The Artist Formerly Known As Prince Trevor and I went to see Jenny Owen Youngs this evening. It was just about the most glorious rock concert I’ve been to in years. I know, I know. You’re probably thinking, “But, Bil, Jenny’s brand of rock isn’t exactly what you’d call ‘glorious.’” Or perhaps you’re thinking, “But, Bil, that doesn’t count, because you hadn’t even been to an actual rock concert in years.” And you’d be right in thinking those thoughts. But I have ways around them both. First of all, the word “glorious” is as vague and re-definable as the word “fuck.” It can mean anything I want it to mean. If I say so, it can include the words “mellow” and “hipsterrific” in the definition. Second of all, I’ve been to so many events that have included rockin’ out that I can add them all together and easily make the claim that my life is practically an ongoing series of rock concerts. (This claim is especially easy to make when you count going to a bar with a decent jukebox as an “event” – and when you realize that the word “practically” is as vague and re-definable as the word “glorious.”)

It was a new experience for me, however, when the headliner came up first and at the end of her set encouraged us to hang around afterward and listen to the opening act. I was expecting it to go the other way around. In fact, I had been told that it would be the other way around. But hey, I can respect that you have to keep an audience on its toes.

Anyway, the concert was great, and if you really want to know all about the concert you can probably find a recap of the evening on any obsessive fan’s blog. What’s on my mind right now, actually, is the audience.

I cannot express just how relieved I was to find that the audience was not comprised entirely of teenage girls. When you’re a teenage boy, to be in this kind of audience is the stuff dreams are made of. Rock and roll blaring, your body colliding with the bodies of ecstatic girls wearing t-shirts with kitschy band logos and super-tight pants, and all of you appreciating the physicality of the situation. Yes, when you’re seventeen, this is exactly what you dream about. However, when you’re twenty-six and married, this is exactly what you worry about. (You worry you’ll actually enjoy it – a lot – thus betraying your own assertions that you are not a pervert.)

Tonight, thankfully, there was a noticeable lack of teenage girls. There was, however, a very noticeable young woman from Brooklyn in the audience. She was noticeable partly because she was wearing a loud, obnoxious outfit, but mainly we were so keenly aware of her presence because of her loud, obnoxious voice. I would say she had a smart-ass comment for everything, but it’s hard to be a smart-ass when you’re not smart.

Perhaps she is a smart person. But you’d never know it, ’cause all she said were stupid things. Lots of “Yeah, I like licking batteries!” and other assorted blurbs obviously designed to get attention. And she was standing RIGHT BEHIND US.

Jen (yes, can I call her “Jen” because I saw her and now we are BFF’s) had some technical difficulties (translation: one of her guitars just didn’t work…at all) which, to her credit, turned the evening into a bit of a comic routine interspersed with folksy rock. During one period while she couldn’t perform any music because she was making adjustments, our Loud Girl from Brooklyn just started talking. This is actually when we found out she was from Brooklyn. The “oh, a Yankee, huh?” comment from someone somewhere (which, in my mind, would have been a great cue for anyone from NY in the audience to shut the hell up) sparked a tirade against the Yankees from none other than Loud Girl from Brooklyn herself. No, instead she chose to trash-talk the Yankees in favor of the Mets. Nowhere but in New York City do people care about the difference. Then – and this is really what stuck with me – she said loudly, “I don’t like the Yankees because they’re rich. That’s why I like the Mets! That’s why Chicago loves the Cubs, am I right? And you hate the White Sox, right? Fuck the White Sox!”

Obviously this was a friend-making tactic. But who the fuck is she to tell us which team we love, and who’s rich or not? Hint: all Major League Baseball players are rich. They make LOTS of money. Perhaps the insinuation was that the rich people like the Yankees and the White Sox, and the Mets and the Cubs are brethren in their blue-collar fan base. While this isn’t entirely true, again, she probably said it because she expected wild cheers of support. None came, because we all just found her irritating. And an irritating New Yorker is only welcome in New York.

Shortly there after, Jenny retook her spotlight and sang some more, and Loud Girl from Brooklyn either shut up (unlikely) or left (more likely), because we really didn’t hear from her after that. Ah, sweet songs without interruption. Much nicer. Fuck her, she was annoying.

After Jenny’s set was done, I spotted Loud Girl from Brooklyn at a table with a group of friends. As I watched, I noticed that her movements became even more turbulent and her voice got louder whenever her friends didn’t all look at her for twenty seconds. I thought, wow – here is someone who absolutely NEEDS attention. Like, the way a heroine addict NEEDS heroine.

She was hanging out with a group of friends, and couldn’t even enjoy their company. It was like she needed attention more than her friends needed to give her attention, and she was constantly battling that by being loud and annoying. And that actually made me kind of sad for her. (Don’t worry – the sadness goes away when I remember how annoying she is.) It reminded me somehow of the creepy guy we encountered last night while awaiting the pizza end of our pizza/money transaction.

Last night, the Artist Formerly Known As Prince Trevor and I were inside the Pizza Chain Formerly Known As Little Caesar’s waiting for our Hot-N-Ready pizza (which, as you can tell by the fact that we were waiting, was Not-N-Ready). We were standing loftily against the wall, chatting just as loftily as we were standing, and it occurred to each of us that not only was the man in the tan jacket standing a little too close, but he was very clearly listening to us. He was laughing at our jokes. Our inside jokes. Jokes that aren’t even funny, certainly not to anyone who is not myself or Trevor, but all the same he was laughing right along with us.

It was a little scary, I won’t lie. He was taller than either of us. He was also waiting for a pizza that was promised to be Hot-N-Ready. He was alone. He was wearing a tan jacket. All of these signs point to “serial killer.”

Of course, now, in retrospect, I realize that he was probably just a lonely guy. If he was attempting to nudge his way into a conversation with two strangers at Little Caesar’s, he probably has a hard time meeting people.

He was middle aged. It sounded like he spoke with some foreign accent (I heard him say something to the guy behind the counter once he had his Hot-N-Ready pizzas that was very hard to understand). When he smiled, he bore a very strong physical resemblance to Rowan Atkinson as “Mr. Bean” – and a behavioral resemblance as well, but not in a funny kind of way. More in a desperately lonely kind of way. He quite clearly wanted to laugh, but seemed very afraid to. I’m sure I wasn’t helping. I stopped talking every time he laughed at something I said.

Having just spent an evening with my best friend having a grand old time, I am now sitting comfortably in my apartment with my wife in the same room. (She is playing Nintendo.) And I must admit – I have a major sense of guilt. I’m not lonely. I’m not afraid to laugh because the circumstances of my life have not made me afraid. And for some reason, I am comfortable enough with myself to actually enjoy giving my attention to others most of the time.

I know in my head that it’s not my fault lonely people are lonely, and it’s not my responsibility to cure them of their loneliness, but all the same – I cannot help but forgive annoying people for being annoying, and creepy people for being creepy.

In other news, The Project Formerly Known As Project: Mayhem (Until We Found Out It’s Protected By Copyright, Nevermind That It’s In A Goddamned Work Of Fiction) should be erupting sometime later this week. I can’t wait. Your job: hold your breath until you’re super-pissed off about something, then get it out of your system by writing it down. And save it.

Filed by Bil at 1:56 am under Shameless Plugs, Social Issues, Pop Culture, The Arts