THE FOLLOWING STORY IS TRUE:
There are few lessons I have learned that will stick with me throughout the course of my life. One is, if you insist on living your life as "one huge, ongoing felony" (as my lawyer so eloquently put it), do not videotape crimes-in-process and write lengthy detailed accounts of said felonies, mocking the victims, making fun of the police, and outlining plans of further mischief. There are many others, most of which I forget at the moment, but the fact is I have learned these lessons at a great price to my sanity, safety and well-being. But there is one thing that spending a year in lockdown at various prisons and jails across the nation, forced to live in the constant fear of getting "The Broom!" (or worse), killed, or married in your sleep to a large Latino transvestite who vaguely resembles Peg Bundy, will teach you nothing that could possibly prepare a person for the god-awful Horror Show I was forced to endure tonight. Even completely drunk and most likely under the influence of drugs, my nerves are shot and my brain's core temperature was hot enough to broil a Christmas goose.
One word: Emo.
I'm not sure if I was tricked, threatened or coerced with the promise of sex and free lottery tickets, but apparently I let my guard down long enough to be suckered into a night of dreadful songs and experiences that will live with me forever. Whoever did this to me will pay. I can't even think of the color black without my entire body shivering and my ears ringing. I thought the time I was tricked by that awful Elena to go to the Backstreet Boys concert with her and her piggly sorority sisters was awful, but it couldn't hold a candle to tonight's events.
Their name is Dashboard Confessional and they were mentioned in the Bible, near the part about the earth splitting open and the sky turning black and the oceans turning to fire. How one five-foot, two-inch man with a voice like an eight year old girl on helium, and who looks like he stole his wardrobe off a mannequin in the window of an Abercrobmie and Fitch store on the way to the show, possess the power to make me weep openly in a room full of strangers, and throw myself on the fat Sheriff's Deputy hitting on the young girls selling T-shirts in the lobby, and beg to be put back in prison, is beyond me. He should be locked up and studied, then shot into space.
The fact that I would willingly go to an Emo concert fills me with the shame of the entire Jackson Family, and causes me to question the events leading up to the concert. [In Robert Stack voice:] Was I simply confused as to who this band actually was, or was I the helpless victim of a cruel prank gone terribly wrong. These stories and Andy Rooney, next! - oh wait, I'm mixing voiceovers again.
Regardless, as we approached the Filmore Theater on Colfax (located conveniently across the street from Kitty's Adult Emporium), I began to notice short young boys walking hand in hand with slightly taller and fatter young girls down the street (The boys were wearing those jeans that are washed in a solution of lye and rocks (for that perfect "worn" look), and plain white shirts with the sleeves rolled up to their elbows, and the top button opened to expose the top of a T-shirt with a catchy slogan. The girls either worse patchwork skirts over their unwashed jeans or fishnet stockings with handkerchiefs knotted around their wrists and faces smeared with whore-red lipstick). There were two, then four, then so many that I was unable to step on the gas when the light turned green at the intersection of Colfax and High because the intersection was flooded with these clones - like an awful deleted scene from the Tim Burton remake of the Stepford Wives.
I felt a sharp pain on the back of my neck and when I came to I was inside the Fillmore, squeezed tightly between a small young Asian boy wearing three polo shirts (collars up), and a Houston Astros baseball hat, and a short girl who looked like a cross between that fat Osbourne girl and Tammy Faye Baker (she appeared to have been crying, and her mascara was smeared all over her face). My arms were pinned to my sides when an explosion onstage rocked the building, and out of the smoke and fire appeared what I would picture the Italian Michael J. Fox to look like. A large acoustic guitar was strapped to his chest and he smiled as slyly as the Botox would allow.
The crowd cheered, as best as a crowd of Emo kids can, and the short greasy man on stage began to strum his guitar and moan and warble into the microphone. The words were unintelligible over the amplified sounds of his guitar's strings being plucked, and the weeping and moaning and sobbing coming from the crowd. He would swing his arm around like Elvis, suddenly and without warning, and the lights would start flashing and music a one-man acoustic guitar band is physically incapable of producing would boom from the speakers, jolting the crowd and the tears and sobs would turn to one huge high pitched scream. The Man would smile again, as smoke was piped onto the stage to prevent anyone of getting a good look at him, and then yell "YEAH!" and hold his fist in the air and mumble something about that being a song about leaving a beautiful ocean town. This happened 5 times before an 11 year old girl choked me unconscious with her handkerchief, screaming something about me getting in the way of "Chris" looking at her.
When I woke up, propped against a trash can, my ribs felt as if I had been bucked my a mule, and I could taste blood coming from my split lip. I tried to get up but a small boy with square black glasses and a huge silver belt buckle yelled "POSER!" and kicked me in the middle of the chest. I waited until there was a commotion caused by a 12 year old girl - or maybe it was a boy - who stormed the stage and was weeping and shaking at singer's feet. It reminded me of one of those Specials on the Church Channel during Sweeps where that dark-skinned man with the grey-haired mullet and mysterious accent whacks people on the head as pipe organ music plays loudly in the background, and they fall on the ground and writhe around until the audience stops cheering and then the large Italian men in expensive suits collect their twisted bodies (and purse or wallet) and put them to processing the credit cards of those faithful viewers who called in and pledged enough to get a large silver cardboard Star pinned on the corkboard behind the Miracle Area, along with Eternal Salvation -- assuming their credit card clears. This, of course, has nothing to do with the story.
Anyway, people were screaming and fainting and crying and writhing around and an army of paramedics were racing around the place with oxygen tanks, and carrying people off into the shadows who had been trampled, collapsed, or been overcome by the emotions of the songs about leaving a beautiful ocean town. This was happening as the bright lights flashed wildly and smoke filled the room and explosions were rattling the building. This is how I picture the final minutes inside Marshall Applewhite's mansion as the members of the Heaven's Gate cult sipped on their Koolaid and spooned their mouths full of applesauce and listened to Dave Matthews CDs, waiting for the Comet to come for them.
There is no happy ending to this story, so I will spare you the gruesome details. It was like a scene from some awful action movie with Steven Segal, with an acoustic guitar soundtrack. I was lucky to escape intact. Despite my severe brain damage and minor cosmetic damages, the doctors say I should make a full recovery. But lately, suddenly and without reason, I find myself slightly depressed thinking about how much I miss that little ocean town and wondering if I will ever be noticed by that popular girl/boy I secretly like but do nothing about it other than doodle his/her name in my notebook during Homeroom.
Other than that, Mrs. Kennedy, how was the parade?
Well, this has gone on for long enough. Curse my uncanny ability to effortless write 1,500 words at a time about absolutely nothing. Hitler had the same talent and look where it got him? Eating applesauce and sipping on Koolaid in his bunker under Berlin, listening to Dashboard Confessional and thinking about the good ol' days in that perfect little ocean town.
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