Maneuvering Madly to the Mosh Pit

Shocked at what I discovered once I got there

There we stood a mere eight rows from the stage as David Cook, the 2008 American Idol champion, strummed his guitar wildly and sang fervently into the microphone.

Happy. Excited. But far from satisfied.

I wanted to be closer.

Needed to be closer. Yearned to be closer.

Had to be closer.

The front of the stage was beckoning me like a bright, shiny rainbow calling me to a glimmering gold pot.

So I whispered in my wife’s ear, “I want to get closer. Let’s go join the mosh pit.”

“OK,” she mouthed back to me.

Just getting out of the middle of the aisle was an adventure in itself, filled with too many pardon me, excuses mes to count. And more than a few, “Where the fuck are you going” stares.

Sorry, lady with the shiny new shoes I accidentally stepped on, I have a date.

A date with destiny.

Once finally removed from the annoyed yahoos in stuffy row eight, it appeared like a red carpet, albeit raggedy, was laid out to the front stage where David Cook stood.

Just for me. Oh, and about 200 or so others to occupy with me.

Bravely, boldly and calmly, I continued my personal quest to go where Mike Butler had gone before. Take that, Captain Kirk.

The Holy Grail of all rock concerts. The hot spot for anyone cool, hip, and badass. A place that screamed, “Look at me, I’ve made it.”

“I’m king of the world!”

Along with 200 others.

To think I was soon to be a mere arm's length — or twelve — away from a genuine, full-time, world-renowned rock star.

Well, at least an American Idol winner.

I turned around to grab Chris’ hand for this most unique and bitchin’-est of journeys through people of all sizes and shapes — and smells.

But alas she was nowhere to be found.

Had she already been trampled by this far from the heavy-metal crowd?

What had I done?

Wait!

There she was happily, clapping, smiling enjoying David Cook’s “Light On” hit from the friendly comforts of row eight, seat 21.

She’d aborted the mission. Early.

I was at a crossroads. Unlike Robert Frost, I took the path more traveled.

Did I courageously like Dorothy continue this quest of noble honor to a concertgoer’s heaven, or sadly drop my head and slink back defeated to my seat like a child who dropped his ice cream?

As Twisted Sister shouts, “I Wanna Rock.”

Forward I proceed. Proudly.

Off I vanished forward through the seas and throngs of people.

Any smallest of spaces, I occupied.

I took the deepest of breaths, shook my head forward and backward off rhythm like the music was a part of me, and inched closer and closer.

Baby steps. Baby steps to the front of the stage. Baby steps past the six-foot person with the Tom Brady jersey.

Oh, I bumped into more than a few people. They didn’t care. Everyone was having a blast singing, swaying, dancing, clapping, getting cray-cray.

It was a David Cook love fest.

Though I only had one Coors Light and wasn’t even buzzed, I put on an act like I was a tad tipsy, just to get the “oh, that poor guy is buzzed, let him by” look.

And it worked.

Genius.

I realized, too, the closer I crept the more energy there was.

And the louder the music.

Finally, the squeezing like sardines got to be too much. I couldn’t get any closer.

I reached my final destination.

There were only about eight people separating me from David Cook. Probably, ten feet from the stage. I could’ve flipped a penny onto the stage. Not that I needed any luck.

I could literally see beads of sweat pouring from David Cook’s face. His armpits drenched. The giant KC Royals insignia tattoo with the finely detailed majestic crown so vivid and clear on his right biceps.

A really badass tattoo for sure.

Speckled gray hairs shone in his two-week-old beard.

Tiny drops of spits sprayed out from his mouth as he sang, “And do you believe me now/That I always had the best intentions, babe?

In awe was an understatement.

I’d succeeded.

I’d made it to the promised land.

Wow. Just wow.

David Cook grabbed the mic. “This next one you may remember, was the one I played on the night I won American Idol.”

The crowd roared its approval.

Self included.

“I hope you too, are having that same feeling right now here in Lancaster, California as when I sang it down in Hollywood. I hope everyone here from the mosh pit below to the women in the furthest bleacher out there is having [pause] the time of their life.”

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!”

Screams like everyone was on the wildest rollercoaster you could ever imagine.

The whole stadium erupted in its approval.

The mosh pit in particular shrieked with delight in a high-pitch squeal that left my ears pinging.

Both excited and euphoric in my homemade fantasyland I had to share this inner joy and rock-concert coolness with someone. Anyone.

So I turned to my left, and said, “This is the gnarliest thing ever in the entire universe.”

A girl.

Yes, girl. Fifteen maybe sixteen, looks at me, donning a Hello Kitty shirt with long fake eyelashes and chomping bubble game like a hungry dinosaur. She tilts her head ever-so-slightly, squints and gives me a look like I was from Mars, and shouts, “What the fuck does gnarly mean?”

And then I craned my neck like a cartoon character in any and all directions.

Teenagers. A sea of teenagers. Everywhere teenagers.

I was the oldest person in the mosh pit. By far.

By probably, twenty years.

I felt more out of place than a vegan at Black Angus.

I had to get out and I had to get out now.

So I lied.

“Dude, I think I need to throw up,” I yelled mightily and embarrassed.

And it was like Moses parting the Red Sea.

“Shit, dude you alright, bro,” a giant Jimmy Neutron kid with a tank asked. “You heard the old schooler. He’s gotta barf. Clear it out for the X-Files dude.”

I guess I resembled David Duchovny.

I put my head down like an unstable ram and tried not to butt into too many teens.

Then I heard someone yell, “Atta boy, Blue” in a tribute to the much older than me character that pledges a fraternity in Old School.

And another hollered, “Just don’t go streaking, Papa Smurf!”

Those hilarious whippersnappers and their sly sense of humor, I thought.

I continued staring at the ground as I made my way to row eight.

Ew, how come she isn’t wearing any shoes?

Am I really leaving during his best song?

I wonder if the mosh pit will be older at next week’s ZZ Top concert.

Row Eight. finally.

“Looks Like We Made It,” by Barry Manilow merrily and triumphantly played inside my head.

Home. Sweet. Home.

My wife just rolled her eyes when I arrived.

“How was it?” she yelled into my ear.

“Like a fish out of water,” I said. “I was the old-man river with a bunch of teeny bops. I felt like Kenny Rogers at a Hansen concert.”

“Did you have fun?” she asked.

“Hell yeah! David Cook definitely whitens his teeth and he sweats a lot. I think he wears Polo cologne,” I joked.

“Wait, I thought you were coming with me?” I asked her. “I thought you said ‘OK’ when I asked you if you wanted to come.”

“I said ‘no way’ not ‘OK.’ There was no way I wasn’t getting around all those sweaty people. Squished and squeezed uncomfortably between all those crazy fans. I am old enough to be their mother.”

“No, Carol Brady for me. It sounded miserable to me.”

Ah, my wife the responsible one.

Me? I’m more like Ray Romano from Everybody Loves Raymond.

Much, much less responsible.

Oh, the things you’ll do for love.

The love of rock music.

Thanks for reading my story.

No, I didn’t perform on stage with Van Halen. It just felt like it.