A diatribe regarding concert etiquette

Look, I think it's great that people still lose their minds over Led Zeppelin's music. The fact that a band like Zoso can pack the House of Blues and elicit screams of adoration from 10-year-olds and 60-year-olds alike speaks volumes about the impact Led Zeppelin has made on the world. I couldn't be more thrilled to be part of a shared experience built on my favorite band's legacy. I even love the ringing in my ears, the pain in my feet and calves, the exhaustion of standing for over 5 hours just for the chance to hear these legendary songs live. (You can sense a 'but' coming, can't you?)

But.

I do not appreciate people acting like lunatic assholes with a collective sense of entitlement. I don't like being shoved, grabbed, jostled, elbowed, and physically displaced. I don't like beer being spilled on my feet. I don't like the creepy stares of sleazy men. I don't think that going to a concert means I should expect to endure the jackass behavior of a bunch of rude, drunk, poorly behaved miscreants. Why is it considered the norm these days to experience physical and verbal abuse, a shower of questionable fluids, and fratty obnoxiousness at every concert you attend? What happened to people enjoying the music without actively trying to ruin the experiences of every other concertgoer? Is it really so difficult to respect other people's space, even in a crowded venue? Dozens of people around us seemed to manage just fine. In fact, if it weren't for the few cool people who just wanted to hear the music without accosting anyone else, I would have considered leaving.

And now for a few dedications:

To the guy in the red shirt who shoved his way to the front of the stage between sets: No, I don't want you to buy me a drink. Neither does your slutty girlfriend. Oh, and thanks for inviting the neverending chorus line of faux-lesbian tranny hookers to the party. They added so much to my concertgoing experience. You're truly a class act, sir.

To the guy at the end of the night: stumbling drunkenly into me as you lurch away from the bar is not an open invitation to further physical contact. Specifically, you don't have license to grab my crotch. Consider yourself lucky not to have a footprint in yours.

To the two middle-aged whores whose pitiful attempt to shove their way past us was thwarted by the 5 cool people at the concert: you are actually going to try to justify your shitty behavior? Seriously? Because you paid for a ticket, too? Well, clearly the hundreds of people behind you got in for free, right? You want to stand up front? GET HERE EARLIER. That's the way it works. Oh, and I'm pretty sure one of you is a man.

To the guy who's way too old to pull off the ironic hipster Buddy Holly glasses: stop it with the creepy grin. It does not make you look charming or interesting. It makes you look deranged, and like you have a secret dungeon in your house to which you lure unsuspecting victims.

To the SMU fucktards who predictably lost their shit when "Stairway to Heaven" started: I see you're toasting to the onset of puberty with your very first beers! How very exciting for you. I'm sad for every desperate, self-loathing girl who lowers her expectations enough to sleep with you.

And finally, to Zoso: you deserved better than the Future Frat Boys of America and Trannies on Parade. You were brilliant. If I ever get a chance to see you again, I'm there. With mace.