Ohmigawd, guys. I went to see The Menzingers play in Tampa last night with Poofl and my lovely friend Cat. It cannot be stressed how much I love this band. Oh wait, it can be a liiittttle: Greg is my quote-unquote Band Huzband. Meaning, oh the things I would do to him if given the chance… well… actually… all I’d probably do is just stare slack-jawed at him as some drool gingerly snuck out of the corner of my lower lip. I even dreamed last night that I met him; for some reason the band was staying with ‘us’ (me and five roommates… no, I had no idea who they were… perhaps my alter-egos?), Greg decided to cut his own hair, and I very realistically, verbally, shot myself in the foot. We’re talking making the dumbest jokes and comments ever, and him looking at me, slightly confused, not remotely amused, each time. So glad that was a dream.
Anywhos, here he is *swoon*:
Ok, so, I digress just a tad, because both this concert and this Buzzfeed article were the inspiration for this post: The 9 Most Powerful Lessons Punk Rock Teaches You. They. Fuckin’. NAILED IT.
I started really listening to punk when I worked as a line cook. We had a beat up ol’ stereo we listened to during prep time, and through it’s nearly shattered speakers I picked up some amazing bands: Propaghandi, Descendents, Against Me!, Alkaline Trio, A Wilhelm Scream, Dillinger Four, NOFX, Rise Against, Radon, Strike Anywhere, etc etc… and since I started working with these grizzly, dirty line boys at the tender age of 18, I started going to shows with them since I couldn’t yet bond over a bottle of Irish whiskey (though that came later… oh boy did it, haha). And it was like I discovered something just… I dunno, perfect for me. It was perfect then, and by gawd it’s still fuckin’ perfect now! Complete with bruised shins and a nasty cigarette cough, I still love punk shows.
A younger me was a little hesitant to jump face first into the mosh pit, but as I’ve gotten older I’ve no longer get any fucks left to give. Besides, although I’m short I’m pretty muscular and dense for my size. Thus, you can throw me around a bit more than the average lady and I’ll just bounce right back. Funny though; I only side-eyed the pit longingly for the first few songs before I dove in; after all, it looked like angst-relief heaven in there… until I got smack dab in the middle. Then it seemed to turn down a couple notches… that is, until I turned around and told the line of bros behind, “YO! You know you guys can hit me right?! C’mon!!” To which they laughed and got over the ‘little girl hangup’ or whatever they call it. Truthfully, that’s one of the things I love most about show-going and pit-moshing. You can be feeling utterly misanthropic, pissed at the world, but spend 10 minutes in a mosh pit and you come away having shed those massive chips on your shoulders. Granted, partly because they got knocked to the floor as you bounced around like a coked-out pinball goin’ for the high score, but also because of the simple truth that the second you fall in a pit, the second a random stranger picks your ass up and gets you back on your feet. It’s a universal rule: we’re here to get rowdy, not get trampled. Everyone obeys, everyone helps, because everyone is likely to fall at least once. It’s almost like a community in there, a sweaty, smelly community. Plus, just thrashing around throwin bows just helps release any and all pent up aggression. I came away last night calm and completely covered in sweat (mine and others), as if I had just spent the last hour meditating in a sauna.
Plus, all that runnin’ around was like completing a 2-a-day workout: no guilt whatsoever about those 3 carbombs!! Aaaahhh, punk rock, how I love thee…. and Greg…. yeah Greg…. I band-lerv you so hard.
Current Jam: “The Talk” The Menzingers, because I yelled that shit out smack dab in the pit, Tom looked at me (I’m certain of it!! haha) and they played it and I was like YEEEEEESSSSSSSSHHHHHHHH.