Last Sunday, I spent three hours of my life at an Ani DiFranco concert. For those of you not familar with her music, Ani’s big claim to fame is that way back, when she was a poor and struggling musician, rather than succumbing to the pressure of big time corporate record labels, she started her own label, Righteous Babe Records. Now I could fill pages, debating as to whether or not she’s still upholding her high standards of independence; however, I don’t really feel like being e-mailed by 100 angry fans. Instead, I just want to note that I think she was wearing Gap jeans at the concert…

Anyway back to me. Picture if you will, 1,000 teenage girls and myself in the middle of a rain soaked park. It took about 3.4 seconds before I was ready to seriously kill someone. I think it was about the time that the opening act walked on stage. I had some girl’s elbow in my left side and some guy’s hand on my right boob. And that was when the guy behind me suddenly announced that he was going to push his way to the front. He seemed to be under the impression that because he had big boots on, everyone was going to be scared of him. Now, this may be indicative of a flaw in my character, but as soon as he said those words, I decided that there was no way in hell, he was getting past me. He could have been driving a freaken Mac truck, and I still would have put up a good fight.

Of course, being a smart New Yorker, I glanced over my shoulder at him just to make sure he wasn’t one of those military, gun carrying types. And that was when I got the biggest surprise of my life. Imagine, if you will, Charlie Brown. Now, put Charlie Brown in some really big black boots. Now, make Charlie Brown look really really gay. Yep, that was the sight I was confronted with. I had a brief moment in which I recognized that Charlie Brown was just a sad little boy, and perhaps, I should just let him go in front of me. But then, my true nature kicked in, and I realized that boots or no boots, I could kick Charlie Brown’s ass. So needless to say, he stayed right where he was…

It’s so funny how concerts can bring out such a different side to people. For instance, individuals with absolutely no direction in their lives will become planning maniacs when confronted with the possibility of reaching the front of the stage. They’ve got their maps and diagrams out, and they’re like “Alright, if we swing left at the guy in the red hat, and then, shoot past the girl with all those tattoos, we’ll end up here, at point X. Then if we….” It just goes on and on; and by the end, you’re no longer sure if you’re at a concert or at some bizarre military expedition. But what you do know, is that fourteen maneuvers later, you’re half a foot closer to the stage…

Meanwhile, regardless of where you are in the crowd, there’s always going to be someone behind you- pushing you. I swear, you could be in a football stadium, watching a concert with just one other person, and that person would come up behind you and compress you against the stage. I mean, unless these people are hoping to gain the three inches that will come about as a result of my rib cage collapsing, there’s really no need to push. It’s not like I have a hell of a lot of space up here either. Well, no, actually I like to leave a space of about 14′ by 24′ around me, just in case there should be a stampede…

I guess when you go to a concert, you pretty much give yourself up to certain indignities. You will get a drink spilled on you. You will get smoke blown in your eyes. And you probably will have to visit the Port-a-Potty. The last of these, of course, being the worst. Why is it that we spend so much time and money on making the average American’s life more luxurious, and yet, we can’t improve on the Port-a-Potty. I mean, let’s at least install some kind of flushing mechanism in them. It’s just the worst. You walk in to that tiny 4′ by 4′ space, and you’ve got your hands over your eyes, and you’re just peaking through your fingers- praying that there’s nothing disgusting in the bowl. But, of course, there always is. In fact, I’m pretty sure the Port-a-Potties come like that; and that “nasty stuff in the bowl” is a standard feature that all of the promoters select when renting them. Perhaps, they don’t want you to spend too long in there. I just refuse to believe that my fellow concert goers can be so disgusting. Now why is it that there’s always cigarette butts in the bowl? Are people so comfortable in there that they light up a cigarette or two? I’d hate to see these peoples’ homes. Of course, I guess, it’s also entirely possible that they do it to mask the smell. But enough about that…

Alright, I have rambled on now for far too long. I guess as a final thought, I’d just like to say that I think encores are like the dumbest thing ever. Nowadays like everyone does them; and well, frankly, the surprise factor’s gone. The artists only leave the stage for like 10 seconds. They must just go off stage, stand there, count to 10, and then come tromping back on. I think it’s high time we quit with this charade. We know you’re going to do it. You know you’re going to do it. What’s the point?

As a final, final thought, I’d like to add that I hope this rambling doesn’t result in “My Private Ramblings” being excluded from the Ani DiFranco web ring.