Now that the summer has officially passed, I suppose it's time to start recalling those moments whose saliency and sheer amount of exposure to biohazardous fluids suggest they deserve memoralization. Or at least for me to blog about them so that you, my one or two sporadic and disinterested readers, can note their passing.While waiting to hear Spoon play at a music festival earlier this summer, the red-bandannaed, fleshy blob you see in the center of the picture pushed its way through the crowd and towered over me and my fellow short friends. Its back glistened with sweat - a glisten that was dimmed slightly by a fine sheen of dirt that seemed to highlight every pore on its skin that was about seven inches from our faces. In the near center of its back - at my eye level - rested a bleeding cut that slowly trickled blood as it bobbed frenetically and unrhythmically to the music. It threatened to careen into us on several occasions - my initial state of speechless terror at the prospect of this unhygenic impact soon blossomed into a whisper that grew ever louder and louder in my head: photo op.. photo op... PHOTO OP!
What better way to face your fears than to snap a pic of them? They say in some cultures that to take a picture of something steals a part of its soul (seriously, they said it in Zoolander so it must be true). If we captured even a trace of bloody essence in the above photograph, then we have confronted the powerful essence of concert douchebags everywhere who push their way to the front of crowds, stand directly in front of people who are CLEARLY shorter than them, and reek to high heavens because they decided today was the day they were going to try using that rock deodorant, and we have put them on notice (as Stephen Colbert would say).
