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