Denim vests, face tattoos and fisticuffs

A concert conflict with “she-punk” and “face tattoo”

“Turn around. Turn around. JUST TURN AROUND THEN!” the drunken she-punk demanded. With one eyebrow raised, and my blood boiling to a critical level, somehow I managed to turn the other cheek.

What led to this standoff in the first place? A group of friends and I were at a show at the Vogue in Vancouver. For those who have never been, the Vogue has theatre seating.

Maybe by accident. A drunk guy in the row behind us spilled his whole drink down my friend Shelby’s back. We were engaged in a totally civil con­versation with the guy, and I was ada­mant on getting him to apologize for his clumsiness.

It was a reasonable expectation.

A spilled drink usually garners at least an apology, and in most cases, a drink from the person who spills. It’s just basic concert conduct, people.

About 10 minutes into our conver­sation, a little firecracker with short hair and dressed in all black and den­im, (a deadly combination) shows up. She injects herself into the con­versation, absolutely livid that we are talking to her dude. I am not one to back down from an argument, espe­cially if one of my friends is getting walked on. I calmly explained to her what happened and that he should apologize.

Instantly, she-punk kicked the situ­ation into high gear and started threat­ening me.

I turned around, looked her in the eyes and stared her up and down. Her torn denim vest covered in obscure band logos just screamed, “please be­lieve I’m tough.” It was then when I noticed that her man had a face tat­too. Yikes. That fact alone should have made me hit the eject button, but still, for some reason I just couldn’t let it go.

I refused to back down and the con­versation shifted from sharp, cutting statements to yelling. Shelby saw how agitated I was getting. The she-punk demanded that I turn around, and kept yelling it at me.

Shelby, wisely, whispered: “Kim, just… It’s not worth it. Just drop it.” I was so angry that I couldn’t see straight. I slowly took three deep breaths. Without a word, going against every instinct in my body, I forced myself to turn around and ignore the incessant barking of the she-punk.

Never have I had to work so hard to move. I had to fight against every mus­cle in my body in order to turn around.

For about 20 minutes following that pleasant exchange I sat with both hands clenched into tight fists, eyes locked on the shitty opening band. Staring straight ahead, my teeth grit­ted, I was bracing for impact. I was a loaded spring.

Then, she-punk and face-tattoo get into an argument. He was mad be­cause she embarrassed him, and was “always doing that shit.” In a rage, she-punk stormed off before the headlin­ers even stepped on stage.

Should I have expected a run-in with aggressive fans? Who was the band? Were they playing fast-paced metal, hardcore, thrash-metal, or in­dustrial?

No. We were reliving our pimply, awkward youth by watching the emo, alternative-rock band Brand New. Their music is centered around teen­age angst, young love, and getting drunk on Southern Comfort.

This was neither the time, nor the place, she-punk. What an inappro­priate show to try and throw fists at; for shame. In any case, I learned that however deeply it usually resides, I do have the fight response. Even in cases of denim vests, she-punks and face-tattoos.