justnick's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I Have Mosh Pit Fetish BGM: "Sink or Swim" - Bigwig I suppose I should introduce myself. My name is Nick, and I'm 18. I say just Nick because everyone seems to call me "tall Nick" as though they're actually informing me that I'm tall. Apparently some people forget these things. I'm sitting by my bedside, staring at a signed Bigwig star that I wouldnt have thought was all that cool a month or two ago. Frankly, I'm still not sure I do. Certainly does make you think, though. A month ago, "BigWig's coming to town" wouldn't have excited me much more than "grandpa's coming to town"...well...other than the fact that grandpa coming to town at this point would require necromancy or some really complex wiring. But I digress. Bigwig was just one of those bands that I had heard of, but couldn't tell you anything about. You know, one of those bands you arbitrarily decide to love or hate based on the first real conversation you hear about them. It just so happens that the first thing I heard was from the mouth of a cute girl in my English course about how excited she is about their show. So I got 2 tickets, 12 beers, and a pack of condoms, as would most other males my age in such a situation. I proceeded to listen to their music over and over and over until I could really consider myself an avid fan, and then the mental preparation began. I practiced my air guitar in front of the mirror as Husker Du and the afformentioned Bigwig themselves played via my stereo. It was the best ego boost I could manage on a tight schedule. Sp I meet up with this girl who(m?) I very much want to fuxx0r, and do that awkward indesicive guy thing where you can't decide how to act. You know, where you aren't sure whether to try and be a nice guy or a flirt, so you try switching back and forth. And no, being myself is totally not an option at this point, because myself would not have even been at a Bigwig concert in the first place. The music blares, bodies clash, and manage to not only get myself separated from my angel of punk rock, but also from my own fractured psyche in the process. It was like being on autopilot. 2 cuts, 1 fall, and 2 stage-divers-directly-in-the-face later, I've lost a contact lens, but found my angel. As I watched her hold her own in what might have been one of the top three most intense mosh pits I've ever seen, I felt like I was watching a supermodel through a vaseline lens. If you've ever seen a toilet paper commercial, you know what I mean. And then, whether it was the beer or the testosterone, or a combination of the two, I decided I was going to impress this girl, or die trying. The latter is the more likely. So I try a stage dive, but that's not all that impressive, so I decide diving into the pit from the balcony, a la music video, is the only way to go. It must have been cool looking for a second there, but no one really tried to catch me. So I sat out the rest of the concert, a bloody broken concussed mess, watching my angel dance. Ladies and gentleman, I have a fetish, and it's girls in mosh pits. So needless to say my angel is gone now, but I don't doubt for a second there will be others soon enough. For now, though, all that's left to me are a few half empty beer bottles, a ticket stub, a concussion, and a box of condoms that I'll probably never use. If I try to be objective about the whole thing, though, it was still pretty cool. I guess there's the lesson, infatuation is fleeting, testosterone is a cruel mistress, and balcony dives are painful, if incredibly cool looking. Even failiure has some kind of grungy humour to it when you look at it the right way, though. Now go away, I want to be alone with my rapidly deteriorating mental condition. Excelsior. 2:33 p.m. - 2002-12-15 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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