| There are some things in life that stay with you forever, like your first love and your best friends throughout the years�and Journey concerts where some men go shirtless, some wear showgirl dresses, and some have homicidal tendencies. This was the concert that brought it all together�CampNor, I mean. Without Journey, where would Kasi and I be right now? Not friends probably. However, when we made plans to attend this concert together, we had no idea what insanity it held. Who knew Journey, a 80s pop band, could spur such a gravitational pull? I expected old men in wheelchairs and women with sagging breasts, not the plethora of variety that ended up attending. Nor did I suspect that I�d find myself scared for my life� The day started out easy enough. I met Kasi at the entrance, and we did the �meeting� ritual of girlie shouts and friendly hugs. We proceeded to drop our belongings off with my mother, then embarked on our quest to find the five most-perfect CampNor fan candidates to give flyers to. We hovered by a KY radio station van, avoiding the sun�s evil rays by resting in its shade. Our �I�m Famous (you just don�t know it yet)� shirts drew in plenty of attention. Some gaped openly at our chest area, others grinned, and others commented even. And some, um, mentally incapacitated man inquired the whereabouts of Tanwer or Tanner or Tani or something along those lines. I�m assuming he was speaking of a radio DJ, but you�ve got me. The last thing that was memorable about standing there was the 6 foot-something man painted yellow, as well as the mass of pregnant men that passed by. We were frightened then, but we had no idea what was to come. We trickled our way down a flight of stairs behind an ancient Indian man in a sequined shirt to the food area. Kasi snagged some nachos and we got some drinks and chatted up the friendly vending man. And, *gasp*, I had enough guts to pass him a CampNor flyer. One is better than none, right? By then, the first opening act, some British band who�s name I never caught, had already taken the stage. But, something else had caught our eye. A black man fending for his life, or better yet, fending to save his stash of pot, which obviously hadn�t been stored well enough in his drawers. Now, he was fighting off two male security guards. He wanted that marijuana awfully bad, so bad that security had to wrestle him to the pavement to keep him under control. Such fun. We made it back to our seats and sprawled out on my tattered butterfly blanket. We watched the show�sort of. We had more fun watching the people around us, truthfully. A woman in green (code name: Jiggle Bunny, the Dancing Queen in Green) was flopping her cellulite like the Armageddon was coming. In front of us, another woman (code name: Striptease) was lap dancing for her husband/boyfriend/fianc�e. And to the right of Kasi, a pleasantly plump Mexican man (code name: Grease Lightning) was hurling peanut shells our direction. Sunglasses are my best friend when it�s bright out, because you can gawk at people without them really knowing. Unfortunately, the sun was setting. And, as we all know, when it gets dark outside, the freaks come out to play. Kasi�s bladder, I�ve learned, is the size of a peanut (LMAO) so we accompanied one another to the loo so she could take a leak. While I�m waiting for her to come out, a drag queen in a slutty little green number passes by (code name: Vegas) and Kasi is practically molested by him/her/it as she exits her stall. Hmm. So, Peter Frampton is on, and Kasi and I are choosing not to look at the stage, but elsewhere. Because, now, it appears our blanket has become a free-for-all and some couple that couldn�t be much older than us has snuggled up together�practically on Kasi�s feet! And, even our subtle (and sometimes, not so subtle) hints didn�t seem to register in their brains. But, that wasn�t all (of course not, Journey wasn�t even on yet). A little in front of us a spat had commenced between all the area�s mexicano population. I was making up the plot as some greasy, scrawny muchacho (code name: Cheech) defended his puta, a woman with an ass large enough to display a drive-in movie on (code name: Texas), from a middle-aged, pissed off gringo (code name: Scrapper) and Grease Lightning. Apparently, it came down to the fact that Texas� bubble butt was blocking the view of everyone behind her. Seeing as we were in the front part of the lawn area that would mean half the people in the stadium. Eventually, the muchachos became amigos and hugged one another. Of course, the broad was still standing and I guarantee she made a better door than window. So, she tried to be all sexy and cozy up to her man by wrapping a shirt around his neck and dragging him towards her. It only resulted in knocking Cheech�s hat right off onto our blanket, which now could be deemed a whore, since it was being shared by more people than Mary Magdalene herself had ever experienced. So, Texas decides, hey, I�m not bitchy enough, I better get some beer. And she disappeared into the mist, leaving Cheech behind, which seemed to make him happier. Peter Frampton rocked on, and the company around us only got worse. A fat man and his woman were now camped out on the corner of our blanket behind my mom, and not long after that a man with more ink on him than a squid could hold and breath reeking of crazy (code name: the Illustrated Man) joined them. I could handle them for the time being, because, hey, I�d already seen plenty of excitement. Except that the guy thought I was staring at him, I guess, when I was looking around at people. He commented about it to his friends and then they disappeared as well. Texas appeared with her brew, wiggling her bottom in everyone�s face as she sauntered right pass her man. He didn�t call out to her and I don�t blame him because who would want her back, disrupting the peace? Only, she spotted him, which he looked less than thrilled about. A fight ensued, and he ended up saying she could walk home and ditched her, which got a round of applause from me. The couple sharing our blanket finally decided to leave, before Journey, no less. Oh well, now we had our blanket back, and a clear view of the stage. We stretched out before anybody else could hop on board, only to have a herd of shaggy stoners and their group ho crash in front of us. *sigh* And, now, the Illustrated Man had returned and he had placed a death grip on my neck with his hand. He said he didn�t like people staring at him, and we apologized. I said I was admiring his tattoos, trying to make it sound better, as if it were possible. I figured that he was just messed up and trying to chat up people like drunk/stoned folks tend to do. Boy, was I wrong. He informed us that he had got his tatts in the Joint, which was so comforting. He said it was good, but it was bad, but it was good, whatever that means. And I nodded and smiled and prayed to God that he had only been in prison on a fluke charge of robbery and not rape or abuse or something along those lines. However, I guess it doesn�t matter what you�re in for�it just matters that you were in. And with the paroxysmal behavior he was showing, he could have been in for a year on a chump charge, and he still would have scared the shit out of me. We managed to get him to go away�we thought for good. Unfortunately, no, he came back to harass Kasi even more. Even after he ran off with Texas, the tailgate hooker, he returned to Kasi�s side, wrapping his arm around her and asking her questions of a perverse nature. And, I�m sorry, but you don�t fuck with my friends. She told him she had a boyfriend and I wrapped my arms around her as a means of protection after he scooted in front of us, and I whispered that I�d be her boyfriend if it meant getting him off our backs. He heard and came back, and my mom intervened, informing him that we were underage and, therefore, off limits. He totally ignored my mom and came back to me, claiming, to my face, that I initiated this �relationship� by slapping his ass. I looked him straight in the eye and denied it. But, he wouldn�t let up. So, I did what any puny, little 17-year-old girl would, I began shouting. I blurted out every obscene word in the book, and threatened that I wouldn�t slap his ass, but I had no qualms about kicking it right back to jail (where we�d discovered he�d spent more years than what we�d been on the planet). He ran off, not afraid of me, I�m sure�maybe a little miffed though that I actually had the nerve to scream at him like that, and security chased him down and *hopefully* kicked his bald, tattooed bum back to the big house. The rest of the show we managed to enjoy fully. I knew most of the songs, and no other creepy people seemed to be inhabiting the area. Actually, we had 5 feet of open space on each side. Perhaps my psycho screams frightened off the locals�or something. Anyway, the show was good, even though Open Arms was not sung. Steve Augeri or whatever the hell his name is better be prepared for a letter on the pissy side. That is my favorite song and I wanted to hear it. Grr. All in all, the night was an adventure. I�m beginning to grow very scared of my ability to attract those of the foreign and spooky nature. Can�t I get a guy with both eyes, all his teeth, and an understandable accent as well as no previous crime record? Or am I aiming my goals too high? All I know is that you should never underestimate the drawing power of a 80s band�even when they have a new lead singer. |
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| JOURNEY |