An Open Letter to My Seat "Buddy" at the Dave Matthews Concert
Hi! Hi. Yes, you're excited to be here, aren't you? Dave Matthews. Love it. They put on an awesome show, don't they?
Aw, look at you, flailing around. Oh, you're dancing, are you? Yeah, the "woooooooo!" probably should've tipped me off. You raise that beer up, girlfriend! Wooo! Yes, I'm sure Dave knows you love him. Holler louder, though...he might not have heard you the first time.
Listen, though...couple things.
1. The reason I'm standing with my arms crossed stiffly is because your St. Vitus-esque "dancing" keeps propelling you into me. Here's my personal space, there's yours. Please stick to your own. If you keep bumping into me, I won't move. Sorry. Yes, turn to your husband and gesture wildly at me, complaining that I keep hitting you. Yeah, no. The apologetic look he shot me over your shoulder tells me you've been unruly in public before.
2. You're, what...40? 45? Possibly younger, but you're tanorexic, so it's hard to tell. Regardless, public drunkeness is unseemly at any age. So, you know, enjoy the show...but I sure as hell hope you & your equally smashed husband are planning on taking the light rail back home, because you? Don't need to be driving.
3. It already smells like bongwater & fratboys in here. Please don't complicate it by re-applying AquaNet. My main joy in the DMB is Boyd Tinsley. Waving your aging coif in time to the voices in your head is impeding my view.
4. Those aren't even your seats...I assume some beer-soaked 20-something passed out in the parking lot and didn't make it into the arena. You ganked them halfway through the set, so don't be upset when you don't get an entire row of seats to yourself in which to shake your saggy ass.