F**k Them Parents
Has it really been a year and change since our last communiqué? When I left you, I was lamenting the state of our children and how they act in public. After a year of reflection and a handful case studies, I am reversing course and blaming the supposed “grown ups.”
I’m squarely looking at you, Gen Xers.
I Hate Marshmallows
Years and years ago, in a balmy summer quite like this one, my dad gave me a big bag of marshmallows and let me eat them and run around to my heart’s desire. My stomach’s desire wasn’t quite up to speed as my other internal systems.
To say I annihilated the bathroom would be an understatement. In my childhood imagination, the bathroom looked like the liquified destruction of the Stay Puft man at the end of Ghostbusters.
I have yet to eat a “normal” marshmallow since. Swiss Miss marshmallows? OK, but not preferred. Lucky Charms? they get a pass. The fluff? Not a chance. Same goes for S’Mores and Rocky Road. Can’t do it.
Knowing this tragic backstory, imagine my horror when dozens of marshmallow rain down near me at the conclusion of Breakaway 2024.
Marshmello is a popular DJ whose fans often wear his … helmet? But not simply the general public. It’s mostly kids. Do kids belong at Breakaway? Debatable, as the surrounding people are often nice, though inconsiderate of personal space. Crowds can pack themselves tight near the barricade, and kids more often than not are mushed, forced to either go on shoulders or down by legs, and neither are great options.
In between the barrage of puffy missiles, a woman gesticulated wildly at security to help her son. Her son, dressed in a self-decorated blue Marshmello shirt and plastic Mello mask, needed help out of the crowd. Her exact words were, “help him, he needs to get out. It’s an emergency.”
Alright, we’ll get him out, but somebody needs to come with him.
The woman reluctantly agreed.
As we were crossing the barricade alley, the woman slowed, but we sped up. Then out came the phone.
Understanding the moment, I picked up the kid and hurried for the end of the alley, away from view of the stage. An emergency is an emergency. It’s a magic word that means don’t betray our trust by trying to get video of your kid blurredly moving 9 feet below his favorite DJ.
But she didn’t see it that way. How do I know?
She tried to abandon the boy with us.
Once I crossed the speakers and let the kid down, the woman tried to run back to her spot on the barricade line while shouting, “He’s 8 years old, take good care of him!”. We grabbed her by the arm and spun her around back to the boy.
Upon reaching the end of the alley near the gate to the GA field, the woman asks why we did that. Why? you said “emergency” with a kid in a crowd of thousands. That means get him the fuck out out of there like your ass is on fire.
Twenty minutes later, a man motioned us over, “where’s my son?”
What do you mean?
“He’s with the woman who asked us to get him out.”
“YOU LOST MY SON? HE’S 12 YEARS OLD!”
I thought he was about to go full Mel Gibson in Ransom before I spotted them a hundred feet behind him in the crowd. “They’re coming back around,” I said. “But maybe you should talk to the woman before getting mad at us.”
The kid looked more 8 than 12 and didn’t seem to mind that he was continually handed from one adult to the next.
All of this was in pursuit of a photo of mini Mello with Marshmello prime. Which, if they were all patient, happens naturally after the show. Not haphazardly during a false emergency ploy. Yes, the boy got his photo, but he’s going to have a rough life if those were indeed his parents.
What That Mouth Do
Adults love to use the phrase, “use your words,” when talking to children about conflict resolution. It’s sage advice because you really can talk down a tense situation.
But the phrase isn’t, “use your mouth,” because that typically is construed as a sexual overture. Then there’s the much less used, “use your teeth,” which does nothing for conflict resolution, is definitely already rule 34’d, and shouldn’t ever be used as a preemptive striking option at an indie rock show.
Speedy Ortiz, the opener, was amid their set when they suddenly stopped the show. A ruckus broke out near the barricade and a woman was beside herself accusing a much larger man of punching her in the face. The crowd pointed toward three men in new band tees and a 50-year-old woman in a brown leather jacket.
We needed her to come to the lobby for a chat as we do for all patrons. She refused. Wouldn’t budge. “He punched me, a woman, in the face!” The man did not disagree.
Men really don’t confess to hitting women in public (or private).
And women rarely try to slap people’s drinks out of their hands for looking at them. Or claim a bewildered stranger is their boyfriend as a shield from further questions.
Something hinky is going on here.
The woman was ejected for slapping the drink. The men? One left on his own, one was ejected but later allowed re-entry after we confirmed details.
What was the third man’s excuse for hitting this woman? We hashed it out in front of the merch stand.
“She said you hit her in the face? And you told us you did. What happened?”
He lifted his shirt sleeve.
She bit him.
She bit all three of them.
In the arm. Hard.
For standing in front of her at a concert that was half capacity, during the opener.
After the show, I talked to the lead biting victim. He couldn’t believe it, his friends couldn’t, the third person unrelated to his group was in the same boat. “Who bites people,” he asked. I couldn’t answer. Thankfully, she didn’t break the skin, but she left her mark.
And a stain upon the earth.
Ground and Pound Rules
As I was checking the man’s bite mark, a coworker walked by, equally astonished as I was that was at the show. He admitted he hardly sees shows, and the two he has gone to this year, I was working. Each at a different venue.
After I dealt with the aftermath of the rabid cougar, I scoped the crowd for him. He was sat on the opposite side VIP section that would become the arena for the next knock-down drag-out brawl.
Five minutes after our pleasantries, two VIP tables alike in dignity erupted in grudge and mutiny to claim two great warring factions, the head of each thrown asunder arse over tit.
Apologies, American reader. My colleague is from across the pond, so I was attempting to use more upmarket language.
Two drunk idiots — one short one tall — in adjacent VIP tables decided to fight each other until both of them fell down. The shorter captured the taller in a headlock. Once locked, the taller man tried to regain footing and accidentally and absurdly flicked off his shoes in the crowd below while his wife screamed about his broken glasses.
Ma’am, your husband lost his shoes in a fight and is about to get kicked out. If I lost my shoes while fighting, I’d have to move to a non-extradition country because I “silenced” everyone around me who witnessed said public embarrassment.
Too Big. Too Old. Too Tired for This Shit
Moshing is a perfectly fine way to let loose and release negative energy during a show that warrants moshing. I thought this was common knowledge among music fans that you don’t mosh to indie rock, especially when the average age is nearing 50.
Armed with this common knowledge, a man near my size, though he may have weighed a touch more, barging into an unprepared cluster of petite women is grounds for immediate removal from said crowd. Read the room, read the people, read the music you’ve been listening to for 20 years.
Dance to your heart’s content, but don’t try to shove the 90-pound woman sipping on her G&T into the next century. Moshing requires a give and take. It’s not an invitation to total obliteration.
I escorted the ungentle giant out of the main floor, arm around shoulders to restrict any violent twists. He responded in kind by cupping my right hip. When I dipped, he dipped, we dipped.
Then I told security if he stood up from his timeout corner he’d dip right out of the building. Didn’t last 30 seconds. For misbehaving, Millennials and Gen Z still take the cake, but their poor social performances were baked by their shitty parents.
To clear things up, yes, I let the man who punched the woman who bit him stay for the rest of the show.
Using self defense in that manner is completely justified. If you disagree, come find me and I’ll ask a stranger of the opposite sex bite you at a random time of their choosing and expect you to do nothing.
