Sunday, April 21, 2013

Dear Concert Goers

Over the weekend, I took a trip to my beloved Atlantic City with three of my compatriots.  We were unable to get one of my free rooms, due in part to an Adult Entertainment convention at the Taj Mahal, and also due, it was pretty much because of all of the porn stars.  Regardless, we were forced to stay in the nether regions of Galloway, just a hop, skip and fifteen consecutive red lights from the Marina district.  After eating dinner in the hotel, we decided to head to the Ego bar at the Taj Majal to have cigars and see the Almost Angels show.  We'd seen the show before and enjoyed...the articles. 
They were performing a very thought provoking article on the nature of man.  That and Pat Benitar's "Heartbreaker".

Knowing that the Taj parking structure would be even more chock full of perverts than usual, we decided to try parking next door at the Showboat.  Floor after floor we drove, only to find the only empty spots partially occupied with double parked cars.  Should the Atlantic City hospitals get an epidemic of people whose eyes mysteriously stated bleeding around 10PM on April 20, it simply means those crimson weepers are awful at parking, and that Sweet Lady Mugumbo has made my voodoo stronger.  Finally, I was able to park on the roof, after a short shouting match with a middle aged man trying to double park his Corvette in the last spot.

As we wandered the roof, trying to find the elevator access, we came across a group of twenty or so high schoolers drinking and screaming youthful idiotic words.  The oldest of which might have been in his third attempt at junior year, and the youngest of which was a girl that couldn't have been older the fourteen, who was holding a can of Miller Lite in both hands because the can was too big for her to hold in one.  Even I am not blindly angry enough to take on drunken Jersey youths on a rooftop, so I pushed through them and made may way to the elevator.  Once the elevator hit the casino floor, the doors opened to reveal a sea of teenaged douchebags.  Wifebeaters and backwards baseball caps were the fashion de rigueur for the guys.  For reasons I still don't understand, most of the girls were wearing what can only be described as "Slutty Hippie Chic".  They wore flowing shirts, beaded headbands, and shorts that really stretched the definition of the word "clothing".  And, but of course, they were all walking the way we were, towards the front of the casino, where the House of Blues lives.

My brave friends and I waded into the mess, and I struggled to imagine just what band could be playing at the HOB that would bring this lunacy down upon us.  As I walked and listened to the boys in front of me communicate using only grunts and the word "penis", I formulated the basis of this letter.  I also took out my phone, and not discreetly at all, took this picture.

I can't figure out where they all found hats with brims on the back.  I planned to ask them, but when my camera sound went off, the last bastion of testosterone in the black and white checkered shirt turned to glare, then realize he was looking at my chest, and slowly panned up to look at me.  He then turned to his friend in the white who said, "I think he just took a picture of us" in a tone that was less "How dare he!" and more "Please sir, don't make me eat any more garbage."  One of my friends, formerly in the Army, chose to interject, laughing at them and stating, "Yeah.  What are you going to do?  He is a giant."  They chose to look limply at the floor. 

By then, we had reached the House of Blues, and I saw on the marquee just what tantalizing act would bring such a high class of a crowd to block my entrance to the lovely Angels show.  This also brought me to the point of this letter: why, teenagers who were born no earlier than 1994, would you all be so deadset to go to a show for Badfish: A Tribute to Sublime?  Lead singer of Sublime Bradley Nowell killed himself when the oldest of you kids was 2.  The band was mourned only by the most cognizant of potheads when I was in college, and I rarely hear them played nowadays.  How is this tribute band the best thing available to you all on a Saturday night?  There were six other concerts going on in AC that night.  This was your best option?  And what is with the hippie dress, ladies?  I know that Sublime was known for their put upon "I'm so worry free" songs, but what was all of this nonsense? 

Mostly, I just want to know how many times that band had to play "Santeria" in order to complete a full set.


  1. Sounds like a nightmare. This is why I don't leave the house. Damn kids and their going out in public.

    Seriously, it's super awkward to encounter children pretending they're not children. That's one of my least favorite things. You should have just started screaming incessantly. They'd have parted like the Red Sea.

    1. They got pretty skittish when they saw I was taking pictures. As far as the roof dwellers, I was still in a good mood at that point.

      We need to get houses across from each other. The farthest we will go is onto our own porches, where we will slowly rock in our chairs and glare at each other.


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