Winner No. 3 in our concert essay contest is Lindsay Corolla. Her tale illustrates one of the more unanticipated perils of the mosh-pit. Bruises? Sure. Broken bones? Certainly a possibility. Barf-blast? Yyyyyyuck! I wonder if her dad ever let her borrow the car again?
When I was 17 years old, I thought I was cool. I listened to gritty, whiney punk rock and wore vintage band t-shirts. So obviously, when Warped Tour was set to hit the nearby city of Pittsburgh, I begged my disapproving father to let me go. He reluctantly allowed me to borrow his brand new SUV to cart my lame wannabe-edgy friends and I to a random field filled with makeshift stages, PETA stickers, and skinny boys with hair covering their eyes. Heaven.
After a wrong turn or two, we did successfully arrive at the venue, but only to park at least a mile away. It was about 90 degrees that day. Finally my friends and I, eyeliner melting down our angst-ridden faces, entered the doors in time to catch Boys Like Girls’ set. They were relevant then. We jumped right into the mosh-pit, which immediately turned ugly. The overweight teenager pushing in front of me apparently couldn’t handle the heat or the guitar riffs. She turned to face me in preparation of escaping the pit as quickly as possible.
I saw the dread in her eyes as she realized her efforts were futile. She vomited all over me. I hadn’t been there 20 minutes. Did I mention it was 90 degrees? To prove I was hardcore I continued moshing while slimy morsels hardened on my arms and legs. Then I went to the bathroom and cried.
And that’s the story of how my dad lost that “new car smell.”