Concert-Going for Dummies, Part 2
Over three years ago, I wrote this pleasant piece. It was aimed at my fellow concert-going brethren and its purpose was to create an educational manual if you will that would allow all of us to enjoy the concert-going experience more. I would enjoy said experience more because I wouldn't have to put up with the annoying assholes and the annoying assholes would enjoy the experience more because they would cease being annoying assholes and, because of this, wouldn't have to be killed by me, pretty much ruining any future show for the both of us.
But people really don't listen.
So, while I link to the above blog entry and implore you to read it, absorb it, embrace it, and make it part of your daily lifestyle, I'm going to give you a couple of other helpful hints now in the sincere hopes that these hints will one day save you from having your neck wrung by me. I wish I was exaggerating.
Here's one for the staff at the venue:
Put away the indelible marker and Houdini-esque bracelets.
Last night we went to see this band. It's bad enough that we were herded into the venue and had orders barked at us (stay to the right! ID in your left hand! Tickets in the right!) with all the warmth and compassion of a Nazi SS officer, but once in the venue we were immediately and permanently branded.
Old bastards like myself were given the "all clear" to drink overpriced beer with a flimsy-looking adhesive bracelet that was put on my "RIGHT WRIST!" (or so he barked) by our friendly host. Don't let the description of this bracelet fool you. While it looks like it is made out of the same stuff that lines the examination tables at your local doctor's office, it is actually made out of the strongest substance ever known to man. To take this off at the end of the night, you need a blow torch, garden shears, and kryptonite. And, because our doorman ogre doesn't exactly score well in the "Pays close attention to detail" part of his annual performance review, he invariably attaches the adhesive part a little askew so a small part of this adhesive from hell sticks to the hair on my "RIGHT WRIST!" Removing this at the end of the night involves screams of absolute torture as this Martian glue proceeds to rip two layers of skin off my "RIGHT WRIST!" It's hard to really enjoy a concert in retrospect when you are pouring Bactine directly into your hypodermis.
Those less fortunate to be born after 1987 had the tops of both hands tattooed with enormous black x's that looked like they were put on with a paint roller. This is the subtle hint to the bartenders that those with the mark of the beast are unable to drink. The lack of subtlety comes with this Nathanial Hawthorne-esque permanence of The Opaque X. For, in order to remove it once the concert is over, one needs turpentine, lye, and a sandblaster.
Now, I'm not one to encourage underage drinking at all, but let's be serious. What could possibly do more damage? Exposing a minor to paint remover, caustic soda, and heavy machinery or allowing them to pound a Pabst Blue Ribbon? Which brings me to my next point.
Don't drink shitty beers. In case you were wondering, this category includes, and is headed by, Pabst Blue Ribbon or "PBR" according to the hipsters. Actually, let me amend this. It's not that you can't drink shitty beers, but don't be proud of drinking shitty beers. These new, young members of the alcohol drinking public confidently strut up to the bar, lean in and say with the pride of a boasting parent, "PBR!" as if a hush should fall over the entire crowd while everyone looks at the bar patron, gives him forceful nod of acceptance, and then raises their cans of equally shitty beers to pledge their allegiance to the USA (Useless Swill of Alcohol).
So, this dumb kid slaps down three clams and then emerges from the bar crowd holding a can of PBR the size of Rocky Dennis' head like it was the fucking Stanley Cup.
Look man, I know you would rather put the money mommy and daddy gave you toward a new shirt from Abercrombie that is about two sizes too small for you and would actually even look tight on Karen Carpenter, but maybe you should put it toward drinking slightly better beer instead.
Remember this video? It's funny to watch the monkey. It's not funny to be the monkey. You are the monkey.
Speaking of fashion, I really have to address the people who just try too damn hard to look weird. I realize these kids just moved out of their parents' house and are on their own for the first time and want to look like idiots, but what became of subtlety? First of all, Corey Hart, it's 11:30 at night in a basement venue where I can't see my hand in front of my face. Unless you are Stevie Wonder or an albino, take the fucking shades off.
And the facial hair. Look, I'm probably not one to talk about this given my history of really long sideburns, soul patches, chin pubes, and even a fucking handlebar mustache, but those things looked fantastic on me. I'm talking about the dummies that cultivate facial hair that looks like a cross between a Civil War general and Chewbacca. What exactly are you trying to say with that?
Tattoos. Does everyone have them now? I don't, but it certainly seems like I am now in a minority. I don't mind someone having a little ink, but I wonder how our leather-clad friend with the neck tat is going to feel when he is 70 and his gobbler is hanging lower than a Thanksgiving turkey's. That's gonna look sweet.
And the piercings. Good lord. I'll forgo talking about the lips, nose, septum, eyebrow, mustache area, and naughty parts. I'm talking about those people who put the massively huge things in their ears that stretch their lobes out like Elastic Man. I saw one dude last night that had holes in his lobes, stretched out with hoops, that were about three inches in diameter. So, if you were looking at his lobes straight on, you could see the person standing behind him. I didn't know whether to go up to him and pat him on the back or grab hold of each hoop, do a gymnastic routine, and dismount on his face.
Lighters. Come on. 1983 called and they want their REO Speedwagon concert back. The only time you should bust out a lighter during a concert is after you have doused yourself with gasoline after you have realized what a horrible concert-goer you really are.
Stop taking pictures with your crappy cell phone. OK, I am dating myself, but my first cell phone came in a piece of Samsonite luggage. I had to charge it by hooking it up to the nearest nuclear power plant and needed to wear a hat with a giant satellite dish on it just to get reception. But guess what? It worked. It made phone calls. Which is what a phone is supposed to do. Phone. Phone calls. But these dummies hold up their Razrs 200 feet away from the stage and snap a pic and then shake their heads disparagingly upon inspection of their photographic genius to find out that the band are the size of Lilliputians. You know why your pictures suck? Because you are using your phone!
Which brings me to the thing I am sure will cause the end of civilization: texting. Stop fucking texting during the show! "im @ the show OMG theyre playing LOL r u comin latr rotfl" Here's a keyboard shortcut for you: FU. Maybe I am just jealous because it is impossible for me to efficiently text because my cell phone doesn't have a keyboard, it just has the regular number touchpad. So, what happens is I want to start a word that begins with "r". I need to hit the "7" three times. My thumb spazzes and I hit it four times. I get an "s". I don't want an "s". I get flustered and wait too long (which I have timed as about three nanoseconds) and the cursor moves which confuses me so I hit the "7" again and now I have "ss" when I want an "r" and I then confuse the back button with what is apparently an unlabeled "save this text abomination as a draft" button, so instead of clearing "ss", I have now saved it in my draft messages for posterity. I leave my "ss" message in my draft folder to not only gaze upon it in admiration of my texting prowess but also because I never know when someone is going to be on that "Millionaire" show and need a lifeline and I get a text saying, "Dim. 20 seconds. What was the name of the boat from 'Gilligan's Island'?" If I have that draft "ss" message all set to go, I have a head start on the answer. Take THAT Meredith Viera!
Finally, I feel the need to repeat something from the first Concert-Going for Dummies that seems to have gone unheeded. I can't put this anymore simply than this:
Shut
The Fuck
Up.
Use this rule: The only time you should speaking at a concert is if, while you were out for a butt, a UFO landed right in front of you and out came Jesus Christ, Elvis, and Sasquatch and they gave you a formula for eternal life for all of humanity. And even then, shut you pie hole until the house lights come up and the crappy techno music plays, lest I spackle your yap closed forever.
Besides, why would you want to talk to someone next to you when you can just text them with your camera that occasionally receives phone calls!
Man, I'm getting old.
- Dim.
But people really don't listen.
So, while I link to the above blog entry and implore you to read it, absorb it, embrace it, and make it part of your daily lifestyle, I'm going to give you a couple of other helpful hints now in the sincere hopes that these hints will one day save you from having your neck wrung by me. I wish I was exaggerating.
Here's one for the staff at the venue:
Put away the indelible marker and Houdini-esque bracelets.
Last night we went to see this band. It's bad enough that we were herded into the venue and had orders barked at us (stay to the right! ID in your left hand! Tickets in the right!) with all the warmth and compassion of a Nazi SS officer, but once in the venue we were immediately and permanently branded.
Old bastards like myself were given the "all clear" to drink overpriced beer with a flimsy-looking adhesive bracelet that was put on my "RIGHT WRIST!" (or so he barked) by our friendly host. Don't let the description of this bracelet fool you. While it looks like it is made out of the same stuff that lines the examination tables at your local doctor's office, it is actually made out of the strongest substance ever known to man. To take this off at the end of the night, you need a blow torch, garden shears, and kryptonite. And, because our doorman ogre doesn't exactly score well in the "Pays close attention to detail" part of his annual performance review, he invariably attaches the adhesive part a little askew so a small part of this adhesive from hell sticks to the hair on my "RIGHT WRIST!" Removing this at the end of the night involves screams of absolute torture as this Martian glue proceeds to rip two layers of skin off my "RIGHT WRIST!" It's hard to really enjoy a concert in retrospect when you are pouring Bactine directly into your hypodermis.
Those less fortunate to be born after 1987 had the tops of both hands tattooed with enormous black x's that looked like they were put on with a paint roller. This is the subtle hint to the bartenders that those with the mark of the beast are unable to drink. The lack of subtlety comes with this Nathanial Hawthorne-esque permanence of The Opaque X. For, in order to remove it once the concert is over, one needs turpentine, lye, and a sandblaster.
Now, I'm not one to encourage underage drinking at all, but let's be serious. What could possibly do more damage? Exposing a minor to paint remover, caustic soda, and heavy machinery or allowing them to pound a Pabst Blue Ribbon? Which brings me to my next point.
Don't drink shitty beers. In case you were wondering, this category includes, and is headed by, Pabst Blue Ribbon or "PBR" according to the hipsters. Actually, let me amend this. It's not that you can't drink shitty beers, but don't be proud of drinking shitty beers. These new, young members of the alcohol drinking public confidently strut up to the bar, lean in and say with the pride of a boasting parent, "PBR!" as if a hush should fall over the entire crowd while everyone looks at the bar patron, gives him forceful nod of acceptance, and then raises their cans of equally shitty beers to pledge their allegiance to the USA (Useless Swill of Alcohol).
So, this dumb kid slaps down three clams and then emerges from the bar crowd holding a can of PBR the size of Rocky Dennis' head like it was the fucking Stanley Cup.
Look man, I know you would rather put the money mommy and daddy gave you toward a new shirt from Abercrombie that is about two sizes too small for you and would actually even look tight on Karen Carpenter, but maybe you should put it toward drinking slightly better beer instead.
Remember this video? It's funny to watch the monkey. It's not funny to be the monkey. You are the monkey.
Speaking of fashion, I really have to address the people who just try too damn hard to look weird. I realize these kids just moved out of their parents' house and are on their own for the first time and want to look like idiots, but what became of subtlety? First of all, Corey Hart, it's 11:30 at night in a basement venue where I can't see my hand in front of my face. Unless you are Stevie Wonder or an albino, take the fucking shades off.
And the facial hair. Look, I'm probably not one to talk about this given my history of really long sideburns, soul patches, chin pubes, and even a fucking handlebar mustache, but those things looked fantastic on me. I'm talking about the dummies that cultivate facial hair that looks like a cross between a Civil War general and Chewbacca. What exactly are you trying to say with that?
Tattoos. Does everyone have them now? I don't, but it certainly seems like I am now in a minority. I don't mind someone having a little ink, but I wonder how our leather-clad friend with the neck tat is going to feel when he is 70 and his gobbler is hanging lower than a Thanksgiving turkey's. That's gonna look sweet.
And the piercings. Good lord. I'll forgo talking about the lips, nose, septum, eyebrow, mustache area, and naughty parts. I'm talking about those people who put the massively huge things in their ears that stretch their lobes out like Elastic Man. I saw one dude last night that had holes in his lobes, stretched out with hoops, that were about three inches in diameter. So, if you were looking at his lobes straight on, you could see the person standing behind him. I didn't know whether to go up to him and pat him on the back or grab hold of each hoop, do a gymnastic routine, and dismount on his face.
Lighters. Come on. 1983 called and they want their REO Speedwagon concert back. The only time you should bust out a lighter during a concert is after you have doused yourself with gasoline after you have realized what a horrible concert-goer you really are.
Stop taking pictures with your crappy cell phone. OK, I am dating myself, but my first cell phone came in a piece of Samsonite luggage. I had to charge it by hooking it up to the nearest nuclear power plant and needed to wear a hat with a giant satellite dish on it just to get reception. But guess what? It worked. It made phone calls. Which is what a phone is supposed to do. Phone. Phone calls. But these dummies hold up their Razrs 200 feet away from the stage and snap a pic and then shake their heads disparagingly upon inspection of their photographic genius to find out that the band are the size of Lilliputians. You know why your pictures suck? Because you are using your phone!
Which brings me to the thing I am sure will cause the end of civilization: texting. Stop fucking texting during the show! "im @ the show OMG theyre playing LOL r u comin latr rotfl" Here's a keyboard shortcut for you: FU. Maybe I am just jealous because it is impossible for me to efficiently text because my cell phone doesn't have a keyboard, it just has the regular number touchpad. So, what happens is I want to start a word that begins with "r". I need to hit the "7" three times. My thumb spazzes and I hit it four times. I get an "s". I don't want an "s". I get flustered and wait too long (which I have timed as about three nanoseconds) and the cursor moves which confuses me so I hit the "7" again and now I have "ss" when I want an "r" and I then confuse the back button with what is apparently an unlabeled "save this text abomination as a draft" button, so instead of clearing "ss", I have now saved it in my draft messages for posterity. I leave my "ss" message in my draft folder to not only gaze upon it in admiration of my texting prowess but also because I never know when someone is going to be on that "Millionaire" show and need a lifeline and I get a text saying, "Dim. 20 seconds. What was the name of the boat from 'Gilligan's Island'?" If I have that draft "ss" message all set to go, I have a head start on the answer. Take THAT Meredith Viera!
Finally, I feel the need to repeat something from the first Concert-Going for Dummies that seems to have gone unheeded. I can't put this anymore simply than this:
Shut
The Fuck
Up.
Use this rule: The only time you should speaking at a concert is if, while you were out for a butt, a UFO landed right in front of you and out came Jesus Christ, Elvis, and Sasquatch and they gave you a formula for eternal life for all of humanity. And even then, shut you pie hole until the house lights come up and the crappy techno music plays, lest I spackle your yap closed forever.
Besides, why would you want to talk to someone next to you when you can just text them with your camera that occasionally receives phone calls!
Man, I'm getting old.
- Dim.
posted by Dim at 2/08/2009 09:04:00 AM
4 Comments:
excellent post. I love the cell part (taking pictures) i never get that..still. And what do people do with them? Do they show friends the next day? I have seen about 2 pictures from a cell phone that haven't been terrible.
People are people..the tats and percings are sort of over played and like you said..what are you going to do years from now.
Talking is the worst of the worst. Shows just are not cheap, couple with getting there and all the PBRs..why do I need to hear you talk (not you..but you know what I mean). you wanna nod, lean over and say "that was a pretty slick bass solo" I'll toss you the devil horns and white man overbite with the rest of them.
Great post man..
Oh, I am so glad you're back!!!
Excellent post.. :):):)
Those bracelets are ridiculously hard to get off. I always like to stretch them and stretch them and see how skinny I can make the bracelet.
Great post!
I'm just sorry that your experience seeing Murder By Death was marred in any way - be it bracelets, PBRs, or the people who drink them.
When I saw them in...what was that, 2006?...I recall it being so incredibly loud in the Chameleon that if everyone around me had been talking, I wouldn't have known it.
(And by the way...I've missed you! So glad you're back and making me laugh again.)
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