Hi there. Oh no. It’s me. Down here. Yeah.
5’2″, 105lbs. Blond. Yeah.
So a few months ago, I made sure I had my presale password. Months ago, I patiently waited and bought my floor tickets. Last night, I rushed through dinner, and got there an hour early to patiently wait in line, and patiently have my bag checked, and patiently wait to get my wristband, and quickly walk up to the front. I patiently waited for an hour for the opener, making small talk with the mom and 15 year old girl beside me, joked with a friend, laughed with other people who had patiently, so patiently, waited for a good concert and a good time.
AND THEN YOU CRUSHED ME.
I realize that you, and your skanky hipsterzilla friends with their braided headband atrocities (which I can only assume disguise lobotomy scars), their leather fake and baked skin, their stylish kohl eyeliner, YOU guys are the biggest Kings of Leon fans. You guys heard them in London 3 years ago. You saw them at Sasquatch. You know every word, every fist pump, every whoop and scream. You love them so much, that you got there just about the time they started and realized hey, YOU should be at the front of the hundreds of people that got there before you.
So, like your hipster ilk is drawn to fixed wheel bikes, you felt drawn towards the two smallest people in the stadium, myself and the 80 LB 15 YEAR OLD GIRL. I know, I know. You’re a really big fan. The difference between being two feet away, and being three feet away (because I’m not sure if you know this, but it is kind of a law of physics that two solid objects can’t occupy the same spot in the space/time continuum) is killing you. I know that this is general admission, and that I should just suck it up. I know that your girlfriend/friend/some woman whose tan is going to come off on your hands really really needs to get closer because maybe then she’ll get to go backstage (really?).. But I’m not moving.
I’m sorry that I swore at you, I’m sorry that I told you and your equally as repugnant friend to “Get the f**k back from whence you came” (once an English student always an English student!) but when he stuck his hand up the back of my dress because “He didn’t have anywhere else to put them” I kind got a little fed up. All you needed to do was to take one step back, let me massage my lacerated kidney for a few seconds and all would have been fine. So when you decided that the best way to get closer to the stage was to simply try and subsume my body into yours by climbing on top of me and taking my place.. I’d had it.
I’m a tough girl. I have waded through umpteen seething crowds of all kinds of concert goers from Neil Young to MIA to the Black Keys to the most terrifying crowd of all, Lilith Fair. And never in any of the above have I been so dissapointed in the caliber of young Edmontonian males than I have been in you, you bespectacled halitosis suffering sack of mop water.
So to you, 180 lb Kings of Leon Fan, I tip my hat. Congratulations. For the first time in my concert going history (in which, despite probably being longer than you’ve been alive, I have never met a bigger group of yowling douchnozzles than you and your ironically dressed friends) , I yielded to laws of physics. You took my space, and coincedentally managed to do what in a decade of concert going I have never managed:
To give an entire stadium a jumbotron upskirt shot as I was hauled over the rail and away from you.
The only girl there that didn’t (thankfully) know the words to Sex on Fire.
*also graciously published on The Edmontonian