written on four pieces of scrap paper in my purse as I waited for Ray Davies to take the stage
To the drunk guy at the concert sitting directly behind us:
Hey. Don't worry about it. Going to see a rock 'n roll legend is a common experience for all of us. No wonder you felt the need to get black-out drunk and behave like a douchebag.
'Coz, as you said after we politely asked you to turn your voice down: "it's all about you." Just as long as you're having a good time, well, hell, the rest of us can have your good time, too.
The person I don't understand is the woman sitting next to you. Is she the wife who has been beaten down for so long that she doesn't even notice anymore when you have alienated everyone within your decibel range?
Oh. Now. I've heard it. The familiar Ithaca plaint: "I'm sick of this fucking town." Yes. I know. Peace, love and stfu, dude. I'd be happy to see you move to some place where your ilk is tolerated.
Question is, where is that place? Wal-Mart at midnight on Black Friday?
Am I getting old? Have I always been this intolerant of your level of rudeness, or am I just becoming oversensitive to the "I'm the only one who counts" bullshit that passes for civilized behaviour these days?
I wasn't crazy about the opening band either. I kept my hands in my lap and clapped politely.
When you stuck your head down between my date and me and rambled drunkenly, I decided I had had enough and went to get the usher. You intimidated her, so all she asked you to do is keep it down.
I grab my partner's hand. We don't need a fight. Just keep cool.
"I have it all over these people here." Really? In the drunken asshole department?
It's actually quite fascinating listening to your drunken illusions. Yes, you are the great and powerful Oz. And your enabler is trying to have a conversation with you. Does she realize what an addict you are?
You say that one more time, and add the "bob" and I'll know exactly where you're from.
You want a refund? Why? Because you're not getting to watch this concert in your own living room?
Ray Davies just asked if we were having a good time.
"Not yet," you moan. "This is bullshit."
Yes. Yes. It is.
You are bullshit.
But, now the music is loud, and you are being drowned out by the crowd singing back to Ray.
What do you think now?
Oh. You're gone.
Good fucking riddance.