Jeneration X: One Reluctant Adult's Attempt to Unarrest Her Arrested Development; Or, Why It's Never Lancaster, Jen (read more books .txt) 📖

fifteen. A whole bunch of them, in fact. And they’re not all chicks. At least half the audience is comprised of gay men. Guess that explains all the fancy cars in the parking lot.

Of particular interest is the couple sitting directly behind us. I’d guess they were in their sixties and don’t have kids or grandkids with them. We’re not sure why they’re here. We’re trying to figure out their story when the lights come up and a shaggy-haired breakdancer appears onstage. When the roar of the audience dies down, I hear the gentleman ask his companion, “Is that Justin Bieber?”

Turns out they’re not sure why they’re here, either.

After the opening act, we have a short respite before the main event and that’s when Anna and Morgan ready their signs. They spent the afternoon perfecting their artwork and I step back to admire their craft.

“‘Anna + Artie = love’?” I ask Joanna. Although Artie’s character is adorable with his nerd glasses and wheelchair, I kind of thought the girls would go for more obvious choices like Finn or the blond boy with the lips. [Or, if you’re Team Cougar, Puck.]

Joanna beams with pride. “She’s sensitive.”

The lights come up again and the opening notes to “Don’t Stop Believing” play. And that’s when I hear The Noise.

The Noise is like nothing I’ve ever heard before and probably nothing I’ll ever hear again. Were one to try to replicate it, one would need to set off an atom bomb in a bubble gum factory or perhaps burst a Hello Kitty Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon with a unicorn horn.

The Noise sucks all the air out of the arena.

The Noise causes dogs three states away to bark.

The Noise could simultaneously cure and cause cancer.

The Noise refers to the collective gasp coming from twenty thousand twelve-year-old girls and gay men, jointly sucking in their breath at the same time before screaming themselves apeshit, ratfuck, banana-sandwich crazy over cute little Chris Colfer.

I’m probably going to need a second beer.

Two songs into the performance, I’ve lost a large portion of my patience as well as most of my hearing to the screaming. So when the small, tidy, peevish Asian man in knife-creased khakis taps me on the shoulder to say something, I’m in the mood to rumble. I can’t make out his words the first time, so Joanna leans in to listen when he repeats himself.

“Listen, ma’am, I paid a lot of money for my seats and your little girls are blocking my view. It’s not fair for me to have paid all this money and then all I see is the back of their posters.”

Seriously, dude? You’re what, fifty? And you’re surprised that there are kids here ruining the performance for you? What is this, Ravinia? Tanglewood? A night at the opera? Give me a break, pal.

When I was the girls’ age, we were vaulting over dividers and shoving security guards out of the way to get closer to Mr. Springfield. If we had to, we’d have slit people’s throats and ridden their bodies like toboggans down from the balcony if it got us six inches closer to the stage. Plus, you’re sitting down, asshole. Of course you can’t see over the signs. You don’t sit down at a concert! What the fuck is wrong with you?

As I’m drawing a breath to explain to the gentleman that he need just bend over and I will find a new home for those posters immediately, Joanna jumps in. “Girls, put the signs down. Sorry, sir!” Then she smiles and he returns to his seat.

Oh.

I guess that’s another way to play it.

Good to know.

As it turns out, the kids don’t bother me at the show, but the adults are making me nutty. There’s a woman across the narrow aisle from me whom I would very much enjoy punching, as much for the ear-piercing screams that erupt from her piehole every ten seconds as for her “dancing,” which is really more of a full-body contact sport. Even though we’re six feet apart, she’s nailed me in the back three times with all her flailing.

She’s been pantomiming the words to most of the lyrics, e.g., raising her glass during the Pink song, putting an L on her head during “Loser Like Me,” and waving her naked ring finger around for “Single Ladies.” She’s doing the kind of emoting that makes me want to kick my television during Idol auditions. Also, she’s my size, yet did not get the Very Important Big Girl Memo about bras never being “optional.”

Having already been deafened, I swear if I’m robbed of my vision by one of her free-range ta-tas, I’m going to wear her skin as a coat.

“I’m going to shove the bitch down the stairs,” I tell Joanna. The only reason I haven’t is because I don’t want to make a bad impression on Anna.

“Oh, come on, she’s just really happy.”

“No, she’s obnoxious. That’s a subtle but crucial difference. I hate her. Everyone sitting around her hates her. The world hates her.”

Always the optimist, Joanna replies, “The guy with her doesn’t hate her. He must be her boyfriend.”

“She doesn’t have a boyfriend; she has a cat.”

“How do you know?”

“Because the guy started crying when Chris Colfer sang ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand.’”

Joanna’s face arranges into the kind of wry expression that speaks of an entire afternoon of dealing with “Hey, Mom! Hey, Mom!”

Okay, okay, message received.

I’m on my best behavior for the rest of the show. I experience a surreal moment when Finn performs his version of “Jessie’s Girl” and every twelve-year-old in the joint loses her fucking marbles. With the wailing and crying and rending of garments happening all around me, I can’t help but recall that similar night thirty years ago when another young rock star filled a similar arena. I’m simultaneously shocked and thrilled at how every girl in the joint knows every word.

Maybe someday they’ll be grown-ups, singing in their own kitchens, making their own Bolognese sauces, and recalling