09 March 1999 ~ Smoking my inspiration...

Okay, first of all, my loyal readers, I've just got to warn you that you REALLY don't want to hear what I've got to say today... I woke up this morning having no idea where I was, no idea what day it was or what I was supposed to be doing. I've got two papers I have to do today, including a 10-page research paper I haven't researched, and a massive test to study for tomorrow. I can barely think, my vision is distorted, and all I want to do is sleep. I don't know if this entry is going to be coherent at all. I think I will leave you with something I wrote a long time ago because I'll feel terrible if I just leave you with an entry of physical woes...

Because I'm listening to Garbage right now, I'll copy an entry I wrote months ago about a Garbage concert I went to...

Until I'm alive again...
~Helena*

“This is Not My Idea of a Good Time.”

Well, no shit, Shirley.

No one is talking; no one is screaming. No one is even dancing. The fans are simply jumping up and down – straight up and then straight down. I’m really not sure why. I don’t think anyone is sure why. Just seems like the thing to do, I guess, although I’m not having any particular instinct to jump up and down. Except maybe to avoid getting jumped on by everyone else.

I didn’t know it was possible to touch so many people at one time. First, I thought this whole thing was like a huge trunk full of Mexican jumping beans. Now I’m thinking it’s more like an orgy of clothed people. Clothed strangers. I feel tee-shirts rubbing against me, arms touching mine, people stepping on my feet, an ash from someone’s cigarette landing on the back of my hand. This has got to be unsanitary. I’m being polluted by fifty million people – well, maybe a thousand – with every breath I take, with every chunk of flesh I touch. I can’t see anyone’s eyes – they’re all directed toward Shirley, at Shirley’s outfit, at Shirley’s tits, at Shirley’s microphone, at that weird-looking fellow next to Shirley with the bass. It’s like a religious experience everyone but me is having.

I think I could pass out and die right here and not get noticed until the next day when the paper announced a body was found trampled to death in The Zone. And what a quaint little name for a nightclub, right? The ZONE? Sounds like the name of a parking lot to me. Some skinny guy who is about twelve feet tall just pushed his way in front of me. I can’t see Shirley or her tits anymore. I push someone else. Push it, damn straight. I think I’m getting the hang of this. Girl, you best believe an East Coast Bitch like me knows how to push when the time is right. The time is right.

A security guard hits a guy who was crowd-surfing. Holy shit, I can’t believe I just saw that. Can’t you get sued for that? Or killed by angry mobs of people protesting police brutality? Or, excuse me, security guard brutality? Apparently, no one seems to care, because no one else is freaking out over it. My companion doesn’t seem too afraid of getting beaten up by guards and orders the twelve-foot-tall guy to give him a hand. The tall guy couldn’t possibly have heard him, but body language seemed to work. My companion is pitched into the crowd. I hope he lives. I don’t know how to drive his truck to get back home. And I REALLY don’t want to be alone with all of Shirley’s fans. Or Shirley’s tits’ fans.

God save the queen. Hey, Mickey, you’re so fine. Little quotes and random song lyrics are running through my head. I feel feverish. I want to die. This is ridiculous, what am I doing here… There’s no place like home. My brain is flying into bite-sized pieces. I can almost see it jumping out of the pores of my scalp and slopping all over Shirley and her worshippers. They aren’t really worshipping her. They’re jumping. Real worship would entail more thrashing around. Do YOU suffer from long-term memory-loss? We’re not gonna talk about Judy.

Well, he lived. He just walked back over here and tapped me on the shoulder with a big dumb grin on his face. I hope he’s not brain-damaged. While he was floating around up there with the abusive security guards, I pretty much prepared myself to drive home. But I really don’t want him drooling on me and convulsing while I’m doing it.

Please god, forget the queen and save me.

--random thoughts from the Garbage concert at The Zone, Albuquerque, NM, October, 1998