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.

First, we have the women with a grudge against how men pee. According to Mothers Against Peeing Standing Up (www.mapsu.org), it’s unclean and rude for guys to pee standing up. Tiny pee particles get everywhere, and then their mommies have to clean it up, which destroys families and causes nations to go to war.

Seriously, you can buy t-shirts and stickers and mugs from these people to support their cause and remind you to change your evil peeing ways. The delusional people here say that their goal is “to transform the way the world goes to the bathroom by year 2010.” They even go so far as to have a Yellow Ribbon Campaign, in case you want to equate their lofty mission with the plight of soldiers overseas.  In a similar camp, but with a tenuous link to backwater science, is Nature’s Platform (www.naturesplatform.com). (I wonder if these two groups have heard of each other. If locked in a cage together, would they get along or fight to the death? But I digress.) Nature’s Platform is basically a frame made of plywood and PVC pipe that you put around your toilet so you can poop in the squatting position. According to their website, people will be miraculously cured of appendicitis, diverticulosis, hemorrhoids, colitis, prostate disorders, and colon cancer if only they pretend they’re pooping in the woods. Imagine bringing the joys of camping into your own home! They have an impressive array of endorsements, including a Knight of Malta, a man with a PhD in yoga, and a naturopathic doctor who looks like a back-up dancer for Rick James. One woman proudly proclaims that “Nature’s Platform has taught me to listen to my muscles which announce the action of elimination.”  I understand that 2/3 of the world’s population uses the squatting position for all their elimination needs. And maybe it helps them avoid hemorrhoids and colon cancer. But it seems to me that those same people have much bigger problems, like AIDS and famine and swatting flies off their babies, so maybe we shouldn’t so readily compare our situations to theirs. Maybe it’s something else besides how we poop that predisposes us for these diseases. Maybe something like eating crap food and living a sedentary lifestyle.  And true, our ancestors pooped on the ground. They also died by age thirty and used teeth for currency. And it’s not like they had the choice to sit on a toilet. Even if they’d had porcelain and indoor plumbing, I doubt they’d take the time for a leisurely sit when lions and bears were trying to eat them. And if we’re so keen on the pooping habits of cavemen, where are the leaves? I don’t think Neanderthal Man had access to toilet paper. Apparently, one of the drawbacks of the platform system is mess when using it for urination. I guess the squatting puts your bum into a bit of a hover over the toilet, so the makers of Pooping’s Best Friend recommend use of a funnel or some other kind of spray shield. I wonder what the MAPSU nutcases would have to say about this. Certainly seems unclean, but maybe it evens the playing field, gender-wise. With Nature’s Platform, now women can make a big tinkle mess too!

I like high school kids. Adolescents. Smallish humans in the throes of one of life’s most agonizing stages.

It’s hard for me to pin down exactly what it is about teenagers that I’m so drawn to. It’s their energy, but also their potential. Adolescents are so full of life, and they have so much life ahead of them.

I remember having these same thoughts when I went to the homecoming football game of my old high school. I love seeing the kids run around and do all the things that kids that age do — squeal in delight, beat the crap out of each other with glee, and dress themselves in ways that would make a cheap hooker blush. They show their school spirit by wrapping themselves in the most ridiculous clothes and wigs and face paint ever imagined. Or they go the route of wearing twelve layers of black with anarchy symbols and silver jingly bits all over the place. They guzzle down hot dogs and twinkies and deep fried animal parts and wholly unnecessary energy drinks without thinking even once about waistlines or cholesterol levels.

Everything in a teenager’s life is so big, so all-encompassing and life-threatening. They are absolutely brilliant one moment, speaking life truths that are forgotten or overlooked by jaded and world-weary adults, and spouting the most inane nonsense the next.

I think it’s a real shame that adults are so dismissive and scornful of teenagers. Sure, they’re embarrassing and awkward and sometimes rude, but at least they have an excuse. Raging hormones, uncertainty about the future, and a conflicting urge to fit in and stand out make for some turbulent behaviors.

Personally, I think adults just don’t want to remember what they were like at that age. Whether or not they were as outwardly boisterous as some of the kids today, they had the same things going on internally. But instead of showing sympathy, empathy, and understanding, most grown-ups choose to shun these kids and deny any knowledge or comprehension of why they act how they do. Or maybe they’re jealous, wishing they could go back to that time when turning in an essay or getting a prom date were the big traumas, not paying the mortgage or fighting cancer. But the jealous ones forget how difficult it was, and is, to be a teenager. Remember puberty?

I have the utmost respect for anyone in the middle of these crazy years, pretty much from 6th grade through middle age, but especially the teens. Adolescents are expected to behave and conform, as if they were still in elementary school, but also grow up and act like responsible adults. And they really are trying to do both, to be both, but it’s impossible. And they get hassled from both sides. “Stop being so immature! Grow up! Figure it out!” “Sit down and be quiet! Do what you’re told! You’re getting awfully big for your britches!” It’s amazing they make it to adulthood at all, with all the conflicting messages and demands.

I love being around kids at this age, and it’s one of the things I miss most from teaching. They’re so surprising, amazing, and infuriating. They rock the boat. They do the socially unacceptable things that make people uncomfortable, because they’re testing the waters, learning the consequences, judging the limits. It’s necessary for their passage to “responsible adulthood,” and it’s too bad adults aren’t more tolerant of it. At least rude kids have the excuse that they’re learning what’s acceptable. Rude adults should know better.

Now, in no way am I saying or implying that there shouldn’t be consequences or punishments when adolescents get out of line. On the contrary, that’s the only way they’ll learn. Parents who let their kids run wild aren’t doing them a favor at all.

I just think the older generations are doing everyone a disservice by acting like, and perhaps wishing, teenagers didn’t exist. If they could see all the excitement and potential in this exhibit hall, maybe that would change a little. Or maybe people would just see rowdy, disrespectful kids, like they expect.

For further study: Anatomy of a Teenager’s Brain

There are three types of people who annoyed me at the pho place today.

1. Guy who’s eating alone, but chooses to sit at a table for six so he can “spread out with the newspaper.” I can guess why he’s eating alone. Eventually, the place got so crowded, he was forced to share two seats with a mother and child, while he still occupied the space of four place settings. I left before the mother and child got their food, but I’m hoping the little boy splished noodle juice all over Mr. Considerate’s newspaper.

2. Group of dudes who sit and chat about football long after they’re done eating, despite the crowd of people waiting for an open seat. Makes me wonder if they’re rude because they like football, if they like football because they’re rude, or if there’s some third factor that contributes to both rudeness and football adoration.

3. Three people entering the restaurant while I’m trying to leave, but can’t seem to actually get all the way through the door. There’s a whole restaurant in there, folks! Plenty of room for standing! Move along! I can’t really get out while you’re shuffling around in the doorway!

That is all.

It’s tough, because he looks very presidential. Doesn’t resemble a monkey at all. And I gotta like his taste in TV shows.

I worry that people will vote for him purely because they recognize him, or because he looks good and presidenty, without actually learning about his history and stand on issues. But I guess there’s that risk with any candidate. Most of the American voters don’t pay attention to how the person in office might affect daily life. At least 50%, in my recent experience.

But I’m not that interested in political rantings. And I know it’s not unprecedented for an actor to seek political office. Maybe it seems odd because he was a senator while commencing his acting career. Simultaneously. Politics wasn’t something that just came later in life, after he’d retired from all that silly acting stuff.

But really, the weirdest part for me would be how certain actors would suddenly be friends with the President of the United States. I mean, Dennis Farina could be appointed Secretary of Defense. That makes me think of his role in Get Shorty, which makes me giggle. Hehe.