Chapter IV - My
father is insane
My dad has his
bright spots. Mainly bright spots, but he's also possessing the talent of bringing
you down, hard, whenever he can and mostly when you're uber-excited about
something.
Last night I went
to the Roger Waters concert, first one ever in Romania and definitely the most
grandiose thing I have ever seen in my entire life, as short as it is.
I graciously
called my dad and asked him if he can come pick me up from Universitate once the show ended. He
accepted, huffing and puffing, but he accepted none the less.
I started telling
him how obscenely big the whole thing was, how those people built a wall during
the concert and how it came crumbling down at the end. How the puppets, huge,
as huge as the stage, were so life like and how impressed I was, how I cried
during a guitar solo, how the guitarist made his guitar sob and yell, like it
was in pain, like it was crying for every living soul that was ever hurt by
hatred and racism and all the crap that's going on, on this God forsaken planet
of ours.
How every minute
of that show meant something to all of us. A moment of freedom, a moment of awe,
a lifetime of misunderstanding taken away by a single note because everybody in
that place was on the same wavelength as you and you realized you're not alone,
you're not a freak for not wanting to fall in line.
I started
explaining all that with so much passion, with so much consideration for the
people who worked at that whole damn show and all my dad could say was:
„American idiocracy.”
My whole feeling
of belonging, of feeling complete and contempt for the first time in my life
came crashing down, just like that wall at the end of the show. I've built a an
imposing, magnificent edifice during the show and after my father's words
everything that was left of it, was a pile of cracked bricks and red dust.
Parents, man,
parents!
