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Thursday, October 15, 2009


I didn't think I'd see or hear anything sadder this week than what I witnessed at a Lenny Kravitz concert on Monday night. As twelve-hundred sweaty people pushed and shoved each other so that they could record the show on their iPhones and Blackberries and be the very first of their friends to post it on Facebook, I noticed two women practically raping one of the event staff guys. They were dressed in their best groupie uniforms - tight jeans, heels, and tit- revealing tops - and they were molesting the Irving Plaza employee in an effort to get closer to the stage, get noticed by Lenny Kravitz and I guess have him fall in love with them, or whatever it is groupies think is gonna happen after they double-team rock stars. Rubbing up against the crowd control guy might have actually gotten them closer to the stage, or maybe even backstage, if these skanks were remotely attractive...and not fifty-years-old. I watched as the guy they were trying to bribe with their pre-geriatric sexual advances backed away as if to say, "I don't wanna fuck you two! Why would Helen Willis' son want to?" The anger I felt watching the two menopausal nymphos trying to manipulate some poor guy to get what they wanted, turned to pity as I watched them strike out with yet another of the venue's employees. But my anger quickly resurfaced as my view of the stage became obstructed by two giant Israeli dudes who insisted on treating those of us stuck behind them to a fifteen-minute air guitar duet, during which they serenaded and high-fived each other. I got so caught up in the utter gayness of it all that I thought about feeling up the event staff guy to get him to throw the two douches out.

After the concert, the image of the grandmas throwing themselves at some random stranger stuck with me and I couldn't imagine a more cringe inducing display of desperation and a cry for attention until I spoke to my friend last night. He told me about a girl he's been dating whose roommate blows every guy she goes out with from Jdate. I resisted the urge to ask for her screen name, as my friend explained to me why the woman with whom his new girlfriend shares an apartment constantly has her mouth full.

"She thinks it's the only way she can get guys to call after the first date. And if they don't call, they'll at least remember the blow job," he told me.

I wondered if the Geritol groupies began their careers by sucking off men they met from personal ads in the Penny Saver or from 1-900 chat lines, or whatever the 1980s equivalent of online dating was. And if so, would the Jdate Blow Job Girl inevitably wind up being rejected by a roadie at some concert she showed up to inappropriately dressed twenty-years from now?

I think the only ones in this story who had any meaningful kind of connection were the two Israelis. I'm sure when they blew each other after the concert it was true love.

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