The Orbit Room in Orbit

The mosh pit of the Orbit Room was cramp and smokey. I was being smashed into the punked-out lesbian in front of me, while being (purposefully) kicked in the legs by some high school brat behind me. I found the opening band to be fascinating, if only in their vanity.

The dudes were younger than myself with a mark propensity for head-banging. I'm not sure what the head-banging accomplished, other than delightfully tossing about their lusciously conditioned locks and making their head look like a pompoms.

The lead singer was a red-head who adored his body. In a ceremonial act, he peeled off his jacket and revealed a naked torso, before turning around and shaking his ass at the audience. The stage was electrically charged with adolescent male hormones, emitting statically from the tossing hair to the shrieking teenage girls around me.

I was not particularly moved to join the adoration, but I did raise an eyebrow. I felt as if I could read the red-head's mental mantra. It went something like this: "I'm so awesome. I'm so awesome. I play guitar and I sing and I'm so awesome. All these girls want me--look at my chest! It's showing--see? And I'm sweating. I'm so awesome."

As he prepared to dive into the sea of raised hands, I momentarily saw through his mask of testosterone and bravado and saw a scared little boy. I pitied him and hoped his mother would swaddle him after the show.