between a rock and a rrrrock, part dux

Living in urban environments compels a soul to develop all kinds of trust. For example, tonight at the Get Up Kids show I was standing beneath a ten-foot-wide disco ball, drinking something with vodka in it (something watery and tasty all at the same time), listening to music I trust won't destroy my capacity to hear in, say, ten or fifteen years (because face it people, when we hit forty listening seems to become less of a priority anyway), I somehow trust that the drunk gal dancing karaoke-video-style for her boyfriend will eventually figure out he's gay, and on the way home making eye contact with a dude on the train with a two foot long beard and a clean shaven wallstreeter who I must trust aren't a bearded psycho-killer or an american psycho respectively. Et cetera, etc. Not to say I wasn't this trusting in the heartland, but then, the likelihood that I knew the dude who hoisted that two-ton, sparkling marvel and winched it with a boy scout makeout worthy knot seemed very high indeed in the happy hamlet of Btown. And the dude with two foot long beard in Btown had renamed himself Forrest or Woods Full Of Trees, or something. But here, I feel literally compelled to trust, as if trusting in the place will make it light up or spin or throw quarters at me. So today, children, the lesson is: trust and be stupid/fun/boring/murdered/sane...trust and be, I guess. And when that business spinning above you comes crashing down, at least you won't be one of the losers crushed beneath it because they got misty and distracted, holding their cell phones stageward to funnel music to someone beloved or hated in the great elsewhere.