So I went to see NIN tonight. As most of you know, they’re R’s passion.

Me? Uh, NOT SO MUCH.

But he does go see Barry with me, and Tom, too–with nary a complaint. Though, in my defense, R enjoyed all three concerts immensely. So I go. I goth out–goop up–tease my hair to new and unheard of, stratospheric heights–slap on as much big bling as I can fit on every available square inch of my body (too bad they don’t have ass bling–I have plenty of room there)–pour my tired, OLD body into something so tight my eyeballs bulge, lock away all sharp objects, dump anything that even remotely smacks of a pharmaceutical, call the Helen Keller Institute to make my reservation for sign language classes (’cause, you know, I’ll be deaf mid-mind blowing, lyrical honey to my ears,  from the crashing around), and gear up to want to end it all by concerts closing song.

Oh, and then I prepare to be propositioned by boys who are younger than my son while they’re friends cackle and turn red in the face. Or I find myself up against the Anime twins (rad outfits–if I had their bodies–I’d wear only half an outfit, too) who totally don’t care if I have a boyfriend because he might want to join our pending menage. Those two hot chicks, when they grow up, should totally be PR agents. I mean, there was a moment even I was almost convinced I might actually be capable of participating in a menage without breaking a hip. They were that convincing. Righteous stuff, my friends.

So, this is what I look like BEFORE the NIN concert. I hope this properly displays my willingness to participate…

I swear, I really give it my best shot for my man.  But this is my fourth NIN concert, people, and quite frankly, now that I’m blind AND deaf–I think all bets are off for another one.

And this is what I FEEL like after….

And I even used ear plugs this time. And one more thing before I go on–all you NIN lovers–yay Y-O-U. I mean absolutely no disrespect to any and all who love Trent. I think it’s dedication at its finest–I don’t pretend to get it–I’ll never understand it–but woo to the hoo It’s just not my gig.

Now, most anyone will tell you–I’m pretty freakin’ easygoing. I can go anywhere and survive. If you dropped me in the rain forest, I’d make friends with the natives, find the nearest uberfashionable tree to construct a tres chic dress from, hang exotic flowers from my cute hut, and have all the natives over for tea. Wherein I’d tell them what colors best suit them from the dye we’d extract from plants to paint our tribal faces with. And I’d so be down for a blow dart gun contest. Like so. In essence– are a good sport.

I’m just sayin’.

But tonight, well, I struggled, and I felt anything but sporting. I’ve been to three NIN concerts–all of which, afterward, I can remember thinking–seriously, why go on living? Everything is just shit–my soul is doomed–what’s the point of taking even another breath? Usually, on the ride home I get over it–I think purefying Barry Manilow thoughts and order is once more restored in my head.

Tonight? Again, here’s that phrase–NOT SO MUCH. Maybe I’m just too old for the hijinks–or maybe my tolerance level has turned to so much shit–but for the love of all things rocking horses and rainbows–all that angst and deep, dark, dank disgust of life along with everything in it is downright debilitating. Had I my nail file–I might have considered ending it all…

I’m bereft. Befuddled. Be-frickin’-depressed. I just don’t get the appeal. The light show is enough to make you want to melon ball scoop your eyes out, and the decibels of banging and screaming are eardrum shatter worthy. Oh, and then there’s the conversation in the smoking area–it goes like this–

Bunch of boys (maybe 16-17) standing in a corner, talking to each other. One strapping young man saysto the other’s–”You know the best way to get chicks? Cranberry juice and vodka.”

I (in my head, of course) think–indeed, grasshopper. Cranberry juice and vodka is surely the path to ALL CHICKS. Forget diamonds. Who needs diamonds when cranberry juice and vodka is on the table? How could I have missed the meaning of life when it was right there in front of me in a bottle of Smirnoff and some Ocean Spray?

Group of boys look to me for affirmation, and one boldly says with a smile, and a red face, “Right?”

And I, in all my half-deaf glory reply, “Well, of course, darling. That’s exactly how you get GIRLS. Now if you want a woman…”

And thus the sweet, awkward beginnings of an opening one liner are upon me. Yet there, too, is the utterly wide open territory for which I shall commence the big smack down. Ever so gently, of course because they truly are nice kids, all around my oldest son’s age, and so completely know not what they’re chasing after–a woman that’s prolly the same age as their mothers. In fact, if you combine all of their mothers ages together, I might–maybe–by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin, be the same age as their mother’s. The lighting is dim–it’s all I have to offer…

Anyway, the opening line… “Soooooo, you dig NIN?” Smile nervously, snort, giggle, snort, snort. So cute I wanna tuck him in and give him some warm milk

But it is a perfectly logical explanation for why I’m AT the concert. I can see his confusion. It can be deceiving–me all cuted up at an NIN concert and all. I’d never guess I was there just because my boyfriend is crazy fab and would go to anything I asked him to if I were this lovely young man. Naturally, because there’s just no other answer, I say, “Uh, huh. I dig them as much as my annual colonoscopy.”

Then comes the confused look where they’re not sure if that’s an illegal sex act and they should pool their pennies for some Glade candles (you know, for mood lighting), and a six-pack of brewskies.

I take my leave on that note. because I’m a bad person–and I took my crankiness out on them. Once more, I’m going to give you my weak defense–I was CRANKY and taking my aging out on nice young men who may well help me invest a retirement fund some day. It was petty and malicious. I apologize

Anyway, I think I’m all outta love, even for my man, when it comes to any more NIN. I left feeling very, very sad–and my head still throbs as I type. My eyeballs are still seeing colors–even if I close them, and my ears hurt from the earplugs.

So, alas, it is with deep regret, I bid all things, black, cold, depressing, and soul sucking NIN, adieu. Ciao, laterz, buh-BYE.

LOLLOL.

Well, unless Trent decides to re-record some Barry tunes. Then I’m in–until then, I’m going to get my knitting needles and grease up my rocking chair

DC