May Be the Last Time, I Don't Know

Went to the Editors concert last night and encountered in the flesh what I'd only seen hints of when posting in recent times on forums. I mean, I knew it was prevalent on the forums in L.A., but I guess I was naiive as far as teens and twenty-somethings in the last few years. I thought maybe it was only L.A.?. This may only be an Angelino thing, but WHAT WAS UP WITH THE EXTREME RUDENESS LAST NIGHT? and then the backing off thing too? Here I must address a need for some MATURITY. It's obvious you all need to know who made the rock all of you are bashing around to now.

1) To the Gay Redhaired Guy in the impeccable rust-Southwestern-weaving-patterned suit: You muscled your way in front of us after we'd waited for an hour to stand in a good spot. When I say to my spouse next to me, "Oh Great, now I've got a giant head in my view", you turn around and FLIP ME OFF. In front of my husband, who is so completely surprised that we just look at each other.
RUUUUUUUUUDE.
When I add another un-swearing sentence about your rudeness, I get "Cunt!" back. Sheesh. WTF??
AND THEN THE BACKOFF: Even you must have realized you were having a hissy fit at our hetero-ness or maybe you were just having a bad day, but you later retracted and apologized and said you were sorry and out of line. Apology fully accepted. Don't worry, it had already struck me as a raging-queen thing to do. Both the insult and the retraction together, I mean. Or maybe you were just worried you might have been beaten up in the parking lot by my unknown-quantity-looking husband, but not to worry, those days are long gone for us, because WE ARE MATURE. THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH BEING MATURE. YOU CAN STILL ROCK OUT AND BE MATURE. Besides, I had indeed taken note of your impeccable haircut and interesting suit, even when I was pissed at you. THAT'S WHAT MATURITY IS.

2) To the drunk/stoned Mexican bouncer-sized kid who SMASHED through with your giant sweaty girth (all the while threatening sloshing your beer on my head) into a gaggle of tiny blonde girls in front of me AND the gay guy. First you made a crack about how I don't own this place and can't stop you. (That was after you stomped one of the little blonde girls into a postage stamp completely unwittingly in your drunken barrelling. I don't think you noticed her under your armpit.) RUUUUUUUDE.
THEN, you buried yourself further with the justification that I couldn't POSSIBLY have cared as much about The Editors as YOU did and you doubted I even was here for them.
"Why???" I asked, quietly suffering the same shock as when someone first called me "Ma'am." "Because I'm older?"
"Yeah, like you probably don't even know the songs." you said. (Well ok, then he's honestly a fan. Challenge accepted.)

AND THEN THE BACKOFF: I then recounted some of the lyrics I liked best and you were actually glad, and in your drunken recovered happiness at my reply, decided I was then your good buddy and asked me if I smoked weed. After I declined all been-there-done-that, you decided to invite about four more of your drunken/stoner friends to weave in and out of my path DURING MY FAVORITE SONG. When your shorter friend blew pot smoke all over us all, I didn't particularly care, but I cared when you jumped the barrier up front, got kicked out and came barging back through to your same position AGAIN (One of the little blondes tried poking you with a toothpick elbow, but her hair was probably more dangerous.) Then you idiots got the security guards after you and they dragged your pot-smoking friend out and all I could see through another song was security badge. RUUUUUUUDE.

The strange thing was, they never came back for YOU. You stayed in front, completely oblivious, bouncing, all hands in the air and singing every tune and endangering every bordering toe. It was here that I really couldn't fault you. You actually were a huge fan. A big Mexican guy in love with the whitest, most poetic band I could think of. It got me all patriotic for half a moment: What a great place this is. You just never know who you'll reach. I was a great fan at your age and note, big guy, I STILL AM.
BUT PLEASE GROW UP, BIG MEXICAN DUDE. DON'T STOMP ON US. DON'T BLOCK US. Offer to put one of those miniature blondes on your shoulders so they can see. And I hope someone calls you "old man" some day and it bites you in the ass, but hey, that happens to us all, just you wait.

And here's the MATURE answer for us both: GET THERE ON TIME, DUDE. That way you can be there early enough to stay in the pit where you can mosh out all you like. If you're not going to be MATURE, get a place for it.

3) To the guitar player from Louis XIV: I looked right at you from a couple feet away after the show and called out that you played great (because I was in fact watching you), and you proceeded to look at me like I was some kind of Amityville Horror. RUUUUUUUUUUDE. You too will one day face what I once did: leaving the stage for a life behind the scenes. Yes, I too play, and not too shabbily. I AM ONLY MATURE, that is all.

4) To the kid (or maybe just server-person-at-Verizon) who typed into the screen above us "What's up with all these old people?": RUUUUUUUUUUUUUDE.
Music is a transcendence. This will be your salvation in later years. Know this and never cling to the style you grew up with. Keep growing and you will breathe free and never really die. Spoken by a MATURE (and white) PERSON who knows what's on your iPod, owns two and knows where the best rap is. (Yes there is such a thing.) DO NOT ASSUME, my dears. NEVER ASSUME.

5) To the literally seventy-something balding skinny guy POGO-ing his ASS OFF next to me for a while. YOU are AWESOME. When you left a little early, probably to go change your Depends, I was sorry to see you go. ROCK ON, pogo-man. You are an inspiration to us all.

The next day my back was jacked up from standing for four and a half hours straight. Do I want to go through this again? ::sigh::

Yeah.