Under the Klieg Lights

Last night the sky at Coney Island was lit up by lights from the Cyclone and those at Keyspan Park. The White Stripes played a fantastic show—Jack’s voice was intense and full. When the stadium lights occasionally came up, everyone was bathed in yellow/green jaundice tones and their lips looked purple. The crowd was all 20-somethings, and sometimes all 30-somethings—basically, everyone there was a version of someone I’ve seen before, including myself and the two people with me.

Port-O-Potties are nothing more than unflushable, third-world pits. Then again, we didn’t have to actually see each other pissing. So doors perhaps divide the first- from the third-world.

Outdoor concerts have always been strangely existential experiences for me. When a few stars eke out their light despite the city glare, thousands of people bopping around, some trying to be cool, dance right, sounds pumping from speakers, I wonder where I stand in it all.

Usually, when I get to that moment of thought, my body has stopped dancing and I am not aware any longer of the throngs of concertgoers shifting around me. Maybe it’s an existential experience because of, not in spite of, all the people and noise. Then a sense of elation usually oozes through me—the world, the world is an amazing experience—only to shift quickly to a sense of misery, of feeling lost and sad, probably because of, not in spite of, all the humanity and sound.

I look to my companions, see their eyes on the stage upfront, and I wonder if I am the only one who feels so much conflict in such a huge crowd.

Anyway, I was impressed that the beer bottles were made of plastic.