“Evidence indicates that poor mental health is correlated with celebrity worship.”

-Wikipedia

I’ve been going to concerts since I was 12. During the very first one, while my friend Sam and I were huddled together, suffering through the agonizingly long minutes until our favorite person in the entire world was in the same room as we were, the girls next to us inhaled joint after joint like they were human intake fans. Sam and I couldn’t tell the difference between our apparent contact high and our newly discovered hormones.  And while we screamed and cried and sang our voices raw, these two smokestacks enjoyed the show in their own special way, by grunting the rare “uhhhhh” and “oh yeah” when they were not offgassing two little girls from New Jersey.

My point here is that I’ve been witness to some odd fan behavior in my years.  For example, I’ve been to a lot of NFL games, where the ribbing goes from the mild (“We’re going to beat you!”) to downright fat-shaming (“Hey, 72, why don’t you try a salad once in a while!” usually followed by a few colorful expletives.) And I’ve seen fans shell out lots of lucre for tickets to a show only to spend most of the time going to the bathroom.  Really? You not only had to go through the psychotic corn maze of buying a concert ticket these days, but you fought all this traffic on the Turnpike, sold a kidney to pay for the parking, and you’re going to spend “Born to Run” in the fetid chamber of horrors that is a MetLife Stadium restroom?  You better see a urologist, buddy, and quick.  And I was in The Bahamas once where a woman who was lucky enough to have first row seats practically mainlined tequila sunrises and passed out in the aisle before the gentleman crooner even took the stage. For the show she had flown to The Bahamas to see. Oddly, we all remained in our seats for an awkward moment watching as she crashed to the ground, taking a few folding chairs with her, as we all thought the same thing – “Yeah? You fly all this way and now you do not even see what you came for?”  A gentleman came to her aid and snapped us out of our outrage, restoring my own faith in both chivalry and humanity. And then there was also the time where a crazed fan¹ got stuck on a fence in an undulating crowd storming the stage at a general admission concert and was almost split in two while being pulled to safety by her friend.

Now put a bunch of middle-aged women in a room with their favorite male singer and things can get reallyweird.   Add to that some alcohol, a show that starts late, a New York attitude, and the fact that menopause is causing these broads’ moods to swing more than a pendulum do, and things can turn from weird to violent.  Let me tell you about such a show. 

I had been looking forward to this show for months. It was a surprise that we were going, as it would be the third time this year that we’ve seen our guy, our celebrity crush, our reason for living. But our friend Lil had scored really good seats, and you don’t argue with the universe.  

I love my favorite singer. He brings me pure, unadulterated joy. And we were going to be right up front! He will see us! And he even might sweat on us.  Who wouldn’t be looking forward to that? 

So Sam and I arrive in what I was expecting to be a quaint little town to find it is really more of the armpit of Westchester County. We drive around the sad labyrinth of this burg, wondering how many taco restaurants one really needs in a place this small, and wondering how our GPS can be telling us we are literally in front of a brewery when all we see is a Metro North parking lot.  Something’s brewing all right, and it’s Sam’s rage.  She pulls into an Italian restaurant and tells me to go inside and ask where she should be parking.  Please don’t make me do this, I beg. I am getting nervous that she is going to call it quits and go home, when after about 30 minutes of circling the theater in some deranged Griswoldian nightmare, we see the huge sign that reads “EVENT PARKING” directly across the street.  I shell out $25 and let out a sigh of relief. 

Lil and Moe are our dear friends whom we may or may not have met at a concert a few years ago. We normally don’t talk to strangers (see how I did that, fans?) but in that case Sam noticed that Moe was using the same camera and proceeded to bully him into showing her a specific feature. And they weren’t freaks! And we liked them!

Anyway.  Lil and Moe effortlessly arrive in town and immediately inform us that they parked for four bucks at the train station.  Now we are hungry and start looking for a place to eat where we feel safe. Or isn’t completely seafood. So we end up at the same Italian restaurant where I refused to go in and ask about parking.  I try my hardest to order something that won’t end up down the front of me so when my guy spots me he won’t think that I shovel my grub in so fast it sometimes doesn’t always make it in and I don’t care.  Or worse, that I actually showed up to his show wearing a sweater with grease stains where my boobs should be. I don’t dress to the nines for these events because I know I’ll be a sweaty, heaving mess by the end of it, but I do like to put at least a little effort into it. 

We finally get in the theater and find our seats, along with the accompanying cast of characters we’ve grown accustomed to seeing at these things. Our new friend Winnie Tok Fan, who is sort of excited to see us, tells us that the “mean girls” are in the audience. How fetch! But here comes Quadrangle Hair, Tree Girl, Bette Midler, and Orange Glasses.  Or at least that’s how we know them.  We typically lump this group of “loyal” fans under one name – The Encroachers.  Encroachers are those fans who slowly invade your personal space with the idea of nudging you out of the way and getting closer. You know the ones. You synchronize your watches, get online an hour before tickets go on sale, and eat dog food for a week to afford the best tickets, only to have the chicks from the cheap seats slither on down to get in front of you.  Tonight they are hanging out right at the stage, just chatting and taking approximately one million photos of one another, probably with the cute drum set in the background.  I lean over to Sam and ask her just how many pictures of each other do you need? She and I have been friends for over 45 years and I think I have three photos of the two of us.  At the same time, Moe comes in from the other side and asks me the same question.  I mean, every 5 minutes these chicks get the amazing idea that a group photo is a novel idea and maybe will distract the rest of us from the fact that they’re Encroachers.  Listen, babes, I’ve been to enough of these that I know that what you’re up to.  You’re hoping that by standing where you are that the show will start and you’ll be right up front with nowhere else to go. We get it. 

The show starts a bit late and there’s a familiar countdown video that I’ve seen way too many times for it to keep having the same effect on me – it’s pure bliss. I giggle like a dope until the forces of nature and fangirlness have me singing and moving about in my confined space.  I try to convince Moe to pull up his shirt and show his man boobs just because it would be hilarious. He refuses and shooshes me like I yelled out in the library. 

A few songs into the show, I switch between grinning like an idiot, singing, and entering into a state of abject paralysis when my guy comes over to our side of the stage and is within five feet of me. He looks directly at me and Sam and all I can do is an enthusiastic wave.  He moves on and Sam and I look at each other without words.  He knows we’re there. 

My favorite song is called “Souls.” It was likely written about me, who knows.  But I love this song, and I don’t always get to hear it live. So when I do it’s a sacred event.  While Mr. S. and I are in spiritual communion, Sam grabs me about the head and neck. She yells into my ear, “HEY! There is something brewing over there!” I can barely hear her so I look around like I’m interested and go on about my singing. Seconds later, she is leaning on my shoulder once again, yelling “THERE IS GOING TO BE A FIGHT OVER THERE!”.  I thank her for updating me during my favorite song. 

By the time the song is done, we have added two new characters to our cast of weirdos: Butter Face and Animal. These two broads, fueled by some kind of hormonal rage or maybe a couple of boilermakers, are beating the crap out of an Encroacher.  Whoa, nelly! Now this we really haven’t seen before. Butter Face is throwing punches and pulling hair while Animal is accosting the feckless security guard with her huge hot dog fingers, pointing and stabbing at the air as to the location of each Encroacher.  Also, someone pukes. I’m fairly insulated from the fracas but soon one of these ticketed seat holders pushes Lil (who has remained in her space) and now I am worried. These women are strong, pissed, drunk, and possibly horny because of who’s on stage. I have a flashback to my friend MaryJean telling me how she also saw Mr. S. about twenty years ago and how her unsuspecting husband was nearly stampeded by a wall of estrogen-deprived maniacs.  I try to get behind Sam as a human shield. 

The crowd settles, united in showing a bit of respect for a particular song that is personal for a lot of us. I sob and Sam whispers something about pornography in my ear.  

Then the music starts rocking and it’s back to more fighting! Butter Face is about to lose her tube top while she’s trying to force someone back to her seat, while Animal practically has the security guard up over her head like she’s King Kong. Lil is trying to take cover in the safety of our row of folding chairs.  Sam puts her arm around her.   We’ve now become a Jerry Springer audience, and Sam is convinced we are somehow going to be drawn into it. I snap a few pictures in case I need them for evidence. 

Sam again yells in my ear that things are getting messy and how she can’t believe that these morons would rather be the Seat Police than enjoy the fact that they are still in the first five rows.  I’m getting annoyed that I had to get a third job to pay for this ticket and now I’m missing it because I’m afraid I’m going to get hit by a flying chair.  

I get it. It’s frustrating to pay a whole lot of bucks for a great seat to your favorite artist, only to have Encroachers come from the back and get in front of you. But sometimes that’s how a crowd works. I once saw a fan² go from one section of a crowd to another totally involuntarily – just from the movement of the fans. At some point you need to ask yourself just how much of the show you are willing to miss completely while you rain blows down on the fan next to you. I’ve been in both positions – I’ve had a guy from the cheap seats stand behind me and use my shoulder as a camera tripod, and I’ve also ended up getting smashed against the stage when my ticket was perhaps in another section.  It happens.  I mean, it’s not like these women aren’t going to the show in the next city anyway.  So what are you fighting for?  Put your boobs back in your tube top and enjoy the show. I hate to break it to them, but he only has eyes for me, Sam, and Lil.  And Morganne when she is with us.  Put the security guard down and sing out loud. Don’t spend BooKoo bucks only to leave a pile of your vomit in the aisle. (I also took a picture of that but for some reason it didn’t save properly.) I remember every moment of this show – what will you remember, Animal?  When you called the security guard a pussy and then pantsed him?  How you distracted the entire front section with your nonsense? And how about you, Butter Face? Why are you so angry? Maybe next time lay off the sauce and dance it out. 

You gave fangirls a bad name that night.  I think you should reimburse me for my ticket. 

¹Me.

²OK, also me.