Where my Bobby when I need him?
I imagine it must be hard being a politician or a CEO of a large controversial corporation. There are decisions to be made, people to be ordered around, and the constant fear of something horrible (for instance, someone shooting you in the ass as you enter a building) happening to your person as you go about your busy day of ordering people around and making important decisions regarding your next big oil spill, or whether to do pizza or sandwiches for lunch. Life must be hell. I would hate to live like that. This is why I love freelancing.
I pick and choose which shows I go to, I show up in whatever I feel like wearing (read: what ever is clean,) I take some pictures, listen to some good bands, sell said pictures ..... which are then in next months edition of Alternative Press. It's a good gig. I make decent money... and what money I could be making working in the corporate world, is worth ten fold by getting to spend most of my days sleeping in. No matter how many times I have really great jobs, I always go back to this. It works for me. I don't have to manage anyone, and I dont really report to anyone. I love my job. And generally, unlike politicians and CEOs I never expect to get death threats, which is why I was a little surprised when a middle aged gentleman in his fifties threatened to splatter my brains out on the "motherfucking stage" this evening.
Here's how it went down. I'm standing around, doing my usual holier-than-thou waiting bit when the aforementioned gentleman comes in to the photography pit just seconds before Jimmy Eat World is supposed to come on, and asks me if I'll move. Apparently I am in his spot. Theres a few unwritten rules of the pit, starting with: first come, first serve. Everyone wants to get a good spot, the quality of our photos depend on it, and everyone knows that if you want to get a good spot that you better wait around between bands and not go up to the bar to do a few shots with your buddies.
Then the following series of ridiculousness happens:
Me: I'm sorry. But I have been standing here for awhile, and I am very comfortable where I am at. I'm sure once the band starts, we'll all move around when we are done in whatever spot we're in.
Middle Aged Crazy Man: BITCH, THATS MY SPOT!
(at this point, I can smell the above mentioned shots on his breath)
Me: Sir...
MACM: (in the style of Whitney Houston) YOU ARE VERY, VERY SMART! OH YEAH!
Me: Thank you. It's been a pleasure. Please leave me alone now.
MACM: OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOYEAH!
(he now has me slightly pinned against the stage)
Me: Sir, I'd appreciate it if you please stepped away from me.
MACM: I'LL STEP BACK WHEN I WANT TO!
ME: Would that be anytime soon?
MACM: BITCH, I'LL STEP BACK AND COME BACK WITH A GUN! SEE YOUR BRAIN SPLATTERED ALL UP ON THAT MOTHERFUCKING STAGE! COME BACK WITH A GUN! JUST ME AND ME, BABY! JUST YOU AND ME! COME BACK WITH A GUN! COME BACK WITH A GUN!
Of course, no one else in the pit says anything. I guess when you see someone else being threatened with violence, you pretend you don't see or hear, lest your brains be splattered upon the stage with mine. Or maybe no one was really taking the guy seriously. I wasn't. I was too busy wondering how low one would have to sink before they started to threaten people with violence over a tiny spot in front of a stage. And also why anyone would try to imitate Whitney Houston as they were threatening to make modern art with just a gun and your brains.
"Sir," I wanted to say, in most impressive Whitney voice: "You are no Whitney Houston. Whitney Houston is a crack 'ho with a beautiful singing ability! Whitney Houston don't need to stand in this spot! And if she did, she wouldn't just yell at me. BITCH RAN INTO A BUS! WHITNEY WOULD HAVE KILLED ME AND THEN STOOD IN MY SPOT! EVERYONE SCARED OF WHITNEY, NO ONE SCARED OF YOU! " Sadly, by the time I got around to opening my mouth to spew forth my parting thoughts, the middle aged gentleman was being escorted out of the area by House Of Blues security. Just as well. Not everyone feels about Whitney the way I do. And I didn't really need him coming back with a gun.
YOU AND ME, BABY! JUST ME AND YOU!
5000
I pick and choose which shows I go to, I show up in whatever I feel like wearing (read: what ever is clean,) I take some pictures, listen to some good bands, sell said pictures ..... which are then in next months edition of Alternative Press. It's a good gig. I make decent money... and what money I could be making working in the corporate world, is worth ten fold by getting to spend most of my days sleeping in. No matter how many times I have really great jobs, I always go back to this. It works for me. I don't have to manage anyone, and I dont really report to anyone. I love my job. And generally, unlike politicians and CEOs I never expect to get death threats, which is why I was a little surprised when a middle aged gentleman in his fifties threatened to splatter my brains out on the "motherfucking stage" this evening.
Here's how it went down. I'm standing around, doing my usual holier-than-thou waiting bit when the aforementioned gentleman comes in to the photography pit just seconds before Jimmy Eat World is supposed to come on, and asks me if I'll move. Apparently I am in his spot. Theres a few unwritten rules of the pit, starting with: first come, first serve. Everyone wants to get a good spot, the quality of our photos depend on it, and everyone knows that if you want to get a good spot that you better wait around between bands and not go up to the bar to do a few shots with your buddies.
Then the following series of ridiculousness happens:
Me: I'm sorry. But I have been standing here for awhile, and I am very comfortable where I am at. I'm sure once the band starts, we'll all move around when we are done in whatever spot we're in.
Middle Aged Crazy Man: BITCH, THATS MY SPOT!
(at this point, I can smell the above mentioned shots on his breath)
Me: Sir...
MACM: (in the style of Whitney Houston) YOU ARE VERY, VERY SMART! OH YEAH!
Me: Thank you. It's been a pleasure. Please leave me alone now.
MACM: OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOYEAH!
(he now has me slightly pinned against the stage)
Me: Sir, I'd appreciate it if you please stepped away from me.
MACM: I'LL STEP BACK WHEN I WANT TO!
ME: Would that be anytime soon?
MACM: BITCH, I'LL STEP BACK AND COME BACK WITH A GUN! SEE YOUR BRAIN SPLATTERED ALL UP ON THAT MOTHERFUCKING STAGE! COME BACK WITH A GUN! JUST ME AND ME, BABY! JUST YOU AND ME! COME BACK WITH A GUN! COME BACK WITH A GUN!
Of course, no one else in the pit says anything. I guess when you see someone else being threatened with violence, you pretend you don't see or hear, lest your brains be splattered upon the stage with mine. Or maybe no one was really taking the guy seriously. I wasn't. I was too busy wondering how low one would have to sink before they started to threaten people with violence over a tiny spot in front of a stage. And also why anyone would try to imitate Whitney Houston as they were threatening to make modern art with just a gun and your brains.
"Sir," I wanted to say, in most impressive Whitney voice: "You are no Whitney Houston. Whitney Houston is a crack 'ho with a beautiful singing ability! Whitney Houston don't need to stand in this spot! And if she did, she wouldn't just yell at me. BITCH RAN INTO A BUS! WHITNEY WOULD HAVE KILLED ME AND THEN STOOD IN MY SPOT! EVERYONE SCARED OF WHITNEY, NO ONE SCARED OF YOU! " Sadly, by the time I got around to opening my mouth to spew forth my parting thoughts, the middle aged gentleman was being escorted out of the area by House Of Blues security. Just as well. Not everyone feels about Whitney the way I do. And I didn't really need him coming back with a gun.
YOU AND ME, BABY! JUST ME AND YOU!
5000