R.E.M. … So Dreamy

Ahh, the concert. A marvelous time, really. A rockin’ time, I’d say, if I were inclined to say things like “a rockin’ time”.
Michael Stipes’s energy was amazing and infectious. Indeed, from the first beat, the oversized ass of the chick next to me was up and out of its seat, bouncing perilously close to my face in rhythmic fashion. This leaden lump, who before the show looked as if she was attached to her seat by a force of gravity equal to that she’d experience on a neutron star, bounded out of her seat with such force that I was actually repelled. In more ways than one. (Aside: Check this out. Yes, the link is safe for work. Unless your boss thinks gravity is pornographic. The only offensive material contained in that link is the word “Uranus”. Someone should really sit that planet down and advise it to seriously consider changing its name.)
So, anyway, my choice of clothing was sort of determined for me, even though I was leaning not toward the ensemble I’d briefly described yesterday but toward all black (a huge departure for me) because that’s what “T” was going to wear, and we like to act like one of those cloying couples who call each other by pet names. You see, my jeans were sporting the teeniest of tiny holes by the crotch, which didn’t please the DOG one tiny bit. Even though the hole couldn’t provide E-Z access to even the most miniature of potential invaders, he still insisted I change. So like the dutiful teenager I am, I heeded his command.
After I turn 40 (on the 26th), I’ll pierce my nose and rebel!
The concert was great. Large crowds always beg me to just sit back and observe and hate, and I did do my fair share of that. One of the thoughts that kept coming back to me was the cliché about how easily united people are by something as simple as music. Another thought, which washed over me as I surveyed the crowd, bathed in green light that made the bouncing heads look like peas simmering in a pot, involved brainwashing and the willingness of people to be led by an icon. I only let my mind wander so far as to imagine the entire audience as skeletons, all grinning the skeleton grin as their loosely jointed bones bounced and jangled to the beat of the music, and then all collapsing into a huge disjointed heap of tangled tibias, mandibles, and the like.
It was then that I decided to live in and for the moment and start rockin’ a little. So I rocked somewhat, never quite reaching the point of rolling. It wasn’t until the end of the show, when Michael Stipe, by then shirtless and standing atop a small platform onstage with his arms extended and his face turned up toward the brilliant white light, made me think of skeletons again, and how much he looked like one, and how he, in 100 years, will be just another collection of bones among if not atop the heap.