Bad Blood

I miss the X-Files in its glory days. I've already expunged my frustration with the most recent addition to Chris Carter's franchise enough so I won't worry anyone's patience with a review...

I feel like a huge firecracker who instead of igniting the instant my twisting fuse reaches me, I pause, contemplating whether or not to accept the flame only to pause too long and instead of exploding into a million glittering pieces, fall over on my side and groan a pathetic "Pfffssssssss" before being doused with cold water to prevent any further combustion. I've been told, by more than one person, that I am the epitome of contentment. I realizing now that if there is not some seed of malaise bubbling under my breast there is no hope for change, trivial or otherwise. I only moved to Dallas after a year of "contentment" in Abilene. I still wait tables, I job I don't really despise, but just happen to do. I don't need someone to light a fire under my ass. I need a scorching apocalyptic bonfire.

I'll believe in anything, and you'll believe in anything.

The hazy byproduct of Parliament Lights and hash burned my eyes as the blue and red lights spiraled towards the audience. Next to me, a ratty haired girl flayed fervently as though this was a Baptist tent revival. Her limp arms writhed above her head like tentacles. The cigarette precariously clasped between her fingers swished in figure eights next to the flammable heads of her neighbors. When her bouncing head lost the rhythm she turned to her partner and with her hands on his shoulders slowly steadied herself before bursting out on her own again. I stood inconspicuously in the dense crowd of fillets and distressed tees and tried to look melancholy enough to fit in. This, I thought to myself, is what I missed out on growing up in small towns, unable to go to concerts. The gaping chasm in my youth was caused by the unavailability of ANY venues for me to frequent other than Beltway Baptist that hosted Christ-centered musicians. Let me put this into perspective for you.

It's a balmy Sunday evening in 1993, and my mother is fighting with my sister and me because we want to wear shorts, not jeans. Mom says it would be simply too immodest to show mine nine year-old knees in the church, even if it's not Sunday morning. I say it's hot outside and the preacher's daughter gets to wear shorts. Mom rolls her eyes, a sure indicator that has lost patience in pretending I had any say in the matter to begin with. An hour later I am sitting on a pew in Seventh and Beech Church of Christ surrounded by scabby kneecaps. The auditorium has been rearranged since this morning. The preacher's podium and communion table are pushed against the wall and the plastic greenery that usually adorns the baptismal tank is missing. In their place are microphones with coils of black wire snaked unused on the floor. The youth pastor says a few words of introduction not bothering with a microphone since the pews are only 25 deep. Accapella then rises from the front pew and begins my first concert. Not even the rousing rendition of "Roll That Stone Away" moves the sober church members to clap. The display of such emotion in this Church of Christ would be met with only disapproval and at the time I was no trend setter.

So that was it: no dimmed lightbeams highlighted by an overactive fog machine, no eardrum piercing shrieks of joy from the girl I didn't know was right behind me, no hyperactive fan trying singlehandedly to start a clapping rhythm, and no sore calves from standing on my toes to see over the multitude of tall people gathered in front of me. I'm slowly adjusting my new concert ventures.