Too Old For This Shit

I wish I had been brave and taken some pictures of the horrors I witnessed the other night in San Jose. The lead up to this story is that our entire trip to San Francisco was built around my husband buying expensive concert tickets for me to see Rhianna. We both love her music and she ranks in my top five people I get to have sex with if the opportunity ever presents itself. My husband can't divorce me or be jealous. I have been giddy with anticipation to see her in person.

I must admit that I am not a concert lover by nature. It usually takes more time than it is worth to wait in a hundred lines, pay outrageous ticket prices and be so far away that you have a better chance of getting laid by the drummer than you do of seeing anyone play music on the stage. My go to music venue is my car, a new CD, cruising down the highway with the wind whipping in my hair while I blow out my shitty speakers. The value adds up with that one. I have always hated people and I have never had a passion for forty dollar tee shirts. The only concerts I have ever enjoyed were those that, only by chance, I ended up at while wandering a new city. They are free and easy to navigate. The worst concert, before this one, was Smashing Pumpkins (look it up) when they played at the Delta Center (Energy Solutions Arena) with some freak show opener. I was in the face bleed section, which is four thousand flights above nose bleed and the sound system in this venue left a lot to be desired. By a lot, I mean everything.

The Rhianna concert easily slipped into first place this weekend as the worst concert experience I have ever had, will ever have and possibly the most painful experience of my life. Including childbirth and getting my impacted wisdom teeth out. It started with a one hour wait for dinner at a BBQ restaurant where we gave up our reservation when we realized we would miss the first part of our concert. We opted to get food at the stadium. As we dragged our famished bodies to the venue we noticed the complete lack of clothing on the majority of women. Booty shorts, stripper heels, sheer tops sans undergarments, dresses that more closely resembled sausage casings than actual clothing and children dressed so inappropriately they could easily get into a bar without ID. It was disturbing.

We made it just in the nick of time and proceeded to wait for an hour and a half for the opening act to come out. We were dreaming of baby back ribs and choking down fifteen dollar chicken nuggets. When the opening act came out, we both knew we had made a terrible mistake. I love rap but I can't get down with guys that rap about pussy, weed and cash then seriously thank God for all they have. Really? At what point during your 'thug' life did you equate misogyny with a love for God. My ears hurt and my soul felt shattered. We should have left then. Instead we walked outside to commiserate with others who had migraines and broken dreams.

After another long intermission, the actual concert started. The smell of weed was pungent and there was a classy bitch dancing next to me who was bouncing her large Latina ass so hard that she dumped a lake of beer around my feet. I'm sure the young ladies (that's a stretch) who had accompanied the clearly retired men to this concert were enjoying their free beer and hourly rate. As my eyes scanned the crowd, I lost what little faith I had in humanity. I became concerned for women who rocked out to songs about being sexually assaulted by men who valued them for their genitalia. I felt gross inside. I wanted to go home.

We left early and I vowed to never pay for a concert again. My heart hurt and I wished I could have gone back in time, bought a CD and driven down Pacific Coast Highway enjoying the scenery and never knowing how depraved our society has become. I am slowly recovering from this trauma. It's a long journey but I think I learned something really important...God and pussy don't belong in the same rap song.