Dear Uncivilized Underage Morons at the Kaiser Chiefs Show
Just wanted to send you a quick note thanking you for trying so hard to ruin my concert experience. Since you seemed so completely unaware that other people also love the Kaiser Chiefs and bought tickets to the show too, I thought I'd let you know that I bought mine during the presale, in January, after waiting for the better part of a year for the Chiefs to announce a new tour. After so much anticipation, I didn't think anything could ruin my concert experience. Then I met you.
I should have known it was going to be bad when you #1, Stupid Drunk Tourist Guy from North Carolina, couldn't even stand upright or still during the down time between sets. In your exuberance in announcing how much you're "not really into the Kaiser Chiefs" and "didn't want to come to the show" and were only forced to by your poor German wife whom you talked (and leaned/fell) all over until the music started. That is, when you weren't falling into me, pushing me, shoving me, backing your enormous butt into me, and stepping on me until my boyfriend asked you to stop. I did know it was going to be bad when, instead of apologizing (it's not like you didn't know I was there), you dropped the slap-happy routine and belligerently asked what you were supposed to do, huh? Maybe stand still and stop bumping into everyone around you, huh?
And then when the concert started, there was you #2, Creepy Little Filipino Guy. You had a lot of space around you, thanks to your crazy friends who were trying to get as close to the stage as possible. Yet you didn't want that space, you wanted the space where I was standing. You made this clear by jumping on my feet. Repeatedly. I shoved you off with my elbow in your back. Repeatedly. You kept jumping on my feet, repeatedly, as if the alcohol had deadened every nerve from your stupid little mind to your heavy little feet. At least you got the picture after about the 42nd time I shoved you, even though your response was a weak little raised shoulders and "whaaaat??"
But not you #3, Underage GW Freshman Guy with an Old Navy "Great Britain" Jacket You Tried to Pass Off as "Authentic." I really have to give some props to your fake ID artist, because the 930 Club doesn't kid around with that stuff, but seeing as how his handiwork has allowed you, little punk, to go wandering the DC club scene, inebriated and inconsiderate, I think some of the responsibility falls on his shoulders.
Because you were the worst of them all. While Stupid Drunk Tourist Guy spent most of the show falling over his longsuffering wife, almost taking her down with him once, and Creepy Little Filipino Guy cooled off and left my feet alone, you took over where both of them left off. Not only did you jump up and down on top of my feet, you had a little drunk flashback to the brief ska-frenzy era circa 1997 and decided to jump, dance, and run in place while flailing your elbows all at the same time. I couldn't watch half the show out of sheer self-defense, and even while trying my darndest to stay out of your crazy way, my feet, ankles, toes, shoulders, arms, and elbows are all sore and bruised today thanks to you.
Did you not notice that 98% of the rest of the crowd was either standing calmly, rocking gently, or carefully bopping in place? No, you apparently felt that your purchase of a single ticket bought you an area of floor space 6ft in diameter, which is what everyone gave you. But that just wasn't enough for your totally cool, rockin out dance-skank moves. I'm sure the Kaiser Chiefs are just as proud of your absolutely insane one-man mosh pit as they are of your "authentic" 1972 Olympic jacket. I'm sure they were just filled with gratitude every time you and your other underage friend grabbed each others arms and yelled "It's the Chiefs!!!" to each other 26 times. I'm proud of your perseverance - no angry looks, subtle elbows, or outright pushes could stop you. What a dedicated fan you must be. Maybe you bought your ticket in the two minutes of the presale before I bought mine.
Actually, no. I bet you bought yours after you could see the show on the front page of the 930 Club's website without scrolling down. After being told by someone, maybe your halfway-reasonable other underage friend, that the Kaiser Chiefs were really good and quite popular, you probably bought four and scalped the other three on Craigslist for outrageous prices. You're not a fan, you're a poseur. Go home to Iowa and tell your parents not to send you back to college until you get potty trained and can be trusted in public. While you're at home, spend some time thinking about the rules of concert etiquette, and maybe try to dredge up from your fuzzy memory some images of what the rest of the 930 Club audience was doing - namely, being considerate of their neighbors given the packed-in, sold-out crowd.
I hope you got run over by a bus on your way home.
Sincerely,
Civilized Society
PS: Please excuse the blatant lack of profanity in this letter. This blog, as a public space, believes in finding and using publicly-appropriate alternatives to cursing. Believe me, you deserved every omission.
I should have known it was going to be bad when you #1, Stupid Drunk Tourist Guy from North Carolina, couldn't even stand upright or still during the down time between sets. In your exuberance in announcing how much you're "not really into the Kaiser Chiefs" and "didn't want to come to the show" and were only forced to by your poor German wife whom you talked (and leaned/fell) all over until the music started. That is, when you weren't falling into me, pushing me, shoving me, backing your enormous butt into me, and stepping on me until my boyfriend asked you to stop. I did know it was going to be bad when, instead of apologizing (it's not like you didn't know I was there), you dropped the slap-happy routine and belligerently asked what you were supposed to do, huh? Maybe stand still and stop bumping into everyone around you, huh?
And then when the concert started, there was you #2, Creepy Little Filipino Guy. You had a lot of space around you, thanks to your crazy friends who were trying to get as close to the stage as possible. Yet you didn't want that space, you wanted the space where I was standing. You made this clear by jumping on my feet. Repeatedly. I shoved you off with my elbow in your back. Repeatedly. You kept jumping on my feet, repeatedly, as if the alcohol had deadened every nerve from your stupid little mind to your heavy little feet. At least you got the picture after about the 42nd time I shoved you, even though your response was a weak little raised shoulders and "whaaaat??"
But not you #3, Underage GW Freshman Guy with an Old Navy "Great Britain" Jacket You Tried to Pass Off as "Authentic." I really have to give some props to your fake ID artist, because the 930 Club doesn't kid around with that stuff, but seeing as how his handiwork has allowed you, little punk, to go wandering the DC club scene, inebriated and inconsiderate, I think some of the responsibility falls on his shoulders.
Because you were the worst of them all. While Stupid Drunk Tourist Guy spent most of the show falling over his longsuffering wife, almost taking her down with him once, and Creepy Little Filipino Guy cooled off and left my feet alone, you took over where both of them left off. Not only did you jump up and down on top of my feet, you had a little drunk flashback to the brief ska-frenzy era circa 1997 and decided to jump, dance, and run in place while flailing your elbows all at the same time. I couldn't watch half the show out of sheer self-defense, and even while trying my darndest to stay out of your crazy way, my feet, ankles, toes, shoulders, arms, and elbows are all sore and bruised today thanks to you.
Did you not notice that 98% of the rest of the crowd was either standing calmly, rocking gently, or carefully bopping in place? No, you apparently felt that your purchase of a single ticket bought you an area of floor space 6ft in diameter, which is what everyone gave you. But that just wasn't enough for your totally cool, rockin out dance-skank moves. I'm sure the Kaiser Chiefs are just as proud of your absolutely insane one-man mosh pit as they are of your "authentic" 1972 Olympic jacket. I'm sure they were just filled with gratitude every time you and your other underage friend grabbed each others arms and yelled "It's the Chiefs!!!" to each other 26 times. I'm proud of your perseverance - no angry looks, subtle elbows, or outright pushes could stop you. What a dedicated fan you must be. Maybe you bought your ticket in the two minutes of the presale before I bought mine.
Actually, no. I bet you bought yours after you could see the show on the front page of the 930 Club's website without scrolling down. After being told by someone, maybe your halfway-reasonable other underage friend, that the Kaiser Chiefs were really good and quite popular, you probably bought four and scalped the other three on Craigslist for outrageous prices. You're not a fan, you're a poseur. Go home to Iowa and tell your parents not to send you back to college until you get potty trained and can be trusted in public. While you're at home, spend some time thinking about the rules of concert etiquette, and maybe try to dredge up from your fuzzy memory some images of what the rest of the 930 Club audience was doing - namely, being considerate of their neighbors given the packed-in, sold-out crowd.
I hope you got run over by a bus on your way home.
Sincerely,
Civilized Society
PS: Please excuse the blatant lack of profanity in this letter. This blog, as a public space, believes in finding and using publicly-appropriate alternatives to cursing. Believe me, you deserved every omission.
2 Comments:
Well, this just proves that a "religiously orthodox" person doesn't necessarily equal "Christian". Wishing them run over by a bus is definitely a great way to "love your enemies" - NOT! And people wonder why the world thinks christianity is just a bunch of hypocrites.....
But there is one very good way to ensure this kind of experience never happens to you again.
Just don't go to concerts at clubs.
Problem solved.
Carol's my roomie... in D.C.... where wishing someone to be run over by a bus is humorous trope. I hate to contradict your painfully literal reading, but I happen to know for a fact that Carol does not actually want anyone run over by a bus.
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