we were like kids
in the back of the class
thinking no one saw us
i was shaking my abs.
every beat in the music
set my hips in motion
i just couldn't stop
where the funk was flowin'
section EE, row 20
is where i got my start
moving and grooving
to the rhythm in the dark.
at first i felt lerpy,
but by song 3
I'd forgotten there was anyone
but coldplay and me
i knew that if i somehow
were standing next to chris
he'd yell to the crowd
"you all should dance like this!
girl, girl, you got it going on
i like the way you move it
when you listen to my songs.
you're smoking what i'm rolling
in my expressionistic joint.
now i'm gonna autograph your face
with my ballpoint."
epic.
hands down best night of my life. except for the fact that i was sick. but somehow i forgot that fact once the music started. maybe the blaring reverberations of the bass somehow knocked all the snot out of my head. or maybe it just made the mucus vibrate pleasantly enough that my sinuses were getting a little massage. anyway, here are my favorite parts of the evening, in no particular order:
meg's outfit. sweet pork in my caferio. driving past chuckarama. the metro husbands on the trax with matching pea coats and brown shoes. hunter. watching meg get embarrassed. the overweight man wearing a purple v-neck shirt with chest hair whom i tried to videotape discreetly. the lady whose hair looked like a haystack who told me not to slide down the banisters. accidentally waiting in line for beer. twenty-five cents a spoonful dippin dots. choosing to sit farther back so we could dance. the disturbing multimedia presentation of the keyboardist who obviously had been tripping on acid as shown by his depictions of tongues swallowing people in bed and zooming in repeatedly on a little girl's cornea. forgetting about p-town. forgetting about everything bad in life. my heart pounding when i realized only air would separate me and chris martin. anticipation. screaming. euphoria. utter forgetfulness of everything except for music. watching meg's body move like a cyclone. fix you fixing me. the two and a half minutes where my dancing might actually have been good enough for an indie dance party. knowing every song but one. lost? lost! lost? lost! lost? lost! lost? watching the old couple in front of us looking uncomfortable about our dancing, but trying to head bob a bit to look cool. sweating profusely. not caring. texting hilarity. hitting up wendy's. jamming to t.i. and rihanna in the parking lot. and my favorite, precious little narfbag.
here's a gazillion pictures.
