YTAH's Weblog


Rock Frottage

Posted in queer (gay),rants by YTAH on July 16, 2008
Tags: , , ,

I’m sure by now you’ve started to wonder exactly what it is I do when I’m not writing this column. That is, apart from harbouring grudges, attending film festivals, and vandalizing the Wikipedia entry for Tom Hanks. Well, as you may know from previous columns, five days out of seven (barring public holidays, illnesses of various descriptions, and any other pretext I can dream up on the day), I go to something that government forms and credit applications like to refer to as my “place of employment”, in order to do what my employers like to call “work” but which is more accurately described as “wasting time in various ways while waiting for payday to come around so I can fuel my caffeine-and-red-meat habit”. Of course I also do this because I need to make a living, since nobody’s paying me to write these articles, you know (and you, my dear readers, are getting what you pay for, and far more than you deserve). However, the main reason I do so is so that I can afford to go to bars, movies, and concerts, which I do as often as superhumanly possible.

Nevermind the BollocksStill, defacing Wikipedia pages is full-time work, and occasionally there are cultural events I miss out on. Now, as a rule I prefer to enjoy any movies that may have escaped me in the relative privacy (and quiet) of my home, and thus free from the annoyances of brainless, inbred assholes who have trouble following the most predictable of storylines despite having seen this derivative shit 10,000 times before (and yes, that’s a movie reference). However, I do occasionally venture out to enjoy these events in public, despite the actual public’s inevitable attendance at these things. I particularly enjoy going to live concerts, because while there is a certain amount of satisfaction in seeing a well-made film on the big screen, this is dwarfed by the pleasures of seeing a decent band performing live, or a shitty band humiliating themselves. It is, after all, a useful way to separate the weak from the naff, musically speaking. As I regularly harangue anyone foolish enough to be in my vicinity when I feel like ranting about the oversupply of untalented fuckheads in the music industry: If you want to make a living as a musician, get on fucking stage where I can pelt you with shit if you suck gangrenous appendages. Until then, get the hell off my cultural radar. Anyway, a real band would much rather you attend one of their gigs than buy one of their badly-produced albums. (I’m talking to you, Lar(d)sy.)

CokeFest2008The annual lurve-in at the Kenilworth Race Track.

Be that as it may. The desire to attend live events is a curse from which I unfortunately suffer. To give you an example: One of the things AtraBilious and I have in common is a fondness for Fokofpolisiekar. Again, it may be the profanity and the fuck-you attitude, but something about them appeals to my particular sensibilities. These fine fellows recently performed a well-attended gig along with both of their offshoot bands, and everyone seemed keen to see them – especially after their recent performance at a horrifically-overpriced corporate-marketing-exercise-dressed-up-in-rock-fan-kit music festival was completely wrecked by shitty sound. (While we’re at it: someone tell local bands to tour with their own fucking sound people already, and let’s shoot the ones employed by venues. None of them are competent, so they don’t deserve to live. Hey, if the guy who made Michelangelo’s chisels forgot to sharpen them before selling them to him, Mike would’ve been justified in using them to stab out the other guy’s eyes, not so? Unless you’d prefer the statue of David with no dick at all.)

In fact I almost expected to get massively pissed off about the whole commercial angle of the gig – a fucking marketing launch by some big hipster wank-off. But by some goddamn miracle the sound was great, the bands were really into it, and the venue didn’t completely suck. Also, and this was by far the most miraculous of all, the people weren’t all inveterate fucking cunts. Now, loathe as I am to make generalizations, being as I am of such a generous and forgiving nature, most people who attend rock gigs in Cape Town are motherfuckingly retarded. In fact most of them make your average retard look like Albert Pustulating Einstein. My favourite example of this is a guy who fought his way to the front of the stage during an acoustic set by the front man of a visiting UK folk-punk band, and then proceeded to make a phone call to someone too cheap to buy a ticket, explaining that how great the show was. The singer understandably beat the mouth-breather to death with his own leg, but still – somehow the momentum was lost.

Kurt gets all apologeticEveryone at this rock gig is gay…

Fortunately, the crowd at this FKP gig I went to was happily cell-phone-free. I do, however, have one particular gripe: why did every fucking person at this godforsaken venue want to brush their crotch against my ass? I realize that, actually being homosexual, I’m probably in the minority at a rock concert, and that none of you strapping fellows have ever thought about what an attractive man James Blunt is, or wondered what kind of moisturizer Kid Rock uses, because that would be sick (not being gay, mind you, but fancying James Blunt. Fancying James officially makes you somebody’s bitch). But even if our sexual orientations differ somewhat, you’re sure sending mixed signals there fellas. Apart from the way you’re continually hugging your buddies, or shoving them, or handling their persons in one way or another, you’re getting mighty friendly with the touchy-touchy. Continually during the course of the evening, while I was standing at the back of the crowd to prevent my lungs from collapsing in on themselves in the crush, you came pushing past me as if squeezing between an unscalable wall and a rhinoceros, instead of walking through an unencumbered, empty space at least two metres wide. So rather than making the obvious assumption and figuring you for a total cunt – I mean, you’re at the same gig I’m at, so you can’t be a totally worthless piece of horse excrement – I am going to assume that you are suppressing some serious urges there son. (Because god knows I’d rather be gay than an asshole.)

Mosh my ass… and they’re all into frottage.

Maybe it’s the aggressive tone of the music, or that famous crowd mentality kicking in, or the fact that you can’t hold your liquor; perhaps it’s just that you really are stupid, ill-bred, and repressed. Perhaps you wandered in off the street in a drug-fuelled haze and didn’t realize you were at a concert, with people on stage playing music, and other people listening to them, and believed instead that you had been transported to a fairy wonderland where happy fluffy bunnies frolic eternally on candy-covered hills and that you were magically transformed into a butterfly that had to flutter all the way across this merry vista towards the mystery fairy castle in order to deliver love letters between the prince and his One True Love the Dryad-Elf-Fairy-Princess… Frankly, I don’t care. I’m not sure anyone’s ever killed a butterfly with an elephant gun, but the next time you inflict your hallucination on me when I’m trying to rock out, that is exactly what you can expect.

So thanks to all the guys at the gig for brushing up against me the whole damn night. (Was it good for you too?) But if you seriously want to “get jiggy with it”, at least buy me a beer first – or, I dunno, take me to dinner and a movie, as Billy Crystal once quipped to the dog humping his leg. Somehow, though, I don’t think any of you people really has the balls to go through with it, or to deliver on the promise of a warm thigh brushing once more against my ass. Otherwise, why would you resort to surreptitiously rubbing up against strangers in a crowded venue, using the pretext of a rock concert to get your jollies, like some impotent jerk-off feeling up his fellow commuters on a crowded Japanese train? If you had any balls at all you’d make some kind of plan already. Honestly, you all paid good money for a ticket, so you can’t be totally broke. Splash out on some nice biodegradable hand cream for yourself and your number one fan. Or hire a hooker, for chrissakes – it would cost you about as much as the average cover charge plus a couple of beers, and at least that way somebody gets the happy ending.

JT does EnimemC’mon, fellas – turnaround is fair play.

So, in the event that we run into each other the next time I deign to attend a gig, here’s the new rule: if you’re not willing to at least engage in a little tongue action with another dude, kindly keep your hands to yourself. We know that the girls have been telling you for years about the importance of foreplay; however, it’s extremely rude to extend the promise of foreplay without at least acknowledging the implication of further services to be rendered in due course. In future, any undelivered “further services” will be taken out in trade: your death for my wasted cover charge. I think that’s fair.

Sincere regards,
Yours Truly Asshole.

[Originally posted on africans.co.za on Tuesday, April 08, 2008.]

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