Dear Fat Hipster Girl,
It was quite a shock when you came onto me at the Soft Moon concert a couple of nights ago. Thanks to you, I’ve now calculated that I have a 25 percent chance of getting sexually assaulted at any concert I go to. It seems that girls who mosh next to me have an irresistible urge to manhandle my fleshy bits. I wonder which god I must have pissed off to be condemned to this fate.
Not that attention from women is unwelcome, mind you. I just wish it’d come from girls who are attractive and single.
I went to the Holocene that night looking to grab a couple beers and listen to some tunes. The Soft Moon is one of my favorite bands, their inhuman blend of dark hardcore punk a joy whenever I’m in a pissed-off mood and need to focus my rage. Plus, this was the first show I’d been to literal months; not many decent bands in the depths of the North Dakota oil basin. With the awesome supporting acts Group Rhoda and Portland natives We Are Like the Spider getting the crowd pumped up, I was in a state of near ecstasy when the Soft Moon took the stage.
And lo, the God of Rock surveyed the scene, and said that it was good.
The Soft Moon are great recorded and mindblowing live. Luis Vasquez is one hell of a showman, jumping and hopping around on stage, handling synth and guitar with equal ease. Their drummer is easily one of the best I’ve ever seen; even with the machine-like pace of the band’s songs, he kept pace perfectly, filling the tiny auditorium with thunder.
And then you entered the picture.
You came careening out of stage right, cavorting and gyrating like a college freshman on a Skyy bender, everyone giving you wide berth. You were dressed in all black, pasty white skin, wearing dorkily-huge glasses like the kind my mom wore when she was our age… only my mom wouldn’t have been caught dead in glasses that huge and unwieldy. I remember your jowls most of all, flabby and swollen from many a late night scarfing down Captain My Captains at Voodoo Doughnut. But I was content to ignore you; just another drunk chick making an ass out of herself.
Until you came onto me.
Most girls would be subtle about approaching a man out of the blue. Not you. You began by immediately grabbing my hand and trying to drag me on stage while Luis Vasquez shredded like a mofo. After that didn’t work, you settled for cornering me during the next song and cupping my face in your hands. For a full minute, you were pinching my cheeks like some kind of perverted grandma, kneading and playing with my face like it was a wad of cookie dough, as the members of We Are Like the Spider and the other people around us looked on in bemusement and horror.
All the while, I just stood there, thinking to myself, “Y’know, if I’d just had a couple more beers, I’d probably be enjoying this a LOT more.”
After you got bored of trying to turn my skull into a pizza pie, you started breakdancing again. I joined in, either out of disbelief or Stockholm syndrome, and we got down for about two minutes. After the song ended, you were kind enough to tell me I was “on point,” so that was nice. Seeing as it had been three months since I’d last done this, it was nice to know that I hadn’t lost my edge.
Then you vanished, pulled away by your friends or something, I missed it. We didn’t even get each others’ names.
I’m not sure why you thought I was the guy to assault. Maybe it was because of my dashing good looks. Maybe it was because I was the only man within five miles with a drop of testosterone. Maybe it was because you were just wasted. But you gave me a funny story to tell my friends, so that was cool.
Fat Hipster Girl, if I ever run into your inebriated ass again, I’ll gladly dance once more. But I’d prefer less face-slapping next time.