The Groupie Bra-Fling Was So Wrong, In So Many Ways.

I chose an unwearable, a black lacy number from my current "collection." That's kind of sexy, right? That I'd worn it? And that I am now too fat to wear it? (You know you've gained weight when...(you gain a cup size)?) And that I am groupie-gifting an item that is useless to me and taking up space? All really hot groupie behavior, n'est ce pas?

The tag was frayed. It was a worn bra. See above. (But only the tag showed signs of wear.)

I wrote my phone number on the frayed tag with a Sharpie.

There was no room on the frayed tag for any information besides my phone number. No "to Vince," no "for a good time call." No "umm, yeah, so, this is Dodge."

The band was punctual. They were the first band of the day to play, at 1:30 pm, on the small stage. We arrived 1:33-ish and they were already playing. It was the middle of a heat wave and the sun was baking. It was yet another odd set of circumstances under which to see my favorite band: Wake n' Roll, on the beach. The early start time and the hour commute to Coney Island meant that all I had time for before departing my home to Rock Out was shower, dress, caffeinate, meet Rev and hop on the subway.

It kind of goes without saying that Priestess "brought it." Hirsute and black-clad, they sweat through their jeans as I worried whether they were properly hydrated in the intense heat. Their passion was not diminished by Coney Island's X-treme weather conditions. Vince was sitting at an angle that allowed some kind of air blower to pouf his voluminous locks into a constantly swirling halo around him at all times, giving his extended drum solo under the blistering sun an extra-hallucinatory effect.

Well, I "brought it" too, and I flung it as well. When they had played nearly all the hits, I got a pang in my stomach, thinking about the bra stuffed in my bag (another faux pas: I think any underwear you throw at a band is supposed to be ripped off your body in the frenzy of the moment, not judiciously plucked in advance from the "will I ever wear this again?" drawer) and the mission that still lay before me.

Which involved tapping the dude in front of me on the shoulder, and yelling "Excuse me, I have to throw my bra at them now" toward the vicinity of his ear. He politely shuffled to the left and I pressed myself against the barricade.

It was a far and high fling I was required to execute. The band was high up on this sheltered stage, and the barricade kept the thin but loyal crowd from getting closer than 30 or so feet away.

It was so hot, and I wasn't properly warmed up. I think I pulled a muscle in my side. The bra sailed into the barricaded-off area in front of the stage, where some guy batted it just as it was about to hit the ground, to give it the extra push it needed to make it to the stage. Where it sat, for the remainder of the show.

I had a nice time eating and drinking and going on the Tilt-a-Whirl with friends after, wondering, but at the same time actually understanding perfectly, why my phone did not light up that afternoon with a call from a member of Priestess.


The guy in the headband is the one I had to tell to shove over.