I Hate Drunk Moms At Concerts

Dear Drunk Mom Who Was In Front Of Me At The Dirty Beaches Concert Last Night,

When I saw you sloppily push your way to the front of the stage and eventually stand in front of me, I knew that my concert experience was going to take a turn for the worse. Let’s be honest with ourselves: Wasted mothers are public enemy #1 at concerts. They typically travel in packs with other mothers (GIRLS NIGHT. I GAVE THE KIDS AMBIEN!) and if it’s not a Norah Jones or Susan Boyle show, you can almost guarantee they are the proud parent of someone who’s in the band. Six beers + emotional Mom pride = I’m going to want to kill myself after three songs.

The signs were all there — you were wearing an ill-fitting top that was presumably purchased in the “What’s My Age Again?” section at a department store and had droopy eyes that could only be a result of consuming a copious amount of beer or just having bad eyesight. Now look, I get it. When you get older and have children, your opportunities to get hammered decrease by 1000 percent. That’s why concerts are an adult’s playground. They’re treated as if they’re a hardcore rave. They can listen to some good music, drink tons of booze, and make out with their spouses (with mad tongue) without feeling self-conscious about it. They’re in a safe space. But last night, you crossed the line, Drunk Mom! While your clumsy dance moves initially brought me joy, your body began to violently seizure and bump into mine repeatedly. In your wasted haze, you also mistook my feet to be a part of the dance floor so you had no problem stomping up and down on them.

We weren’t at a metal show. We were watching Dirty Beaches — a Pitchfork buzz band that makes creepy, sexy, and tense music that kind of sounds like a mixture of Elvis Presley and Nick Cave — so I didn’t quite understand it when you would look back at me and give me an angry stare if I wasn’t dancing. Trust me when I say that you were dancing enough for the both of us. But don’t think I didn’t overhear what you said to your friend in the unfortunate zebra pants. You said:

Drunk Mom # 1: This is BS. Why is no one dancing?! Hello!
Drunk Mom # 2: Seriously, seriously, seriously. Have fun just standing there, jeez!
Drunk Mom # 1: People are just too cool to have fun these days. Isn’t that right, Deb?
Drunk Mom # 2: We’ll show them!

Showing us kids the true meaning of cool entailed moving your hands wildly about and accidentally spilling your beer on me. Suddenly, I began to feel threatened. Instead of the usual punk kids who try to start a mosh pit, you established yourself as the bully of the concert. Every five minutes, you would look back and shoot me another death stare before spastically jerking your body back and forth during a song that was intended to be a ballad. Beads of sweat began to drip down my forehead. I was scared, real scared. That Dooney & Burke clutch you were holding might as well have been a switchblade!

Between songs, you would heckle the sexy lead singer and scream, “You are hot! Woooooo!” I sincerely hope then that you just happened to be a mom with very hip music tastes and not the actual mother of a band member in Dirty Beaches. Because that would be creepy.

You encounter a lot of annoying people at concerts — the couple having dry sex in the middle of the room, the person who is trying to turn the show into Woodstock ’99, or the rude stoner who won’t share any of his weed — but I would say that you’re the worst, Drunk Mom, because you scare me. Stick to your Andrea Bocelli shows at the Hollywood Bowl and I’ll stick to the DIY venues in Brooklyn with two dollar beers, k?

Love,
Someone Who Will Never Be A Drunk Mom Thought Catalog Logo Mark

Ryan O'Connell

I'm a brat.

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