Thursday, August 12
Not long ago, I rode along with Craig (who is tall and runs fast, and
also plays bass) and Eric (who is not tall, but is fast whenever the mysterious, random
workings of his brain chemistry dictate) to a free 311 concert in Omaha. We collected
a set of Craig's dorm-friends somewhere in the generic housing that has accreted on the
outer layers of the city, and headed for Memorial Park. There were a lot of people
in Memorial Park. About half of them must have been in the fifty square yards closest to
the stage. We worked our way as far forward as possible.
I lost track of Eric and the kids whose names I didn't know immediately. I think
I knew where Craig was until somewhere in the second song. I know he was around until
after the part where our section of crowd collapsed en masse, because I remember that we
both helped the same panicked looking fat guy to his feet. Or maybe he wasn't fat, but
if he wasn't fat, he was dense. I remember heaviness. After that, it became crazy and
my mind was running on nearly independent parallel tracks: The one that
mechanically avoids being trampled to death, and the one that repeats phrases
like "oven of madness" and "my life needs some intensity of
experience".
It is a bad idea to carry glasses into a mosh pit. Even in your pocket.
p1k3 /
2004 /
8 /
12