The show last night was pretty good. It had been nearly three years since I had last been to a show. I mostly hadn't been out because of Mr. Whit's illness.
But last night was good. Tom picked me up, and we got there in time to see the first band, who I really liked. The second group was good, also. It was weird...I had forgotten what it's like to be so close to so many people. Gosh, that must sound strange, but if you've not been out in three years, you forget these things. The touches of people pushing to the front, going back to the bar for another beer. The occasional whack on the head and then the mouthed "I'm sorry!" by the person behind you, who was a little too enthusiastically sticking it to the Man. The sweat flinging off your neighbor's hair and into some overhead abyss as he obliviously rocks out. The smells of so many people...it wasn't bad, it wasn't gross. It probably sounds disgusting but it wasn't--not even sweaty hair dude. The show seemed to me, at that time, to be a celebration of life, of being human (at our best). What do we do? We make music, we dance, we share. We get together and look like idiots together, cheering ourselves on. It sounds cheesy and it IS cheesy. But there is some truth in the cheese, I suppose.
And yes, it was a time to get together and yell fuck you to various people/corporations/conglomerates. I mean, it was a punk show after all. I'd be disappointed if we didn't get to yell fuck [insert evil-doer's name here].
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