Alex Camacho
Crosby, TX, United States
Born in Houston, Texas and raised all over living the life of an Army Brat. I Went to eight different schools (three elementary, one middle school, four high schools) and have one little brother who’s not so little anymore. I’ve been married for nearly fourteen years now to a woman who rocks my world and I've been blessed with two wonderful children. Our dog, Sally, is a big black lab saved from a local shelter.
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Thursday, December 1, 2005

Two Minutes Hate Gwar Style

Whadda night. Chris treated us last night to a Gwar concert. It was my first Gwar concert and I wasn't really expecting the sheer insanity that ensued. It was pretty incredible. The first few bands got the whole thing started and all seemed like a normal concert. The devil horns were pumping and there was much headbanging, body slamming and screaming. Then Gwar took the stage. The crowd surged like a living animal trying to breach the rails. My feet left the ground and my arms were stuck above my head. I had to fight my arms back down to give myself some room to expand my chest to breath. Then the crowd moved again in a massive wave after massive wave. Meanwhile Bush was getting eviscerated on stage and the blood was spouting out everywhere. Chaney came out at some point. I eventually found a good spot and learned that jumping up and down kept my toes cleared and allowed me to stay a head above most since we were squeezed so damn tight. I was burning up and decided to go up, fuck it. I finally got the message through to the guys around me and they all but threw up onto everyone. I had to fight to keep the t-shirt I bought but after that it was awesome. The crowd moved me from my far left front stage position all the way to the right. They carried me for almost two songs before they finally settled me down in the middle stage middle crowd. I wanted to go up again but I was pretty exhausted and the spot I landed in was getting drenched pretty often. I was mesmerized between watching the show and watching the crowd. Sharon Osbourne had her tits cut off while she spouted blood from her nipples. Meanwhile the crowd was lost and alive, locked into what I can only describe as a frenzy. Two Minutes Hate came immediately to mind, everyone lost in each other thrashing, screaming, calling for more blood. The crowd was a single entity and seemed on the verge of violence at any moment. It was a beautifully scary thing that George Orwell would have recognized. It was amazing how easy it was to slip into the crowd and get swallowed up by it. I lost it right along with the rest of them when Michael Jackson had his face ripped off after sword fighting with his obnoxiously large dick. What a blast. Holy shit.

I think I permanently stained my contacts though. When I got home to wash off the crowd sweat, the fake blood, and green spunk, I scrubbed my contacts and got most of it out. I'm hoping if I soak them for the day the rest will come out but I'm doubting it. I'm pretty exhausted but I feel refreshed. My head is still humming away in the background. I'll probably take a few ibuprofen before I head out to play poker tonight. I should eat some breakfast too...

The horrible thing about the Two Minutes Hate was not that one was obliged to act a part, but that it was impossible to avoid joining in. Within thirty seconds any pretense was always unnecessary. A hideous ecstasy of fear and vindictiveness, a desire to kill, to torture, to smash faces in with a sledge hammer, seemed to flow through the whole group of people like an electric current, turning one even against one's will into a grimacing, screaming lunatic. And yet the rage that one felt was an abstract, undirected emotion which could be switched from one object to another like the flame of a blowlamp. --1984, George Orwell

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