The last person in the Tri-state looking for the last ditch black hole something to do
I went to a rock show at an amphitheatre this past weekend. It was spectacular. I don’t typically get to see large crowds come out in support of anything, not being a patron of baseball games and being a self-identified member of a culture which prides itself on the micro-cosm. Hordes of people walking around in the tepid night, sporting an overpriced band t-shirt. It’s kind of nice. These are common people, who have come out recreationally, after a long week of work. And they have come to get down. The guy who is standing in front of me is getting crazy, unconditionally hooting numerous times during every song and holding up his hand, with thumb and pinky extended, in what could otherwise be described as the “telephone.” He swaggers back and forth, doing a little pseudo dance, holding up the telephone hand, which seems to be receiving transmissions directly from the band onstage and delivered to his soul, producing the greatest display of rock patronage I have seen in quite some time. Except, of course, if you are counting the fat guy sitting two rows up and over, who is involved in a ritual of his own, frantically air guitaring with both hands throughout the duration of entire songs. He has also appropriated, when he is not rigorously air guitaring, a dual fist pump, totally outdoing the guy in front of me. I can do nothing but laugh, as I attempt to vicariously experience the show through the lens of these people. It really is good stuff.

I am trying to determine when was the last time I produced a public display of approval like the ones being demonstrated this weekend. It may have been when I found out that a speeding ticket was dropped, or when I realized the local grocery mart was carrying a pancake mixture I’ve been looking for for some time. God knows the everyday gives you little to cheer about. Some succession of days are lined up, and you find yourself, like the minotaur, running crazy through the labyrinth. Although, maybe you need a context of total crappiness to accentuate the really air guitar moments.

People like me tend to chide the rock spectacle. So wrought is the whole thing now, wrapped in commerce and consumerism, that we are blinded by the spectacle. Going to a rock concert is like being really enthused with the shiny wrapper of a candy, and never even realizing there might be something inside. Even I find myself turning to a friend and declaring that the light show is pretty good. But maybe I’m just really jaded. I’m just really suspicious of anything that more than 20 people have heard of, and it borders on fetish, which somehow denotes sincerity and often times greatnesss. Somewhere, right now, there is a basement show happening, which may just be worthy of an air-guitar moment. But where that may happen to be, I just cannot tell you.

At some point during the show, I feel my legs begin to tire and a mild ache developing in my back. The group plays a ballad and I decide to utilize my perfectly good seat, which after all is just sitting there. It feels good, sitting, after hours of standing around. And you realize, therein lies the virtue of your seat, an entirely new revelation. Ah: sitting, you think contemplatively, never realizing it could be so nice. Eventually the music picks up again, and the guy in front of me begins his public demonstration of how into it he is, enacting some kind of dervish-like dance, as I continue to appreciate the hidden value of sitting. Turning around, mid-spin, he sees me just sitting there, the total faux-pas of form, not really feeling it. And I can see, there is a moment where he fixes on me, and in those two seconds lies the articulation of the difference between the two of us, which can never be spoken. I almost feel a little remorse for my lack-of-into-it-ness, but not too bad. And then the show goes on.