Well, I can now proudly say I’ve jumped right into solo dining with both feet. I would call myself a pro, but I want to retain my amateur status in case they add this event to the Olympics. Although, technically, I did get paid. Not for my time, but for the meals at least.

The very same evening after I had my Denny’s lunch experience, I had dinner on my own at the little restaurant in the Holiday Inn, where I was staying. It has a fabric tablecloth, cloth napkins, and a menu with the paper that gets tucked into the little leatherish corners.

I’m not sure if it counts, though, because everyone else in the restaurant was also a solo diner. About nine in all. But they were all men, and all reading newspapers, so I still felt out of place with my short story anthology and my breasts.

Since that fateful evening, I’ve also dined alone at the Mexican restaurant in the Doubletree (where I got moved from the Holiday Inn—long story). This time, I also had a folding menu and cloth table linens, plus I was the only loner in the place. The restaurant wasn’t very busy, so it was just me and a few tables full of two or four people.

Still, it was a hotel restaurant, and you have to imagine single diners aren’t rare in places like that.(As a side note, not part of the progression here, I did have breakfast by myself at the Denny’s among a gaggle of cheerleaders. Unpleasant, but I survived.)

Okay, so then I took the leap. I went to a real restaurant unconnected to a hotel. The Doubletree is across the street from Lloyd Center (Oregon’s largest tax-free shopping mall—whee). And attachd to Lloyd Center is a Stanford’s. It was Saturday night, and I ventured out there. Alone. And more than a little nervous. I mean, what would I do if there were a big waiting list or something?

I only had to wait a few minutes, which was good. I did have to announce myself to the hostess and tell her I was a party of one, in front of the other waiting customers, but it wasn’t so bad. When my table was ready, the hostess asked me if I’d like a magazine (you know, to keep me company, since I’m so lonely and pathetic). I declined. I was shown to my table, which was in a room filled with two large parties in the center and the surrounding booths filled with cozy couples or bustling families. I felt a little self-conscious when I sat down and they whisked away the other table settings, just to announce to the world that I was indeed eating alone and not just waiting for someone.

But I survived. In a real restaurant. Alone.An interesting thing I noticed is that servers are very friendly when you’re dining alone. Maybe it’s a pity thing. Maybe it’s a Portland thing. Or maybe they can focus on you more when you’re alone rather than in a little grouplet.

Previously, I’ve had anxiety about doing things alone. All kinds of things. Ordering takeout by myself causes a little stress, as does hanging out in the library or bookstore for any length of time. The prospect of walking down the aisle of the airplane once it’s in the air is enough to make me hold my bladder for six hours. But maybe I’ll be a little better now.

I know in one part of my brain that none of the strangers out there in the world give a crap about what I do. They’re not even paying attention to me. And even if they are pondering what a loser I am, so what?

I actually liked eating alone. It was nice to not have to carry on a conversation or be witty or sociable for a change. I got to just sit there and read my book and take in the scenery. I could order whatever I wanted and not feel that envy and regret when I see the delicious-looking plate on the other side of the table.

So maybe I’m on my way to being more independent, more comfortable in my own skin.

I’m not saying I’ll be going to the movie theater by myself anytime soon, but it’s a start.

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.

Log Book:

0307 - Awakened by team leader, code name Mom. Didn’t set alarm, because knew Mom would accomplish task.

0310 – Geared up in “I’d Rather Be Punching You” shirt and comfortable shoes.

0331 - Heated up leftover green bean casserole. Dumped in coffee mug for mobile sustenance needs. Set off with Mom for rendezvous with rest of team.

0348 - Made contact with remaining team member, code name Sister. Proceeded to first destination.

0402 - Arrived at Checkpoint A (aka Kohl’s). Observed a long line of invaders waiting to enter through right-hand door. Entered through left-hand door, where no line existed.

0403 - Ran up the down escalator. Poor strategy, not to be attempted in future skirmishes.

The record continues in this fashion for many hours, ending with a cease-fire at approximately 1600 hours.

Mission Review Notes:

Politeness is suspended on Black Thursday. Shoving through lines, sweeping abandoned carts out of the way, and selfishly snatching the last $1.99 DVD are perfectly acceptable here.

Although rudeness will be tolerated, cluelessness will not. Stopping to chat in front of the half-price sock display will earn you a none-too-subtle nudge out of the way. Driving on the wrong side of your half of the parking lot aisle could result in twisted steel and mangled facial features.

You can’t break the rules until you learn them well, son. And you have to know which ones to break.

It is unwise to enter battle without reinforcements. It’s frequently necessary to station a combatant in line while further shopping commences. Checkout lines make Disneyland on a holiday look like a slow day at the bank. Suck it up, soldier. Occasionally, it’s necessary for a team member to break ranks and proceed by car to another checkpoint before all rations are depleted. This is not the same thing as leaving a man behind. This is strategy.

This is not a scene for the weak of will, faint of heart, or male of gender. You must be vigilant, heartless, and often brutal. Be prepared to let go of the $0.49 Almond Roca with a limit of one if it means gathering twelve $4.99 microplush blankets to give as gifts to everyone on your list.

People who brag to their line-neighbors that they didn’t start shopping at 4am are just dumb and inefficient. Not only are they partaking of the craziest shopping day of the year, but they didn’t even get there early enough to get the best deals.

It’s crazy out there. You may find yourself in a head-on auto collision while attempting to use the center turn lane (the aftermath of two such accidents were witnessed during this mission). You may find your cart overturned and your ankles bleeding, or you may find yourself overturning someone else’s cart and running over their ankles. You may cry in desperation or shout in triumph. Take your meds, eat a hearty breakfast, wear your pointy shoes, and survive.

Do not delude yourself that this mission has anything to do with saving a dollar. It is entirely possible, likely even, that you will spend more on Black Thursday than is necessary or prudent. It’s about the thrill of the chase, the feats of strategy and logistical maneuvering, and the gambling.

It’s more like a season of Survivor: The Mall. Or a silent auction where you get so desperate to win anything at all that you write in an ill-advised bid for the Hamhock-of-the-Month Club, just to be able to take something home.

Godspeed, Black Thursday Warriors of 2007. See you next year.