The Pied Piper of Hutzovina

I'm still freakin' obsessed with Gogol Bordello. Particularly Eugene Hutz. Here's the trailer for The Pied Piper of Hutzovina, a documentary following Hutz on a journey to rediscover his gypsy roots.



There's nothing more electrifying that seeing Gogol Bordello live. I'm already planning for their upcoming shows in D.C. Yep. Plural. They're playing two nights in a row at the 9:30 Club, and I just might have to attend both. Well... if I survive the first show.

The last time I went to a Gogol Bordello concert... it was June, and I absentmindedly wore my Chacos to the show. My feet were numb within minutes, and it wasn't until I hit the ladies room afterwards that I realized I had lost a few toenails. Or rather, "several of my toenails were brutally ripped off from getting stomped on by frenzied fans."

I've never really thought of myself as being "delicate," but HOLY HELL! I guess I needed to be smashed in a sea of rabid gypsy punk fans to truly understand just how delicate I really was. Did it occur to me to take any friends along? Nah. "This will be an adventure!"

So it was me against a hundreds of testosterone-fueled Y-chromosomes.

Being slammed up against hundreds of strangers was kinda weird. I had no choice but to move as the crowd moved, jump as the crowd jumped. Within 30 minutes, my clothes were soaked with the sweat of at least 20 different people. And I didn't need to worry about passing out and getting trampled on - we were so smashed in together that it would have been impossible to actually fall to the ground.

Eventually everyone was throwing elbows trying to preserve their personal space. There was one ass in particular who kept digging his elbow into my chest. Do you not notice this uniquely mushy padding that your appendage is ramming into??? GET YOUR GODDAMN ELBOW OUTTA MY TIT! I either punched him or jabbed a very angry fingernail into his arm. I don’t remember.

I didn't realize until the next day just how many muscles I had been using trying to protect myself. I could barely walk. When my alarm clock went off, I nearly fell on my face trying to engage what was left of my muscles. And my mood... holy crap, I was a completely different person! My aura had been infected by the toxic sludge of male aggression. I was one angry BITCH. It took me several days to re-socialize myself.

Do I want to do it all over again? HELL YEAH.

Sooo... my GB survival kit will include no less than: one titanium sports bra, one pair of steel-toed boots, one bottle of Advil, one set of dry clothes, and at least one linebacker to help buffer me from the stupid "moshers."

I should start drafting my Craigslist ad now.

Wanted: One kind-hearted beefcake to stand next to me for 4 hours. Dinner, drinks, and cover charge provided.

Mishto!