As I stand amongst the throngs of people in my carefully chosen spot I close my eyes and take a moment to breathe in the greatness that will be this rock concert. As the stench of burnt out cigarettes and stale spilt beer entangle in my nostrils they mix with the unmistakable reek of fresh vomit from the guy in front of me. I look down to him from my perch and see he has curled himself into the fetal position, looking like a tiny helpless child, dressed in stained black jeans two sizes to tight. He slowly rocks himself back and forth trying to forget his pre-concert binge. His plain black t-shirt is no longer plain, it has become covered with small bits of his spaghetti dinner from earlier tonight, it's plain to see that he must have had garlic bread as well.
Slightly disgusted and queasy with that sight I look to my right to view a forty-something stoner. At first glance I think, what a wasted life, with his ten tone tye-dyed shirt, stitched hemp pants and open toed sandals. The topper to the entire look is the weaved bug infested mess of dreadlocks that he calls his hair, it ebbs down his back into menagerie of small red rubber bands and a rainbows worth of colored beads. Then I realize this dude has probably seen some great things; Phish, Kyuss, Led Zeppelin, Blue Oyster Cult, Queens of The Stone Age, Clutch, Monster Magnet, maybe even The Grateful Dead prior to the passing of Jerry Garcia! I forget my earlier misconceptions and start to daydream of that type of life; living from day to day, not worried about what must be done, only worried about what you want to do. I could travel from town to town following my favorite band in a rusty old dust covered Volkswagen bus. I could live off the land, surviving on only what Mother Nature and the goodwill of strangers provided. Then again, no, I would miss my shiny new Ipod, my top of the line cellphone, and I would especially miss the clean low rumble of my car as I travel down the road. I must get my...
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