Please read before attending any concert-type live music event that I may also be attending

     I love concerts. I've been to some really good ones this year.  My favorite was Ludo, but there were a lot of other really great ones.  If you've been to one with me, you know that for about 8 weeks afterward, I repeatedly reflect on the intense inner joy I felt during the (this is one of my favorite buzz phrases) COMMUNAL EXPERIENCE of concert going.   Small venues, lots of people, and good times had by all.  So very kumbaya.

    Just as being part of a real geographical community carries certain responsibilities, so also does membership in the sacred, albeit it temporary, rock concert community.  Also as with a real community,  flout the rules and you will get owned by those forced to share your space.

1. Obey the Band.  If they tell you to sing along, then sing.  If they tell you to stand up and dance, then do it.  If the planets align and you have the good fortune of being specifically instructed by professional musicians to air hump in unison, then please, PLEASE do it.  To refuse is not only insulting to the band, but it tells those around you that you think they basically suck at life.  (Note:  During the opening bands, do exactly the opposite of this rule.)
2. Keep public displays of affection to a minimum.  Since showing affection to your significant other is not vital for life, "a minimum" means "none".  So yeah. Keep the public displays of affection to none.  No one cares that you have a girl friend.  You can make kissy faces and put your hands in each others' pockets at home.  It's even more annoying when it's the girl hanging all over the guy as if seeking his masculine protection.  Do you think we are all here with the express purpose of hitting on you or maybe trying to molest you in some way? Get over yourself. It's really an easy rule to remember.  Whenever you wonder "Is this too much public affection for a concert?" just remember "None."  If the amount of affection in question is "none" affection, then you are clear.
3. You will be touched.  They design small venues in a specific way. Technically there's enough floor space in the building so that the fire code allows for 1,500 occupants, but the layout is constructed so that all 1,500 of us are forced into the 600 square feet directly in front of the stage.  It's based on the scientific principle that enjoyment increases as personal space decreases.  We have no choice.  The dirty looks and exasperated sighs you broadcast every time someone's body makes any contact with yours are both unwelcome and useless.  Oh,  you don't like that my elbow touched your sleeve?  I'm so sorry.  Please allow me to back up into the miles of open space all around me on all other sides. While I'm at it, why don't I just go out to the car and listen to the cd instead? 
4. If an audience is like a neighborhood, holding a huge sign above your head during the show is the equivalent of teaching your dog to poop on everyone's roses.  We all spent money on our tickets.  Most likely they were purchased way in advance and with much fanfare.  We chose our outfits days beforehand and with care.  We hydrated.  We stretched.  We drove for hours and spent our car insurance money on a hotel room.  YOU made a huge sign and held it up at face level through the entire performance.  The end.

There are more suggested practices and actions to be avoided (shouting out "Freebird!", putting your beer on the stage, taking someone's spot when they go to the bathroom), but they are largely flexible based on alcohol consumption, whereas the previous five are rigid and unflinching.  Oh--except when they play Go-Getter Greg.   Then all bets are off. 

I don't know who you are, but I think I am programmed to destroy you.

      I have noticed an interesting phenomenon that occurs in certain social situations.  It starts with some sort of casual encounter with a total stranger, and it ends in unexplained mutual hostility and ill will.  Unexplained, that is, until right now.  I shall now explain it. 

     The most frequent occurance of this for me is during lunch.  I usually go to Panera Bread, which is sometimes boring, but I never feel like putting the effort into packing my lunch or thinking of an alternative place to stop for a sandwich.  Like most popular lunch spots, Panera often has a really long line.  I don't mind standing in line. 

     The problem is that I'm ordering like, a cup of soup or a sandwich or, if I'm feeling particularly kicky, a bagel.  These items take about 2 minutes to make.  It's usually a pretty safe bet that the 40 yuppies in front of me are all ordering multiple items for multiple people, all with special requests, extras, substitutions, and beverages requiring milk to be steamed and ice to be crushed.  The yuppies, however, are not my random enemies in this situation.  It all happens on the way through the front door.



This is my battleground.

      I walk accross the parking lot with great purpose.  Invariably someone else comes from the side toward the same destination, and a silent face-off ensues.  If the other person gets to the door first, he will have to hold it open.  This means that I will go in first and be in front of him in this line of flip-flop wearing complex orderers.  Usually when the person in question is a man, he will let me go in first.  We are not enemies.  My enemy is the female who is entering at the same time as I am.

     I slow down my gait and pretend to check my phone or scratch my leg.  She pauses to hit the lock button on her key a few more times.  I stop to examine a bug on the sidewalk.  She takes a moment to adjust her purse strap.  The key here is balance.  If I fall too far behind, it will be acceptable for her to walk through the door and allow it to close behind her.  I need to maintain a close enough distance so that she feels compelled to hold the door, but not overtake her to where I would be obliged to hold it and give up my place in line.  We are trapped in a delicate dance of random enmity.

     At least she is better than walking in at the same time as a group of the aforementioned yuppies with their jogging strollers and elderly parents.  They just descend upon the front door like a swarm of locusts.  I think they are unable to see people who are not part of their immediate group, and thus I have NO chance of getting in front of them in line.  I've contemplated bringing a flowered Skort and Vera Bradley bag to try to blend in and get them to buy me lunch, but it really seems like a lot of effort for a turkey sandwich.

Why are you like this???

Men:  You are great!  You have many redeeming qualities and I enjoy spending time with you.  However, there are three things that I would like for you, as a group, to work on changing.  Preferably, these changes should be sudden, drastic, and free of future relapses.  Thank you.

1. You like really really really really boring things.  Golf on TV?  One-player video games?  Reading articles online about features on cell phones you don't even OWN?  I don't mind being ignored in pursuit of other interesting or worthwhile endeavors, but I can't help but be annoyed when doing something with me is passed up in favor of reorganizing the hard drive on the computer or spending hours in Guitar Center comparing two pieces of unaffordable band equipment.  So. Boring.
2. Any degree of stress instantly renders you unfit for human contact. As females, we tend to take certain things in stride. Speeding ticket? It happens. Let us pray, however, that it happens to us and not to you, because you will be unbearably grouchy for about ten years afterward.  Obviously women have a bad reputation for a tendency toward "moodiness", but while the masculine bad mood may be less frequent, it is much more unpleasant due to both duration and severity.  Why do you think we invented cupcakes?
3. You lose weight in like 2 seconds. I have eaten Special K cereal and cauliflower with hummus for months on end. I have spent hours and hours at the gym giving myself shin splints and sweating until I smelled like a dead hooker.  Still, my weight remains the same.  You, on the other hand, go from Yeungling to Yeungling LIGHT for three weeks and lose 7 pounds.  I hate you.  The worst part of the whole thing is that you probably just switched beers to see what would happen, because you LOVE your body just the way it is.  

You make me sick.

Guys.....Where ARE we?

Every once in a while, I find myself in a situation that leads me to ask "Where are we? Is this America?????"

I don't mean that in the "What has happened to this country?", patriotic, Sarah Palin-ish way. I mean like, literally wondering if  I have wandered into a third-world country or maybe onto the set of a not-very-funny sitcom.  My most recent out-of-geographical-context experience was this past Tuesday when, between the hours of 10:48pm and midnight, I found myself in Wile E. Coyote meets Dangerous Minds meets Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist with some Deliverance thrown in.

Law and Order scene-change music  BUH-bum!

10:48pm  September 21, 2010  
Parking lot outside The Social
Orlando FL

The four of us were in a fragile mental state after spending 4 hours in a dank night club thrashing around with hundreds of hipster weirdos listening to music while drinking beer and tequila.  Imagine our confusion when we went back to the parking space expecting this:

But instead finding this:

Honestly, we were not all that surprised or confused.  I'd like to keep lying and tell you that we were totally blindsided by the whole "The car is gone" thing, but really I think we were almost expecting it.  Rewind to 4 hours and 51 minutes earlier.

Time Travel Worm Hole

BUH-bum!


5:57pm  September 21, 2010  
Parking lot outside The Social
Orlando FL

 Fresh as daisies, we jumped out of the car ready for action!  Approaching the parking lot ticketing machine, the following conversation ensued.  It might not be word for word, but my memory is pretty much a steel trap, so I'm sure it's extremely accurate.

ME:  Hey look!  The parking here is only $5! That's awesome!  That leaves me so much extra money to donate to my many charities! 

MOE:  That sounds awesome!  Derp Derp!

CURLY:  Do you think the ice cream man comes around this time of night?

LARRY:  I hope you guys have cash because I don't.

MOE:  The machine is broken.  We can't pay.

LARRY:  Let me try kicking it a bunch of times impotently.  That should solve everything. 

CURLY: Even just a Snickers bar that has been in the refrigerator would do the trick. 

ME and MOE:  It's our lucky day!  The universe has smiled upon us at last!  Free parking a-go-go!

Four hours and 51 minutes later......

 Obviously we knew there was a chance we could be towed or ticketed or something, especially in light of the huge sign right next to the parking space telling us that if the machine was broken we either had to call some number or not park there lest we be towed and impounded at our expense.  Seriously though, who has time to be reading all kinds of signage and calling all kinds of phone numbers?  Is it really our job to single-handedly fix the crumbling infrastructure of Orlando, Florida?  I don't think so.

All the same, ACTUALLY getting your car towed and impounded on a crazy night out of town, far from home, with three idiots was like slipping on a banana peel, or having an anvil fall on your head.  I knew it was possible, but just seemed too cliche to actually happen.  I think it was the cartoonish nature of the whole thing that kept us all calm.  How can you get upset when you're pretty sure you're in an episode of Seinfeld?

If you've ever watched Sex and the City and thought "That's so unrealistic", then you have obviously never hailed a cab.  The activity is every bit as glamorous and cosmopolitan as it looks on TV.  What is neither glamorous nor cosmopolitan is where the cab dropped us off.

BUH-bum!

11:32pm September 21, 2010
The Impound Lot
Deliveranceville, USA

If ever I have found myself in a location that I would rather no be, this was it.  After sliding our cash payment through the tiny slot in the bullet proof glass of the impound office, we were simply told

"Meet me around back."

"Around back" turned out to be a disgusting cartpath with a row of meth labs and brothels on one side and a 10 foot chain-link fence on the other side blocked off with black corrugated plastic sheets so no one could see inside.  Promises of protection offered by my three companions did not exactly inspire confidence in the face of  roving gangs of crack-addicted transvestite prostitutes.  I was fashioning a shiv from my ticket stub and tree sap when a section of the fence opened outward and the impound lot guy uttered yet another informative and helpful directive.

"There you go."

And there we went. There we went into the lot that at first I thought was paved with gravel, but then realized that I was just stepping on an uncommon amount of broken glass.  The guy didn't even follow us in there. 

In the Locker Room

Recently my limited supply of work-out-at-home self-motivation became depleted and I was forced to go get a gym membership.  I love the gym because it provides a communal suffering experience that I find quite inspiring.  What I do NOT find inspiring is the communal visual experience of the locker room.

It is my understanding that certain unspoken codes apply to the men's restroom, especially where urinal usage is concerned.  I propose that we need a similar set of rules for the women's locker room, but in this case they should probably be SPOKEN, even written in big block letters on the locker room walls, the inside of the bathroom stalls, stitched into the shower curtains, and maybe even tattooed onto everyone's faces as part of membership. I also volunteer my services as a locker-room crier, marching back and forth with a bullhorn, announcing the following clearly and with great enthusiasm:

1. When it comes to public nudity, brevity is the name of the game.  Obviously you are going to have to get naked in order to change clothes or dry off, but at a certain point that time period must end.  For example, if you have recently dried yourself and have decided to spend a few minutes standing in front of your locker applying lip balm, tweezing your eyebrows, and Facebooking about how intense your workout was, why not take the towel from the bench next to you and wrap it around your body, thereby covering your nakedness?  Sometimes I see people where the towel is not even on the bench but in their other hand, just hanging there like they have nothing else to do with it. Because of people like this, I'm developing repetitive stress disorder from averting my eyes.  
2. The gym shower is to cleanse yourself, not to perform lengthy and complicated grooming rituals.  There is a reason the shelf in the gym shower stall provides only 4 square inches of surface space. Necessary toiletry items in this milieu include shampoo, conditioner, and body wash.  That's the end of the list.  Razors, shaving cream, loofahs of multiple shapes and sizes--these are for use at home.  I've been in the shower next to you. I do not like it when your teeny tiny leg hairs come over to my side in their sea foam of used shaving cream.

    3.  Get in and get out.  There is no Starbucks here, nor is there free wi-fi or big screen TVs.  The locker  room is the most hostile environment in the entire gym, but despite the discomfort there are always three or four women huddled around in the changing area chit-chatting like they are in line at Barry Manilow concert.  Having long-since showered and changed, their presence in this venue is both gratuitous and unwelcome.  It's not just the way their obtuse banter echoes off the acoustic tile that causes a problem.  The biggest issue is that you are not supposed to just BE in the changing area, just WATCHING other people change.  Even if my bra is off for a total of 3.5 seconds, and even if I am wearing brand new underwear, I still feel like they are judging me.  It's only a matter of time before they start bringing scones and copies of Tuesdays with Morrie along, at which point I am going to start changing in the alley behind the Sonic Burger.

 If only all locker rooms were like a sexy underwear party, a la the 1982 comedy Porky's. I can assure you that this is not the clientele of Lifestyle Family Fitness in Orange Park, Florida.

I may be expecting too much of people, but it discourages me to have to use up an entire day's worth of aplomb in the five minutes it takes me to change into my yoga pants and sports bra. 

I can pay you in hugs!

The one thing that really sucks about being an adult is that whenever something unpleasant must be done, you are the one who has to do it.  I suppose I could hire an assistant, but I myself am employed as an assistant, so technically 100% of my salary would have to go directly to my own assistant person.  I'm no mathemetician, but even I know that is not a very sound business plan.  Ergo, I am obligated to do these things for myself, most likely over and over again, until I die. 

Scheduling Doctor's Appointments

"Doctor Important's office."

"Hello ma'am I'm a patient of Doctor Important and I'd like to make an appointment."

"Slow down slow down! What is your name?"

"Chloe Peace."

"CARLY?"

"CHLOE. C-H-L-O-E."

"C-H-O-L-E-"

"No ma'am it's "C" AS IN CHARLIE, "H" AS IN HARRY, "L" AS IN LUCY, "O" AS IN OSCAR, -"

"Carly there's not need to spell it again I'm not stupid. Last name!?"

"Peace."

"Can you spell that?"

And you can take it from there.  Women who answer phones at doctors' offices do not "ask" questions. They state the nature of the information that they need.  It's not "What is your birthday?", but "BIRTHDATE."  "LAST MENSTRUAL CYCLE."  "LAST PELVIC EXAM."  Do they really need to know all of that just to get me in to see the doctor about a mole on my arm?  I really think these people are on a power trip, and I want no part of it. 

Emptying the Dishwasher

I've spent a fair amount of time thinking about this one, and I can't say for sure what my problem is with it.  On a bad day, it takes about 90 seconds max to complete the task, but I just HATE doing it.  My best guess is that I am bothered by the tedium of moving a clean object from one place to another.  Kind of like how I don't mind washing the laundry, drying it, even folding it, but actually putting it away cannot be done without a great deal of sighing.  Also there is always the chance that two clean dishes will scrape against each other and make that awful noise that I associate with prison. 

Purchasing Tampons

In addition to the obvious embarrassment of buying an item that everyone knows is going straight to a location that you'd rather they didn't think about, there's the more troubling implication that you are possibly unstable due to unpredictable hormonal surges.  Since I figure they see the box and expect me to burst out crying at any moment, being as I am having my "woman times", I usually make an extra effort to act happy and polite.  I think it may backfire and just make me look like I'm on cocaine.  Maybe by the time I hit menopause I will have found a balance.

That lady is awesome.  If you don't know who she is, I feel sadly for you.  Let's just say she wouldn't have a problem buying Tampax.  She'd probably just slam it down on the counter and announce "I need to purchase these because my uterus is going through a time of transition right now."

Over and over again.  Until I die.

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