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.

So there I am, driving down I-5 in the right lane, minding my own business, when Metro comes in from the on-ramp. He needs to merge, but there’s plenty of room behind me, so I don’t really pay any attention. I just keep doing what I’m doing, which is following pretty close to the car in front of me, since I’m taking the next exit and we aren’t going that fast anyway.

It becomes apparent that Busman doesn’t want to pull his enormous rig into the equally enormous space behind me, and that he instead plans to just merge right on top of me, absorbing my car in his carelessness. This annoys me, but he is about 30 times bigger than me, so I start to slow down.

All of a sudden, Bustard slams on the brakes, practically swerving off the road, as if he’s just now realized that his lane ends and that there’s a car frantically trying to avoid being flattened by his persistent leftward drifting.

I’m confused, because I was slowing down to let him hog the road, but now I’m forced to either slam on my brakes as well to continue to allow his retardation, or punch it to get past him and out of the Film-at-11 danger zone. I choose the latter.

I take my exit and stop at the light.

Curiously, he too takes the exit and stops at the light, although his bus placard says “Return to Terminal” and this is most definitely not the way to the bus barn.

Suddenly, Captain Daredevil is standing next to my window, which I’m obliged to roll down, although I’m more than a little weirded out by the abrupt appearance of a bus driver not in his bus, but standing beside my car.

He bursts out with, “You know, I have a really hard job! I don’t need you to make it any harder!” I start to explain, in my bewilderment, that I was slowing down to let him go by, when he interrupts with a sarcastic “Thanks!” and some eye rolling, muttering, and head shaking. Then he stalks back to his power animal.

The light changes, and I continue on my merry way, perplexed and angry at the senseless berating I just received for having the nerve to get practically run off the road.

I assume that the Transit Avenger got back on the freeway and went wherever he was originally supposed to go. Hopefully, wherever that is, they have some good meds there.

1. Read the information that’s sent to you prior to the show. All of it. And actually do what it says. People don’t write and send out this stuff just for the fun of it.

2. Don’t assume you’re different and special and that you don’t have to follow the rules. You’re the same decaying crap as everyone else, and you’ll be treated as such.

3. Don’t skip to the front of the ine, and don’t come around the side of th desk. It’s always rude, and it won’t save you any time.

4. Don’t yell or be rude at the people whose job is to help you. You’ll get treated like you deserve.

5. Ask questions before the show, so you aren’t an ass at showsite.

6. Realize that things take time. None of us are magicians. If you schedule your flight for an hour after the show ends, you’re screwed. If you don’t pre-order your crap, you’ll get it when you get it, if we have any left.

7. You can save a lot of time and money by planning your booth in advance and ordering early. And no, you can’t get the advance discount if you don’t order in advance. That’s kind of the point of it being advance, you know.

8. There are consequences for bad decisions and mistakes on your part. Expect to pay them. That’s what being a grown-up is all about.

9. The stuff you rent at showsite is expensive. Exhorbitantly so. And it’s not highway robbery because you’re free to bring your own crap. And I do find it easy to sleep at night, by the way.

10. Unions suck and cost a lot. Deal with it.

11. The person sitting at the service desk wearing a name tag and a polo shirt with a logo probably doesn’t have authority over things like labor staffing, union regulations, and forklift velocity.

12. Sometimes you can figure out where you need to go by reading signs rather than asking questions that can only be answered with pointing.

That’s a good start, anyway. So if you ever decide to be an xib, take heed. It’s really bulky and inconvenient to have to pack in my shotgun, so please save me the effort and learn how to use that 8-pound fruit on your shoulders.

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.