I had an eight-dollar rum and coke in hand shortly after nine last night, three drinks in my system and a shiny red
He walked through the foyer in a hurry, hit my elbow, and sent my untouched rum and coke flying. My boyfriend, who’d bought the drink, got all up in this boy’s face about how he had to buy me a new one – at which both the boy and I walked away. Later, boyfriend (a roadie turned merchandise guy) enlightened me to the hundred thousandth nuance of rock and roll etiquette: the only reason he wasn’t “more of a dick to that kid,” he said, was that “he was wearing a laminate.”
Right. Anyway. Inside, shirtless Goths were throwing each other into a cleared ring and banging into another sweaty Goth who had been thrown from the opposite side, before jumping and headbanging back out to the periphery. About once every eight minutes, the yellow-shirted security guards in front of the stage intercepted a crowd surfing body and shoved it on its medicated way.
Every once in awhile Manson would stride around in his black leather pants and hurl the mic stand onto the floor. Once he’d resumed his squatting position, a stage hand dressed all in black would sprint like a ball boy out onto the stage and right the mic stand. Because Manson hadn’t played any of the three of his songs I know, I passed the time by fixating on this routine: skinny made-up Marilyn toppling the mic stand again and again, and the stage hand standing it back up so Manson wouldn’t hurt himself and sue the Hammerstein Ballroom.
It was supposed to signify rage, of course, but Manson reminded me less of a demon than of an infant repeatedly flinging his sippy cup from his high chair to the floor, knowing full well it would be returned to him. If only I had received such pampering when I dropped my rum and coke…