First, we went to Von’s for dinner before the show. I’ve been wanting to go there for a long time, mainly because I’ve been intrigued by their sign that says Martini – Manhattan Memorial. I like martinis.

So Von’s was good. Very friendly staff all around, great food, and a fun atmosphere. The walls of the dining room are entirely covered in beer tap handles, which are fun to look at. I had a yummy roast chicken, a dirty martini, a decidedly clean martini, and apple crisp. All yum.

There was a fairly long line to get into the Paramount, but it moved fast enough. While we shuffled along, we were entertained by the fruitless efforts of Jesus-sign guys. Apparently Jesus has given us over to our wrongful passion. I got a Get Out of Hell Free Card, and then I actually witnessed a Jesus-sign guy who was reasonable and logical and possibly even sane and intelligent.

Our tickets were general admission on the floor, no chairs, which basically meant you cram up as close to the stage as you can. The floor was pretty empty when we got there, so we were able to watch the opening band from about 15 feet away.

The opening band, by the way, was the most depressingly boring band ever to be granted musical instruments and electricity. I speculated for some time about what the band might be called, and I got it narrowed down to Cure for Insomnia, Lullaby, or Trank. They went on for an eternity with their dirges, and the audience grew ever more restless and unkind. They finally left the stage to much relieved applause, and we were allowed to listen to the DJ’s odd assortment of songs while we waiting at least another seven hours for Marilyn Manson to take the stage.

There was quite a bit of unsneaky smoking going on in the crowd, both of the tobacky and the wacky sort. Not good for my cough, but it became clear that everyone who worships the devil smokes so they can meet him faster.

The crowd became increasingly agitated, with people jockeying for position and shoving each other in the drawn-out fashion of high school kids who do not yet understand what is meant by appropriate touching and just want to get attention however they can.

During this limbo, we got to know some of the interesting characters who’d come to see the show.

First, there was Crazy Lady. I’m not sure what she was high on, but it made her twitchy beyond belief. She must have come alone, but she acted as if everyone was her best friend. The punk girl in front of us, wearing a concert tee-shirt and sporting tattoos, piercings, and a respectable mohawk became the unfortunate object of Crazy Lady’s glassy-eyed attention. Crazy Lady kept touching Punk Girl’s shirt, skimming her fingers across the tour dates and mumbling something, and at one point she even touched Punk Girl’s little tattoos behind her ears.

Next we have Accountant, so named because he, well, looked like an accountant. Closely cropped hair, glasses, weasel-face. He had a mishmash of tattoos all over his arms, but only from the elbows up, presumably so he can look respectable to his tax clients while wearing shirts with sleeves. Accountant was also very high on something. He kept trying to make out with a girl that was not interested in him. He also roamed through the crowd holding up a dollar bill, begging people to give him a smoke. He tried to worm his way through the crowd to the front by putting his hand up in a parting-the-sea manner, but he always got shunted back again. At one point, he spent about 10 minutes trying to arrange with a hairy man near him to follow him as he traveled up to the front, for what purpose, I have no idea. Maybe he wanted backup. He was so high, there was a minute when he stood frozen, hand held firmly straight in his mid-air parting motion, his chin resting on some guy’s shoulder, just staring at the glory of his own hand.

Then there’s Russian-Blue-Blocker-French-Maid Guy with his harem of brunettes. He was wearing a French maid costume and headware that looked like someone had put an upturned bucket on his head, draped it with black velvet, and tied it up with a gaudy gold rope. And he was wearing blue blocker sunglasses. One of his brunettes was the one Accountant tried to make out with, and a brief tussle ensued wherein Accountant was ejected unceremoniously from that section of the floor. Russian-Blue-Blocker-French-Maid Guy and his harem had been at Von’s as well.

There was a little catfight between Pushy Jackass and Evil Threads Guy. Apparently one of them bumped into the other, and much hell was to be paid. Evil Threads Guy was there with a blonde, so life went on for him and his oh-so-scary black t-shirt, but Pushy Jackass just couldn’t move on. He spent much of the limbo time roaming around, telling everyone about his fight. Pushy Jackass was about as agile as a retarded elephant, so he conked me on the head and rammed into my side a fair number of times. Should he ever wake up from his massive state of stonification, he’ll find some bruises he was too impaired to feel last night.

Oh, and the Frat Boys. Frat Boy #1 spent a large chunk of time yelling into his cell phone, telling his “homies” (his word, not mine) that he was the one holding up the cell phone, then peering into the back of the theater with that very unsober look of serious concentration. Eventually, he was joined by the other Frat Boys, and they had much fun shoving each other to disguise their latent homosexuality.

And my favorite of them all, Pillow Lady. She was very soft and plush, not too tall, and she smiled politely when I made snarky comments about the above-named characters. She was the best person to be behind when the ramming and shoving began, because it didn’t hurt. She wandered away later, much to my dismay, but it was nice to be behind Pillow Lady while it lasted.

And then Marilyn Manson took the stage.

Our location about 15 feet from the stage, became an instant mosh pit. I was picked up and twisted and shoved and torn and practically knocked to the ground. I was seriously afraid of being trampled to death, and I used every self-defense tool at my disposal to keep upright. There are concert-goers waking up today with bruises, pinch marks, and puncture wounds from my elbows, fists, and fingernails.

We struggled back about 10 feet and found that we were actually able to stand up without getting crushed. And we could still see Marilyn Manson’s face loud and clear. And what a face it was — but more on that later.

Once the concert actually began, new characters emerged.

There are the girls who get on boyfriends’ shoulders and bare their chests for all the camera phone junkies to enjoy.

There are the guys who get too warm and run around the crowd without shirts on, subjecting everyone to their nasty sweaty skin. Maybe they’re just jealous of the flasher girls.

The crowd surfers, who get someone to launch them up and then try to ride the wave of arms and heads to the front of the crowd. I guess if you like the thrill of being groped by a hundred strangers, that’s good. Until the crowd lets you fall to the floor. But it was funny to watch.

There was Members Only Jacket Guy, who was so clumsy he makes a bull-in-china-shop analogy work, even in a mosh pit. He rammed into me so forcefully, nearly crushing my hand, that he’ll wake up today with a purple nurple. Not my fault.

For a good portion of the concert, I was trapped behind a wall that I’ve named Jabba. He was a very large, very hairy, very smelly man. He blocked the whole stage. I thanked God (or Satan, or whoever would be listening at a place like that) that he didn’t feel inclined to raise his hands in the air.

And there was an assortment of camera phone devotees. Their sole purpose in attending this concert seemed to be to hold their phone in the air and snap dozens of identically lousy photos. I was able to see all of this quite well, since their glowing blue screens were hovering in the darkness at a level high enough for me to actually see past Jabba. The majority of the pictures that got taken included arms brilliantly lit by the flash, with some color and light and shadowy figures behind. Occasionally, they’d get lucky enough to take a picture without arms in the way, in which case it was merely stage lights and shadowy figures. Some of these people spent the entire concert attempting to get a decent picture and never succeeding, watching the whole concert through their LCD screen instead of actually using their own eyes and enjoying it.

I’ve been to my share of concerts (Billy Idol, Aerosmith, Kiss, etc.) where it’s customary to throw the goat. You know, make devil horns with your fingers and stab the air. Well, Marilyn Manson fans make the weirdest devil horn fingers I’ve ever seen. It’s like a lazy version, with the horn-fingers relaxed and curled up a little, not thrust out in an angry ramming motion. But the weirdest part was that the two middle fingers (those not forming the horns) weren’t just pressed down. They met the thumb in a perfect little circle. The whole thing reminded me of a shadow puppet bunny. Not impressive for people who are supposedly full of rage and satanic impulses. They could at least throw a proper goat.

So, in case you weren’t sure, Marilyn Manson is unspeakably unattractive. Even though I was trapped behind outsized hillbillies and sumo wrestlers and beanpoles with giant ears sticking out, I could see the main attraction occasionally. And we were close enough to get a good look. Red painted-on eye mask, death-white face, and a mouth that looks like he won a cherry pie-eating contest — you know, the kind where you have your arms tied behind your back. I’m not saying he’s untalented. Just hideously icky, to my taste.

I won’t comment on the music, because I wasn’t really familiar with any of it, but everyone seemed to enjoy it. I did, however, get to use some of my kickboxing and self-defense skills, which was gratifying. I spent most of the concert in the fighting stance, with at least one arm up, poised to strike. I kicked several shins and calves, punched a few kidneys, pinched some arms violently (plus the one purple nurple), and rammed my elbows into some backs to keep from getting knocked to the ground to squashed like a bug. All of this was in protecting my own space, but I did get a sick delight out of it, too. But not even a single person reacted in pain to any of the abuse I distributed. I can only hope that they’re feeling it today.

All in all, the whole mosh pit nature of the event reminded me of Day After Thanksgiving shopping, when all rules of courtesy and normalcy are suspended for a while. It’s survival, baby. In fact, I was really freaking out about the crushing and shoving until that analogy clicked, and then I got into the spirit.

So the concert ended, leaving me with sore feet, tense muscles, temporary deafness, raging thirst, and blog fodder. All in all, a good time was had by all.

(If you have no idea what I’m talking about and think I’ve lost my mind, you might be right. But first read yesterday’s blog entry, as it might clear up at least the first part.)

The enneagram types are placed around a circle in a particular order, with lines and arrows going every which way. If you want to know the details, read the book or look online or something (if you do look online, you’ll notice that some of the type names are different — Mediator is called Peacemaker, for example).

The two types next to yours are the wings, and they share significant similarities. As a Mediator, my two wings are the Perfectionist and the Protector.

Mediators and Perfectionists both easily forget or suppress their own needs, and they both value steadiness, organization, and harmony. However, Perfectionists hold to their positions rigidly, expecting others to change, while Mediators readily adapt to accommodate others’ positions, often losing sight of their own.

The other wing, the Protector, is like the Mediator in that both respond with gut reactions, seek comfort, and get diverted from essential priorities. The key difference is that Protectors welcome conflict and even anger, while Mediators avoid these. Protectors are decisive, but Mediators defer to others.

On the circle, the two types with the crazy pointing arrows are the security and stress types. That is, one is the way you act when secure, and the other is the way you act when you’re stressed. The Mediator’s security type is the Performer. This means that Mediators, when feeling secure, act more like Performers (more singularly focused on their own goals, more efficient, and more image-oriented).

The Mediator’s stress type is the Loyal Skeptic. So, when Mediators are feeling stress, they become fearful, questioning, and wary, like Loyal Skeptics. But Mediators go along with others before testing and questioning, while Loyal Skeptics test and question before going along with others.

So, as you can see, I’m a doormat. But I’m working on it and getting better.

Here are some highlights from my other major types, just because I can’t stop talking about myself.

The Epicure:

• I learned to protect myself from limitations and pain by imagining many fascinating possibilities for the future. I became a glutton for interesting ideas and experiences.
• My attention is on fascinating ideas, plans, options, projects. Interconnections and interrelationships among diverse areas of information and knowledge.
• I’m stressed by the overload that results from trying to sample all that life has to offer.
• I’m angered by constraints or limits that prevent me from getting what I want.
• I need to practice working on one thing at a time until it’s completed. Live life more fully in the present moment and less in the future.

The Observer:

• I learned to protect myself from intrusive demands and being drained of my resources by becoming private and self-sufficient. I do this by accumulating a lot of knowledge.
• I put my energy into learning all there is to know about a subject. Maintaining sufficient privacy, boundaries, and limits.
• I do everything I can to avoid feelings of inadequacy and emptiness.
• I am stressed out by trying to learn everything there is to know before taking action.
• I am upset when I don’t have enough private time to restore my energy.

So, in conclusion, I’m a reclusive doormat with a short attention span. Aren’t you glad you’re my friend?

First is the way it explains how the different personality types are related to each other, which I’ll get to later.

The other thing is the basic proposition of the whole thing. Each of the types is defined by the fundamental principle this person has lost sight of, what she came to believe instead, and the strategy she developed to cope with this belief. Again, I’ll explain more later.

First, a little overview.

According to this particular system, there are nine personality types: Perfectionist, Giver, Performer, Romantic, Observer, Loyal Skeptic, Epicure, Protector, and Mediator. I’m not going to go into detail on all of them, because that’s what the book is for, and I really don’t want my post to be 109 pages long, and I suspect you don’t want that either.

Instead, I’ll talk about my dominant type and explain all the cool things I learned about myself, and if you want to know more you can go check out the book. Because seriously, this blog is all about me.

My top three types came out to be Mediator, Epicure, and Observer, and as I read the descriptions of them, it’s really hard for me to nail one down as dominant, because I’m such a complex and beautiful creature. I see myself in all three to a great extent.

But for the purposes of this little lesson in enneagrammatics, I’ll go with Mediator, because it ranked slightly above the other two.

According to the little book, as a Mediator, I have lost sight of the fact that “everyone belongs equally in a state of unconditional love and union,” which sounds like sappy gibberish to me, but I’ll go with it. It gets better in a bit.

What I came to believe instead was that “the world makes people unimportant and requires them to blend in, which provides them with a sense of comfort and belonging.” Hmm. Getting better, but not quite how I’d sum up my life.

The strategy I developed to cope with this belief: “I learned to forget myself and merge with others. I substituted inessentials and small comforts for real priorities.” Now we’re getting somewhere. Of course, it’s kinda painful to see some of my major shortcomings laid out like that, but this is for science.

And here’s where it gets really eerie. Because of this strategy, my attention is on “other’s agendas, requests, and demands” and “all the things in the environment that beckon.” I put my energy into “being sensitive to others and trying to please them,” “containing anger,” “maintaining peace and quiet,” and “doing the less essential and comforting activities rather than the more important and more disturbing ones.”

I do everything I can to avoid conflict, confrontation, and feeling uncomfortable. My strengths are supportiveness, accountability, and being adaptive, accepting, and receptive.

Stress is caused by taking a position, or saying no to someone and having that person get angry. I’m angered when I’m treated as not important or forced to face conflict. My anger manifests itself as stubbornness or resistance, occasionally boiling over and exploding.

(If you know me at all, you should be nodding right now.)

And then it goes on to tell me how to further my personal development, which basically entails paying attention to my own needs and accepting discomfort as a natural part of life. Oh, and I need to pay attention to my real priorities, rather than giving everything equal importance.

And here’s the definition of my real friends, the people I’ve been surrounding myself with lately (it’s disguised as “how others can support my development,” but I know it’s just a description of my few wonderful friends — probably the only people who read this thing): “Encourage me to express my own position. Ask me what I want and what is good for me, and give me time to figure out the answer. Support me when I act responsibly toward myself. Allow me to acknowledge my anger. Encourage me to set and keep my own boundaries, limits, and priorities.”

Apparently, I’m not a lost cause yet!

Okay, I think I’ve written enough on this topic for now. I’ll get into the rest of the enneagram stuff next time, in the greatly anticipated sequel.

Just walking through the Trouser Socks aisle of JC Penney makes me itchy and nervous. If I ever have a job that requires not only trousers but a special kind of boring sock to accompany them, that will be the day I weep for my lost youth.

Although I’m partial to the sock art of Happy Bunny, it’s not an exclusive deal.

The genius who brought us Happy Bunny also has some other favorites of mine: Meany Doodles, Dog of Glee, and Sweety Puss are good ones, but he has a bunch of others too. Of course, these aren’t all available in sock form, but it’s my blog and I can digress if I want to.

This isn’t really a post about socks anymore, but about my mission to incorporate nasty little bits of humor into my life in a defiant stance against stale and musty adulthood.

So, back to my commercial. If you like Jim Benton’s snarky cartoon characters, here are a few others worth checking out:

David & Goliath
Angry Little Girls
ULB

Oh, and back to the sock thing. Here’s a sampling of some of my own sock drawer favorites:

Boys are strong. Bury them deep.
Like I need your approval.
Hooray for guys with money.
I’m a nice person. Come closer.
Pyscho-licious (and yes, the socks really are spelled that way)

This site never fails to get a smile. There’s just something about kittens with bad grammar that I’m powerless to resist.

Side note: It’s a proven scientific fact that kittens make people happy. How else can you explain the episode of Scrubs where JD saves a man dying of a broken heart by emptying a box of kittens on his face?

Actually, the book is more like a picture book, with each page containing a drawing accompanied by a sentence or two of text.

But I’m still a genius.

The book provides gives a long list of things you can do to avoid doing the creative things you dream of doing, and for me it did a great job of pointing out the self-destructive habits I have that get in the way of living the life I want to live.

There are more than a hundred of these little guys, but I want to share the ones that really yanked me by the earlobes and said, “Hey! I’m talkin’ to you!” They’re listed here in the same order they appear in the book:

• Make your first project really big.
• Compare your work to the masterworks of the great masters.
• Be in a big hurry.
• Assume that your dream will be much too expensive and beyond your reach.
• Slide into despair rather than take one small exploratory action.
• Talk about it so you don’t have to do it.
• Consider the odds against whatever you make ever selling.
• Demand that what you do be absolutely original, totally brilliant, and ever done before.
• Demand 15 hours of free time to create, so you can ignore the 15 minutes you’ve got.
• Help others to formulate a step-by-step approach for manifesting their dreams.
• The minute you have an idea, ask yourself: How much cold, hard cash is it worth?
• Focus on how much is left, not on how much is done.
• Under no circumstances make any art just for fun.
• Focus on your future as a homeless person, caused by your pursuing your dream.
• Tell yourself you need to relax instead of create. Tell yourself you’ll write later.
• Get your main sense of self worth helping others instead of facing the blank page.
• Tell yourself you need your family’s approval.
• Tell yourself your work isn’t good enough to finish or frame. Explain to everyone that you’re not “really” an artist.
• Tell yourself if you have free time, you should do something productive.
• Rather than make art, read about art.
• Let the fear of freelance health care costs drive you back to corporate life.
• Decide to learn everything about critical theory regarding your art form of choice.
• Think about your art instead of doing it.
• Hide from the crazymakers in your life instead of setting boundaries. Hiding makes it hard to do your art.

But there’s one so-called advancement that I protest. It has caused me nothing but frustration, heartache, and stinky hands. It is the “safe edge” can opener. I like to call it the can’t opener.

It’s not that I’m against safe edges (although I do think that people lacking the mental fortitude and foresight to grip a sharp metal disc anywhere but the sharp edge deserve what they get). My complaints with this nasty little device are threefold:

1. Eliminating the sharp edge on the lid means the sharp edge is merely relocated to the can itself. You’re cutting metal, folks. There’s gonna be a sharp edge somewhere.

2. The contraption is nigh impossible to use. I’m no Mensa member, but come on. It has no mechanics for gripping the can or the lid, and I don’t find it efficient to have to make five circuits to get one clean cut. At that point, I may as well be chewing through the can.

3. Since the lid is cut around the outer edge of the can, it becomes too big to fit inside for purposes of tidy disposal or draining liquid off tuna. Try it sometime, and see how much fun it is to be carefully wedging half of the lid into the can, pressing it against the tuna as well as can be done in such a situation, only to get drenched by tuna water shooting out the top side.

So I’ll leave this particular technological advancement to the people who can’t operate the good old fashioned can kind of opener. Then they can feel smart about not getting cut up, and I can feel smart about not smelling like tuna.

So far, they only offer the one story with fairies, but this month a pirate story is coming out! And the price seems reasonable for what you get. If only my nephews hadn’t grown up so fast.

Found via Photojojo.