MadMadMike - 7-16-2003 at 03:18 PM
From phillyblurbs.com:
There was a sour note at the Metallica concert in Philadelphia last weekend when a young woman near me became agitated as scores of chanting men urged
women to bare their breasts, and many obliged.
Not only did some flash their breasts, they also flashed their … well, let’s just say that heavy metal music ain’t for pantywaists (or
panties).
The young woman near me contemptuously and vociferously blamed men for this R-rated hedonism, lecturing us that women wouldn’t flash if not
pressured by the leering louts around us.
"All men are petty!" she cried. "It doesn’t matter if they’re 13 or" — she looked at me — "some 40-year-old guy you’d want to divorce anyway
because he’s old."
Harrumph.
Now, I’m sure there are many college-educated stay-at-home soccer moms, as well as manicured, latte-lapping men who purse their lips and bob their
heads in full agreement with the young lady’s lament.
And I guess most respectable people would agree that flashing one’s delicates is lewd. After all, this was the Veterans Stadium, not Bill
Clinton’s White House.
Who are these men who urge women to flash simply because the women wear tight, belly-bearing halter tops to a beer-soaked, testosterone-fueled heavy
metal concert?
Cads, if you ask me.
Why, as any latte lapper will tell you, you won’t find this sort of behavior at a Kenny G concert.
Frankly, I was miserable surrounded by all that flashing flesh. Miserable, especially after I strained a neck muscle. Then I began to sympathize with
that young woman.
Imagine. You arrive at an all-day concert of rebellious, hell-raising, hard-edged rock acts touring under the name "Summer Sanitarium" (you know,
"sanitarium" as in "crazy") and you find yourself surrounded by people acting, well, crazy.
Yanni would be appalled.
I’m glad the young woman wasn’t with me as I arrived for the concert and searched for a parking spot. The things I saw. Sheesh.
A man staggered near my car, fell to his knees and vomited on the sidewalk.
This would have bewildered her.
I mean, who gets ripped before a concert headlined by a band nicknamed "Alcoholica?"
As I drove past the puker, one of my passengers spotted a couple pressed against a small building. Being the respectable type, I’ll spare you the
details — but they should have rented a room.
Then, as I hiked to the Vet from Pattison Avenue, I glimpsed people giddily inhaling from large balloons.
"Nitrous oxide," I was told.
"Oh, Whip-its," I said, smiling, but then quickly frowned, mostly because my wife was next to me.
As I walked on, I got a whiff of something sweet and pungent hanging in the air. It was my cologne.
"Hey buddy, your cologne stinks," said a guy smoking pot.
Outrageous, I thought as I passed him. How could one concentrate on the fine musical stylings of Limp Bizkit’s Fred Durst while stoned?
As we went to our seats, a young man tossed a cup of beer and splashed a cop. The cop and his partner grabbed the guy and cuffed him. Boy, you’d
never see that at an Osmond Family concert.
Geez. Sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll. And at a Metallica concert, of all places.
That young lady ought to complain to management and demand a refund.
Then she ought to book a trip to Branson, Mo.
I bet nobody flashes at a Wayne Newton show.