Asphyxiating on glitter: the tale of a parent dragged to a Ke$ha concert

I was in high school when the obnoxious and ubiquitous "TiK ToK" invaded the ear canal of everyone with... well, ears with canals. "This is garbage," I thought. "I am above such nonsense. As a 17-year-old, educated male, I do not endorse such silly music." My first impression was only reinforced the more it was heard. It was instantly antiquicated by silly white girl rap slang and bratty vocals and--for God's sake--she has a dollar sign in her name!

It got to the point to where I would listen to "TiK ToK" for the sole purpose of making fun of it. (This same phenomenon presented itself with Lady Gaga's "Poker Face", as well.) This was not a good course of action, my friends. I began listening to it more and more, in a decreasingly ironic fashion. After weeks and weeks of this masochism, my guard came crumbling down and my mind was opened by this sleazy girl from L.A.

I love you, Ke$ha

My adoration grew exponentially upon the release of "Your Love is My Drug" and "We R Who We R"--two songs that I will unabashedly belt out at any time if you're not careful. I was enamored; so much so that I began talking myself into buying concert tickets to see her in Columbus. Then I saw that she tweeted this:

@keshasuxx: I wish I could give every single one of u a tiny truck stop figurine of a dragon.

"Welp, that's it. Ke$ha owns. I'm buying tickets."

Stockings ripped all up the sides, too

This was my very first concert, and was it was glorious. There was glitter and lights and dinosaurs and American flags and for some reason there was a guy in a Santa Claus costume who sang at the very end. I don't even know what the heck. It was both exactly what I expected and about a hundred times better.

I wore tights and neon blue short shorts, because if you're going to go to a Ke$ha concert, you have to go all out. Right? But not everyone did. Not surprisingly, I was the self-proclaimed "Best Dressed Male" there, and looked down upon anyone who apparently couldn't even be bothered to put on a little eye-liner--except for the parents.

Lots of parents were dragged to this thing. Like, LOTS. A good 10% of the audience were moms on their BlackBerries, chaperoning their pre-adolescent daughters. I don't think they wanted to be there very much. They're the real stars of the show here. They're the ones who drove hours and hours to watch a girl half their age get paid in solid gold to push a few buttons on a keyboard and sing. They're the ones who, for the love of their child, are listening to a song about literally eating a person alive.

["Cannibal" is an amazing song, but Ke$ha seems like the type of person who would have legitimately tried human liver, which makes it a bit unsettling. It doesn't help that she has tweeted a request for her fans' teeth, with which she would use to make a necklace: "So. What I'm getting at is please send me your teeth. I'm dead serious. I need your teeth."]

Ke$ha: NOT a cannibal

I imagine this is how that beautiful July day went for one of those loving mothers:

[9:30 AM] Dear God, that stupid Keisha concert is today.

[9:32 AM] Hey, honey, time to wake up. Do you... still want to go to the concert tonight? Mommy doesn't feel very good a-... okay, no that's fine. We're going. I was just making sure you still wanted to. It *is* a long drive, though, and I know you don't like long drives--no, no, we're going!

[9:40 AM] Mark? Can you take Brittany to the Keisha concert tonight? No, it's just I really don't want to go. I *know* I said I would, but-... ugh, okay, okay.

[10:02 AM] So, what do you want to do at the state fair? No, the fair is *before* the concert. No, we won't miss Keisha, I promise! Brittany. Listen. We are going to both. They have chickens and pigs and lots of games and stuff. You like petting zoos, right? What do you mean they're too dirty? Have you even SEEN this girl who's gonna be singing?

[10:58 AM] Sweety, I know you want make-up, but how about we put it on you when we get to the fair? If you don't wait, it might rub off.

[11:09 AM] Hold still. No, stop. Hold still. I'm almost done.

[11:11 AM] There we go. You look... well, you look like you just crawled out of a glittery trash bag, but that's what we were going for, right?

[11:42 AM] No, we are not going in McDonald's! Not with you looking like that! I'll go through the drive-thru, okay? You want a Happy Meal?

[12:01 PM] No, I'd rather not listen to Keisha on the way there, sweetie. Why? Well, because... it's like waiting until you're older to start dating--it's better that way. Please don't cry.

[12:58 PM] Look, sweetie! Only 166 more miles til we get there. Are you excited yet? Uh, yea, I'm excited, too, I guess.

[3:03 PM] Brittany, wake up. Could you do Mommy a favor and tell her which exit to get off on? Just hit the "next" button. Thank you.

[3:28 PM] Look! We're here! Yaaaaay. Now let's go see some pigs! Want a deep-fried Oreo? Me, too!

[3:50 PM] This is the biggest pig I have ever seen. Oh, Brittany! Be careful around those--Oh my gosh! BRITTANY!

[4:12 PM] Hey, Mark. Yea, we got here a little while ago. Well, um, I'm calling because Brittany was just kicked by a goat. No, no, no, she's fine. EMTs came and checked her out and I think she just had the wind knocked out of her. Well, she said that some glitter got in her eye and she tripped onto it or something. No, I'm serious.

[4:42 PM] Brit, you can't seriously be wanting me to put more make-up on you. No, I'm not gonna do it. No.

[4:53 PM] Hold still. No, stop. Hold still. I'm almost done.

[5:21 PM] Mommy's going to get another Oreo and then we'll go get our seats, okay? Wait, Brittany, turn around, is that a donut burger? It is, isn't it?

[5:23 PM] Sooo good.

[5:32 PM] Let's see... Section L... 22 and 23... here we go!

[6:07 PM] Wait, this starts at seven? Brit, come with me. I'm getting something else to eat.

[7:04 PM] Look, Brittany, it's Keisha! Ooh, you're right. This is a warm-up band, then? And that's a boy? Not Keisha? A boy?

[7:05 PM] Kill me.

[7:06 PM] Brit, did you see if they sold Mommy-Drinks in the concession stand? They did? Okay, come with me.

[7:11 PM] That's better. Brit, did you want to get a t-shirt or something while we're up?

[7:12 PM] Thirty-five dollars for a shirt. Thirty. Five. Dollars. THIRTY-FIVE DOLLARS.

[7:14 PM] Twenty, thirty, thirty-five. There ya go. Thank you. Well, Brittany, you got your first concert t-shirt. It's pretty, huh? I like how Keisha looks just like The Joker. That's cool.

[8:02 PM] So, that's definitely her, right? It is? Whoa, wait, I've been calling her the wrong name this whole time? And she has a dollar sign in her name? You've got to be kidding me.

[8:07 PM] Okay, that was kind of awesome.

[8:20 PM] You having fun yet, Brittany? Yea, me, too.

[8:44 PM] Did I hear that right? Is she singing about cannibalism? Is she--... IS SHE EATING A HUMAN HEART. This is amazing...

[9:04 PM] Ooh! I know this song! "I wake up every morning feeling like Puff Diddy--grab my glasses, I'm out the door, I'm gonna go to the city."

[9:10 PM] Kesha! Kesha! Kesha! Kesha!

[9:12 PM] It's so good to see young, influential artists professing their faith by wearing Jesus necklaces.

[9:16 PM] Heh, look at this idiot beside of us. Wait, that's a boy, and not some weird lesbian? Hahaha! I gotta get a picture of this!

[9:17 PM] To: Mark Johnson
Subject: "guy at kesha concert LOL!"
Attachments:

How I gave a concert pianist the clap

 I like to think that I have a healthy appreciation for all kinds of music. From electronica to acoustic rock, from mushy love songs to angry hateful ones, from Broadway musicals to hardcore gangsta rap, my tastes are as varied as my similes are bad. I’ve even recently begun getting into the underground indie-folk-dubstep-skacapella scene. I can always find something to enjoy in every genre, so as long as it’s not country.

Still, my unabashed love for Ke$ha and Lady Gaga may throw my preferences in doubt for the more sophisticated music connoisseurs out there. To prove that I do not have an inclination to always listen to horrific pop music, I make it a point to always name-drop various bands that “you’ve probably never heard of,” that may or may not even exist.

That’s why when an Artist Series involves a musical act, I go out of my way to be in attendance. What better way to boost my rep than to mingle and discuss internationally-renowned artists in a snobby British accent? One such occasion came with the performance of pianist Jerome Rose this past week, which was attended by anyone who is anyone. (Oh, you didn’t go? Well, it’s probably because you’re lame. I’m actually glad you didn’t, in fact.)

It is common knowledge that for every Artist Series students are encouraged to dress up like little kids on Easter morning. Now, I have something to confess: I have a rather peculiar puttin’-on-the-ritz routine. First, I take a two-hour shower (or until I use up all of Trustees’s hot water, whichever comes first) and then slide down the hall in only my underwear, socks, and dress shirt, at least two of which have Spider-Man on them. The next step is to put on way too much cologne and pick out a tie that doesn’t match. Lastly, I blast “Sharp Dressed Man” and dance until covered in sweat. Repeat.

Once I finished the sacred ritual, I was off to listen to the musical stylings of Mr. Rose. Dressed in my favorite vest and a yellow tie with pigs on it, I was feeling suave as could be. And, though my seat was practically in the back of the sophomore section, it was a breath of fresh air compared to the cage in the balcony I’m normally constrained to for chapel. This time, I could at least make out what gender the performer was.

Before I had time to wonder exactly how they rolled in a second one-ton grand piano, the virtuoso launched into “Rhapsody No. 1” of Op. 79 by Brahms (my second favorite, only behind the Bohemian one). He performed the piece in B-minor, which I guess is all right if you’re into that kind of thing. After a few minutes of beautiful pianistmanship, he played the piece to a close with unparalleled skill. The final chord was punctuated with booming applause and much anticipation for what was to come.

Upon finishing the rhapsodies, Rose calmly bowed and strode offstage and through the doors, only to return mere moments later. I like to think that he was just pumping himself up for the five-part piece that would be coming next, or perhaps scolding himself for almost thinking about playing one of the measures forte instead of fortissimo. Either way, he returned to more applause and excited whispers.

The following sonata, composed of several very Italian-sounding words, was flawless. Rose once again ended the song in dramatic fashion, whipping his hands away from the last notes and letting the tones ring out for a moment. After a few seconds, I realized that there was no applause. “Yes, this is my chance,” I thought. “I can be the clap-starter, me!” A full three or four seconds passed again, and I brought my hands together with a loud, meaty slap. “I did it; this one is mine!” Encouraged by my victory, I clapped my hands together a few more times with vigor. Then I heard a cricket chirp and a tumbleweed rolled in front of me. I was the only one applauding. To make things worse, Rose subtly brought his hand up as if to say, “Please, do you not know how this works?” I sank into my seat faster than the Titanic.

From that moment onward, whenever a song came to its conclusion, I sat on my hands and gritted my teeth. No longer would I be tempted to be the first one to clap, and I definitely wasn’t going to start the standing ovation. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why you never, under any circumstances, celebrate.