Open Letter To The Doofus at the New Pornographers Concert

I generally take a dim view of large outdoor concerts, and last night's New Pornographers show in Central Park did nothing to improve my opinion these events. I don't like sunlight, noise, or plastic cups, okay? Also, chain smoking tobacco (!) is de rigueur at rock concerts in Central Park. Now, I've been known to savor the occasional cigarette--but I don't hotbox.

So, Mr. Doofus, I admit, I wasn't my usual tolerant, body-positive self by the time you started your little floor show. Who am I to tell you that it's foolish to wear two layers of synthetic, non-breathable clothing to a packed concert during a heat wave? What business of mine if you favor unflattering plaids discarded by more discriminating hipsters? Do I care whether you shave, shower, or use an efficacious antiperspirant? Is it my place to advise you on depilation? Ordinarily, not, Mr. Doofus.

However, I feel obliged to stress one critical point of concert etiquette: Flapping your shirt rhythmically is NOT dancing. We all have body image issues, and I understand that you may have been reluctant to doff your sweat-drenched shirt in front of several thousand buff New Yorkers. That said, having made that choice, stoicism was your only recourse. You could have been hardcore. Who knows? Your sweat-drenched visage might even have added a little extra realism someone's concert photos.

Your attempt to dry your shirt by popping a few buttons, pinching your breast pocket, and pumping your shirt like a bellows was ill-considered at best. Granted, you kept pretty good time and made some interesting rhythmic choices in your attempt to synchronize ventilation and gyration, but you also induced syncopated retching in your fellow music lovers.

If you're not going to strip, at least learn how to dance.

Signed,

Queasy in Manhattan