. Furly from Three's Company to know how to throw a punch? But, the second that Beck came out and started singing a song called "Satan Gave Me A Taco", the crow turned into Slayer fans from hell and started throwing me all over the place. For the next week, I lied to anyone who asked why I was all bruised up that I had fallen down the stairs because I would have rather been known for being a clumsy fool than for getting beat up by a bunch of Beck fans.
There was the Korn show (oh, the shame!) I went to where within the first 5 seconds of the first song, my red sneaker came off and I spent the rest of the show hopping around on one foot looking for it. I never did find it, but by the end of the show, when everyone had cleared out, there was a graveyard of shoes up front. I dug through the pile but never did find my shoe. So, I actually had to pick a stranger's scuzzy shoe and wear it home. I know, eww, but Athlete's Foot seemed a lot more appealing than having to take Philadelphia Public Transportation home in a bare foot. Itchy foot rot beats the hell out of Hepatitis any day, if you ask me.
I could go on and on and on some more, but I will spare you. Point is, I miss going to shows all the time, even the shitty ones. I used to swear that I would never get old and stop going to shows. But, I had kids and got old and stopped going, save maybe one or two a year. And those two usually end up being something like Sesame Street Live or Disney on Ice. Which, you know, aren't really the venues for future storytelling. Unless, of course, you want to hear about the time Imade a 6 year old cry by buying up the last $22 Elmo beach ball. That's pretty hardcore, right?
Rockstar Mommy told u she was hardcore