My therapist says that writing might help. Well I don't really know how to explain these feelings I've been having lately, so I thought I'd write a review of a concert I went to last weekend instead.
CJ Foeckler(stolen from the Onion)
Public Image Limited, Pabst Theater, Milwaukee, WI, 4/30/10.
So there I was with unexpected tears rolling down my face, standing in front of my childhood hero, and saying to myself well, now my life is complete. I was in the orchestra pit at the Pabst Theater in Milwaukee, WI. John Lydon had just taken the stage with Public Image Ltd. On the interior, teenage me was freaking out: snarling, pogo dancing and spitting at Johnny Rotten and the rest of the Sex Pistols. On the exterior, thirty something me was smiling wide and constantly wiping away the tears (which had now become near uncontrollable) in between large gulps of beer.
I was happy.
For the twenty some minutes previous to this moment, I had been sitting by myself surveying my surroundings. Silver haired, pot bellied men, many years my senior, wearing cargo shorts and Tommy Bahama button-ups, insistently checking their watches, and milking that one beer. The only beer they were going to have this evening. They looked so miserable; I wondered why they even came. Curiosity…or obligation; an obligation to a person they once were, maybe? Then there were the others: older, former scenesters. Punks, mods, and skinheads; sporting Doc Marten’s and fishtail parkas that looked like they hadn’t been worn in years, slamming drinks at a rapid pace. Thinking about a future, which for some reason I felt was represented by either of these groups of men, was making me depressed.
My mind began to wander and I thought of the time earlier in the day when I had been introduced to an acquaintances’ 10 year-old child; and the silence that followed because the giant fucking elephant in the room was that the 10 year-old and I were dressed—aside from baseball caps (hers- a Brewers, and mine-a Twins) and the color schemes of our respective flannels—exactly the same. Paranoia started to sink in and my heart started beating faster and my left arm started feeling numb.
Then Johnny came on and everything was alright. He winked at my smiling, teary face and I tipped my beer to him. A tender moment shared between icon and fan boy.
So there I was, my heart beating about a million times a minute, and saying to myself well, I hope my life is not complete. I was lying on a couch, well past 2am and after several beers, in a living room in Milwaukee, WI. I had just decided to call it a weekend when the paranoia set in again.
For twenty some minutes previous to this moment I could hear the two women in the dining room a few feet away. They were arguing about whom had the worst weekend or something. My left arm started to go numb. And then my heart beats even faster. I tried telling myself it was because I slept on a couch the last two nights and pinched a nerve and I was only psyching myself out; that I was panicking for no reason. But part of me knew this was it. For the last two days, I’d been drinking beer and eating meatloaf and brats and fried fish, and my heart was giving up as a result. This was the moment my doctor warned me about. Thinking about not having a future—just like Johnny sang all those years ago, “no future for you”—was making me depressed.
My mind began to wonder and I thought of the day before and the elephant in the room and the 10 year-old that I dress like and how it can’t end now because I need to be that girl’s childhood hero and how I want to have a future and how I’ll take the feather tail coat over the cargo shorts and about how I cried at the beginning of the PiL concert and the wink from John and just how great the PiL concert was.
And then everything slowed down and I fell asleep.
When I woke up I was happy again.