Around the end of Summer in 2013, Chromeo was scheduled to play a local concert in Chavez park. Chromeo isn’t in my top 10, or even top 20, but I’ve dug their jams, and I know that chicks dig them entirely. Thus I bought my ticket online, 45$ for one day I believe, and tried to enlist some friends to go.
I ended up going alone. As pussy is the fuel for the rocket in my pocket, I fretted over what I was going to wear to this event. Being overweight, drinking daily, and occasionally getting smacked out, I wasn’t the brightest star in the sky. I buckled up a short sleeve dress shirt, threw on a serious pair of what I consider, bro jeans, and a pair of aviators. I used my favorite pomade, Cock Grease XXX to slick my hair into the comb over style I was rocking. Then, against all rational thinking, I ate two of my homemade ganja cookies.
Some of you might be thinking, well what’s wrong with that? Let me tell you. I make, and am known to make, extremely powerful ganja food. The kind where I put my friends Mom into a 36 hour coma like trance on accident. That’s not really the problem. The problem is the cerebral nature of the high. If I eat ONE of my cookies, within 2 hours I will be drooling on my guitar with music dancing between my ears. I will also be conversationally and socially dead to the world.
I’m already a painful introvert who will stand in the shadows and disassemble everyone’s body language, chime in one or two times, and mostly stick to himself. All while feeling the buzzing electricity of social anxiety course through my veins. Don’t ask me, it’s something I’ve always had and I am working on loosening its grip on my trachea. I can evade its crippling grip by consuming copious amounts of alcohol, but then I’m an entirely different monster and not myself. Thus, by getting high as giraffe pussy, which I was destined to do at this point, I would be stuck miles inside my head and my sociability would be nonexistent.
This wouldn’t be a bad thing, and really isn’t. Getting bombed and drifting off into the imagination while listening to some live music is excellent. But if you didn’t notice earlier, no one wanted to go with me, or they were too broke to do so. Also, this all day show was BOUND to be packed to the brim with young, nubile, college aged girls. Davis is right down the road from Sacto, and like I said, chicks dig Chromeo. I was hoping to meet some new people, gals in particular.
I went to Chavez park a little later in the day missing a few of the opening acts. This is a total dick move on my part because I am almost ALWAYS one of the opening acts if I’m playing a show. But I was too busy waiting to get catapulted in the stratosphere by these fucking cookies and worrying if these pants made me look too hipster. I think they were these smooth like denim kenneth cole things I picked up at the 2nd hand store.
Whenever I get as high as I was that day, it’s always like a minor psychedelic trip. I feel in sync with the world, yet I am pulled back as an observer. So even though I have the first person view of the day through my own eyes, I have almost a 3rd person view of the events as well. Yes, I have an active imagination, and no I don’t have eyes in the back of my head, yet. I had my mirrored aviators on because my eyes were cherry tomatoes amongst a red bearded sea of whiteness. I did remember to put on sunscreen. I would’ve been boned hard if I neglected that.
At any rate, I don’t remember a whole lot about some of the first acts I saw, but there is one particular act and one particular moment that stand out to me from the experience. One of which gives me an icky, wish I did different feeling inside the pit of my stomach. This band Grouplove was playing and with the day getting on in age, the crowd was bigger than before. They’re a hodgepodge group of cats who met at some sort of camping abroad thing. I don’t know but they play this happy innocent like music with harmonies that sound like the chipmunks (check out an example of GroupLove here). They’re not bad.
Their live show, however, is pretty darn good. I had never heard these cats before and made a mental note to check them out because they got down. As their set started picking up steam, I started moving a little bit to the music. As you might assume, being stricken with cosmic anxiety makes my movement a little rigid and I’ve never been much of dancer. But I do move when moved to do so. I’m drifting side to side, to and fro, and maybe a head nod here and there. There’s a little room in front of me and people are packed in all around.
At one point I feel two small hands grip my shoulders and move me side to side with the beat. I turn slowly turn around and it’s this cute little blonde gal. I don’t even smile. It’s too fucking much for me at this point with all the fucking people, the loud ass music, the level of highness at which I was experiencing. I turned back around. I still get douche tingles to this day over that shit. Listening to some jams today this song starts playing and I relive that moment. Regret for what you didn’t do. I should’ve grabbed that sweet young thing by her hands, swung her around and started dancing with her. That would have been smooth. But at the time, as I am often am, I was a bumbling lurch on a grassy dancefloor.
Why did that come up for me? Because I feel shame around that level of social ineptitude. Are you a better person than me for being without social anxiety? Fuck no. You just have an easier time dealing with people. I’m not the only cat on the block who deals with this issue. But I don’t remember all my war stories, even some of the good ones. Some stick out though. Those are the ones to hold onto and learn something.
So I’d be a bit different if that situation ever happened again. At least I hope I would. See there are few cats who write truly about their strike outs. This wasn’t even a strikeout. I didn’t get out of the batter’s box. One thing my offensive coordinator has asked me to stop doing is analyzing people’s body language. It’s a tool I developed and can use still at a gut level. But when I consciously go around and get all FBI sleuth on motherfuckers, I take myself out of the moment. For a cat like me, being in the moment is the best place to be because there I am whole, there I am myself, there I am without reservation.