Dancing at Concerts
Oh, Christ, is that girl over there having a seizure? Someone should, like, grab her and hold down her tongue with, like, a swizzle straw or something. Wait…Oh, fuck—is she dancing? Really? Like, right up in the guitarist’s face? What the hell? Is she waving her hands in the air like she just don’t fucking care? Is this, like, a fifth grade dance at Cedar Lakes Junior High where someone spiked the punch and little straight-edge Sarah got unintentionally smashed and tried to grind with the foreign exchange student, Gunther, who ran to the bathroom and cried because his body is changing? No…I’m pretty sure that this is a Yo La Tengo concert, and I’m pretty sure that Ira would rather not see that chick’s uvula bouncing up and down as she belts out “Autumn Sweater” and gyrates. No, dude, uvula—like that thing in the back of your throat. Although I’m sure he can see that, too—she just attempted to do the twist. Ah, fuck, dude—why do people like that have to kill my buzz by coming to shows? I’m just gonna stand here in the front row and keep my face totally expressionless—that way those lyrical geniuses up there will know that I’m serious about my music.
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