Louder Than Life
I have to be deadpan and honest with you for a few minutes. Two Saturdays ago, I came home from work early and felt sorry for myself. This isn’t a new development, but the specific event that made me dive into a tangle of fucked up emotions is not easy for me to admit to you.
Let me back up a few weeks. I work in the bakery of my parent’s restaurant. I came downstairs to grab more butter when the head chef starts singing Limp Bizkit lyrics to me.
GONNA BREAK YOUR FUCKING FACE TONIGHT.
“Fred Durst works here now?” I ask.
The head chef talks a mile a minute, but I hear the words “music festival,” “gourmet man food,” “no this is not a joke.”
My breath becomes sparse and suddenly I’m irrationally angry. How could this restaurant feed the mouths of Kid Rock fans? The rest of the morning I keep going down and back up the stairs, taking my wrath out with each step. The angst I was dealing with was not unlike the time in high school when I overheard a popular girl saying she wanted to go to a punk rock show wearing Abercrombie & Fitch.
“We’re serving food at a festival that probably should have happened in 1999,” I kept repeating out loud, mainly to myself.
The kitchen staff had been listening to a Hot Topic play list all morning, and by the time I was leaving for the day the only thought in my head was ‘sometimes you just gotta say bawitdaba.’
By the actual weekend of the event I was talking up the kitchen about how I wouldn’t hate it if I actually met Kid Rock. He is friends with Hank Jr., and that’s the only way I can rationalize myself. I was mentally preparing myself to share a taco and a beer with the Kid.
But then social anxiety kicked in. I was unable to acquire another VIP pass for the event, and told myself I couldn’t walk around a concert with people who still had Korn patches safety pinned to their JNCOs.
My father accused me of profiling. This was preceded by his reenactment of how many bands were using the word ‘fuck’ on stage. I smiled slow and with a told-you-so grin.
But the joke was on me. I had wanted to go to that festival. Instead I stayed at home with a bottle of wine and a side of teenage angst. I’m a complex woman.