Kid just loves him some cows (komos) wrote,
Kid just loves him some cows
komos

I still haven't learned that lesson

I was thinking about the micro-meme that was kicking around the flist yesterday, and realized something. I realized that I could go on about seeing bands like The Cure, Depeche Mode and REM before they began to show signs of near universal appeal; or about the Boston club scene that saw the rise of bands like Pixies and Mission to Burma; or even about making it to see the right indie-rock outfits at the right shows at the right times before it could definitely be demonstrated that they had "sold out" (or whatever we're calling "losing their artistic integrity because they wanted a steak" these days)... but really, there's really only one show that matters.



I saw STRYPER.



You're probably wondering how I got pulled into a Christian hair metal concert at a time when I woke up every morning to a 7AM Sid Vicious wake-up call, when I considered the Violent Femmes to be high art, and when nearly every cassette left in my car slowly morphed into London Calling. Like so many things that went horribly wrong, this was about a girl.

I met her in chorale (I think), and she snookered me. See, I was fairly convinced that she was amongst the disaffected alternateen theater geeks who made up most of my friends group in high school, and these folks generally had a similar aesthetic that could be interpreted to mean (at the very least) a) a certain appreciation of dark humor, b) an attitude that was best characterized as moody and improvisational, and b) a decent selection of music. I made assumptions, but none were so grand as the assumptions that she made about me. She took me on as a project because she assumed I should be "saved."

Since I was kind of keen over the attentions of a socially awkward but still very cute girl, I missed any of the warning signs that should have clued me into what was coming. I was so blinded that when she asked me if I wanted to go to a show, I didn't bother asking any of the whos or wheres or whats and happily trundled along until I was sitting in a theater well outside of Portland pondering whether diagonal black and yellow stripes were more or less slimming than those on the horizontal because OH MY GOD THE HORROR.

The best part? By the time the show started, we got hit with a white-out and there was no way for us to leave.
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