Friday, July 14, 2006
Have you ever heard of the band AFI, also known as A Fire Inside? Of course you have. They're huge. But seven years ago, you would have said no because you don't have the musical foresight to see the next big thing before it's really the next big thing the way I can. I've been a fan of AFI since the late 90's, when they were still independent, unknown, and pure. Now, every poser and wannabe loves them.
I went to an AFI concert last night at the Utah State Fair Park. The band played two songs written before the year 2000. The rest was new stuff I'm not as familiar with, which, of course, the retarded crowd loved hearing. It sucked, but all the phonies in attendance didn't know any better since they don't have perfect musical tastes like I do. Don't worry, this isn't a concert review. Something happened at the concert that has dominated my thoughts (and dreams) since.
About halfway through the show, the band was in the middle of a song and the crowd was pressed to the stage, bouncing and slam-dancing with each distorted note. I'd worked my way to the perfect spot in the center with about five rows of people in front of me. You don't want to be too close because all the crowd surfers get dumped on top of you and you're under close supervision of the white trash bouncers who guard the stage for the entire show. You're also not in a very good position to see any boobies that happen to get flashed, since that all happens behind you if you're too close. If you ever go to a concert, remember that, and give me all the credit for your enjoyable time.
Anyway, I was in my perfect spot when I noticed that a guy next to me was being smothered by his girlfriend. I wanted to tell the two of them to get a room or something, but the music was too loud. Something was wrong though. The guy didn't seem to be enjoying his girlfriend's attention, and the girl seemed a little too...I don't know...limp? It just didn't look right. Several other people also noticed, but no one seemed willing to do anything except glance around at everyone else, silently pleading for someone to do something. Meanwhile, the guy she was draped on continued his struggle to support her and seemed on the edge of panic. I'd finally had enough and, not knowing what else to do, grabbed her arm and shook her to see if she was ok. No reaction. I bent over to get a closer look at her face. Her eyes were half open, rolled back in her head. I knew she was unconscious, probably from the heat, the crushing weight of the crowd, the lack of oxygen, and the excitement of seeing Davey Havoc strutting around the stage wearing a wife-beater and enough eyeshadow to paint a school bus. The guy she was draped on probably didn't even know her. I grabbed her upper arm with both of my hands. The guy let go for some reason, leaving me to support her alone.
This might be a good time to describe the girl. She was a typical teen punk poser, probably 16 or 17. Her hair was streaked black and blond, her thick black make-up was runny from sweat, and she was wearing a black tank-top with a highly visible red bra underneath. She was about 5'6"and chubby, probably in the neighborhood of 175 pounds, a lot of weight to support, even for a decent sized guy like me. Since she was drenched with sweat and water, her arm slid right through my fingers and gravity took over. I caught her around the waist before she hit the ground and tried to lift her up, but her sweat (and mine too, I guess) hindered me again and my arm slid (along with her tank-top) up her belly and caught miraculously under her boobs, saving her from a faceplant on the asphalt.
This might be a good time to describe her boobs. They were enormous and she knew it, which was probably why she chose to wear what she was wearing. Although I'm not an expert, her breasts must have measured at least a DD cup, were perfectly round, yet didn't sag a bit because of her youth. Under any other circumstances, I'm sure I would have been quite fond of them, but at the moment, all I wanted to do was get rid of this girl.
With my arm looped under her boobs and a lot of her bare flesh exposed, I tried to drag her out of the crowd. But with several thousand people packed into an area about the size of a basketball court, it's not easy to move. I was getting close to panic myself, and my shoulder was starting to ache. Then she started to slide out from under my looped arm, which left me no choice but to try and grab her tank-top, the only non-slippery part of her. I successfully grabbed it with one hand, but with the other, I also got a handful of her huge left breast. For the record, I didn't derive a single moment of sexual pleasure from this. In fact, it was quite a challenge holding on to her massive booby. Have you ever tried to hold on to a greased water balloon with 175 pounds attached to it? Try it. You'll know exactly how I felt. Anyway, with my new handholds, I continued dragging her out of the crowd. A man with a huge red mohawk noticed my struggle and lifted the girls legs. He and I then fought our way out of the swarm.
Along the way, all sorts of scenarios were running through my mind. What if she was dead? What if I got blamed? Part of me felt like dropping her and running. We got to the back fence and the girl sort of spasmed and jerked her head up, but was still limp as a boiled noodle. I was more than happy to dump her on the ground to give my arm and back a rest. The mohawk guy dropped her too, conveniently, right by the fence. She grabbed it and tried to pull herself up, failing in the attempt. But she was alive. Part of me wanted to stay and make sure she was ok, but I could picture the headlines in my mind: "Man Sexually Assaults Teen at Concert," or "Attempted Rape Foiled by Security," so I ran back into the crowd. Mohawk guy did the same. Along the way, we both got some pats on the back from those who had witnessed the whole thing. The praise did little to soothe my aching shoulder.
After the concert, I went back to the spot where we'd dropped her. She wasn't there. I have no idea what happened to her, but I did see another girl, also unconscious, get loaded into an ambulance. So, chubby teen punk girl, if you're reading this and plan on going to more concerts, please, for the sake of my aching body and my overall sanity, lose some weight. And if you're wondering about those mysterious finger-length bruises on your left breast, well, I'll try and be more gentle next time.
I went to an AFI concert last night at the Utah State Fair Park. The band played two songs written before the year 2000. The rest was new stuff I'm not as familiar with, which, of course, the retarded crowd loved hearing. It sucked, but all the phonies in attendance didn't know any better since they don't have perfect musical tastes like I do. Don't worry, this isn't a concert review. Something happened at the concert that has dominated my thoughts (and dreams) since.
About halfway through the show, the band was in the middle of a song and the crowd was pressed to the stage, bouncing and slam-dancing with each distorted note. I'd worked my way to the perfect spot in the center with about five rows of people in front of me. You don't want to be too close because all the crowd surfers get dumped on top of you and you're under close supervision of the white trash bouncers who guard the stage for the entire show. You're also not in a very good position to see any boobies that happen to get flashed, since that all happens behind you if you're too close. If you ever go to a concert, remember that, and give me all the credit for your enjoyable time.
Anyway, I was in my perfect spot when I noticed that a guy next to me was being smothered by his girlfriend. I wanted to tell the two of them to get a room or something, but the music was too loud. Something was wrong though. The guy didn't seem to be enjoying his girlfriend's attention, and the girl seemed a little too...I don't know...limp? It just didn't look right. Several other people also noticed, but no one seemed willing to do anything except glance around at everyone else, silently pleading for someone to do something. Meanwhile, the guy she was draped on continued his struggle to support her and seemed on the edge of panic. I'd finally had enough and, not knowing what else to do, grabbed her arm and shook her to see if she was ok. No reaction. I bent over to get a closer look at her face. Her eyes were half open, rolled back in her head. I knew she was unconscious, probably from the heat, the crushing weight of the crowd, the lack of oxygen, and the excitement of seeing Davey Havoc strutting around the stage wearing a wife-beater and enough eyeshadow to paint a school bus. The guy she was draped on probably didn't even know her. I grabbed her upper arm with both of my hands. The guy let go for some reason, leaving me to support her alone.
This might be a good time to describe the girl. She was a typical teen punk poser, probably 16 or 17. Her hair was streaked black and blond, her thick black make-up was runny from sweat, and she was wearing a black tank-top with a highly visible red bra underneath. She was about 5'6"and chubby, probably in the neighborhood of 175 pounds, a lot of weight to support, even for a decent sized guy like me. Since she was drenched with sweat and water, her arm slid right through my fingers and gravity took over. I caught her around the waist before she hit the ground and tried to lift her up, but her sweat (and mine too, I guess) hindered me again and my arm slid (along with her tank-top) up her belly and caught miraculously under her boobs, saving her from a faceplant on the asphalt.
This might be a good time to describe her boobs. They were enormous and she knew it, which was probably why she chose to wear what she was wearing. Although I'm not an expert, her breasts must have measured at least a DD cup, were perfectly round, yet didn't sag a bit because of her youth. Under any other circumstances, I'm sure I would have been quite fond of them, but at the moment, all I wanted to do was get rid of this girl.
With my arm looped under her boobs and a lot of her bare flesh exposed, I tried to drag her out of the crowd. But with several thousand people packed into an area about the size of a basketball court, it's not easy to move. I was getting close to panic myself, and my shoulder was starting to ache. Then she started to slide out from under my looped arm, which left me no choice but to try and grab her tank-top, the only non-slippery part of her. I successfully grabbed it with one hand, but with the other, I also got a handful of her huge left breast. For the record, I didn't derive a single moment of sexual pleasure from this. In fact, it was quite a challenge holding on to her massive booby. Have you ever tried to hold on to a greased water balloon with 175 pounds attached to it? Try it. You'll know exactly how I felt. Anyway, with my new handholds, I continued dragging her out of the crowd. A man with a huge red mohawk noticed my struggle and lifted the girls legs. He and I then fought our way out of the swarm.
Along the way, all sorts of scenarios were running through my mind. What if she was dead? What if I got blamed? Part of me felt like dropping her and running. We got to the back fence and the girl sort of spasmed and jerked her head up, but was still limp as a boiled noodle. I was more than happy to dump her on the ground to give my arm and back a rest. The mohawk guy dropped her too, conveniently, right by the fence. She grabbed it and tried to pull herself up, failing in the attempt. But she was alive. Part of me wanted to stay and make sure she was ok, but I could picture the headlines in my mind: "Man Sexually Assaults Teen at Concert," or "Attempted Rape Foiled by Security," so I ran back into the crowd. Mohawk guy did the same. Along the way, we both got some pats on the back from those who had witnessed the whole thing. The praise did little to soothe my aching shoulder.
After the concert, I went back to the spot where we'd dropped her. She wasn't there. I have no idea what happened to her, but I did see another girl, also unconscious, get loaded into an ambulance. So, chubby teen punk girl, if you're reading this and plan on going to more concerts, please, for the sake of my aching body and my overall sanity, lose some weight. And if you're wondering about those mysterious finger-length bruises on your left breast, well, I'll try and be more gentle next time.
