Went to Philly last week to see 30 Seconds to Mars at the Electric Factory, with K, my best friend, who's recovering from cancer. I fell in love with 30 Seconds when I heard "The Kill" which allowed me to feel that not only is it alright to be really, really pissed about a breakup but you could even get PAID for it one day. So there we were, K and I, patiently sitting thru FOUR opening bands, drinking Jameson's straight, waiting patiently for our band of choice.
K and I have gone to concerts ever since we were kids. We loved the whole concept of getting backstage and meeting, nay, partying with the artists. But somehow, we got older. She dealt with cancer and divorce. I dealt with...alot, but nothing in comparison to that. Point being, we're adults now, watching a longass show and maybe, just maybe, not rocking out like we used to. Sitting on stools on the balcony, watching the chaos below , we suddenly seemed so...civil. It felt sad and a little like death. As the sedentary sensation grew like mold over me, I suddenly heard myself say "Kris. I'll be back. I'm going to the mosh pit." K, looking shocked...and drunk, uttered "Uh...okay."
I ran downstairs, burst into the mosh pit and prompty tripped over my own two feet and fell flat on my face. Two guys stopped moshing to pick the poor lady up. "Get off of me. I'm fine!" I shouted. Oh, did I tell you what I was wearing that night? A bright, polka dotted, 50's style dress that screamed "I like cupcakes and bright, shiny things!" Hardly punk...more like...spunk...and drunk. So, I started slamming around to reassert myself, but alas, it was too late. I was too loose of a cannon with this crew, just a little too...foreign. I stood in the middle as the crowd moved away from me, like I was a bad smell.
I looked out at the crowd and saw these kids body surfing, flying, as if by magic across the raised hands of the crowd. "Okay, that! That's what I want! I want to do that!!!" I screamed. "I really, really, do!" Some kids in front of me screamed "Well, fucking do it then!" Oh I will, youth. I will! I will!!
I took a deep breath and a running leap and flew into the crowd and magically. Magically. Magically...they lifted me up and tossed me about. I experienced a high rivaling the last time I did some serious blow with my dumb ol' ex-boyfriend who needs to be executed in front of a brick wall with no blindfold. I was tossed around like a beautiful, little ragdoll. I smiled so hard that my face hurt. It was pure fun. Clean, distilled fun. So fun it hurt my face.
The crowd tossed me, polka dot dress and all, toward the stage, where the hottie Jared Leto stood. Ah...there he is. In the flesh, up close and cute...cute as hell. Like extra crazy cute. I screamed (you can guess) "Hey...you..you're cute!" He looked down as if trying to understand me. "You...you're cute! You're cute!!!!!!"
At that point, the crowd dropped me and I fell to the floor, completely and utterly confident that I wouldn't be trampled on...or if I were to be, oh well. It would be a very rock and roll way to die. "Hey, did you hear...Beth died in a mosh pit. And she was going to turn 40 next week!" Yes, I'd die like that. I'd gladly die like that.
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