We always talk about how we want our children to surpass us: if we have a high school diploma, then we want them to go to college. If we have a college degree, then we want them to get their doctorate. And if we get our doctorate—well, then we probably want them to quit wasting their time in academia and learn something really useful, like plumbing. But the point is, we always want them to do us one better, no matter how well (or poorly) we may have done in the first place.
At least, that’s the theory.
The truth is, we only want them to do better than us after we’ve already stopped trying: sure, we want them to beat our highest score, but not not while we’re still playing the game. Think about it: would Michael Jordan appreciate being dunked on by his own son while he was still playing for the Bulls? Would J.S Bach be happy to have J.C. Bach sell more CDs than him while he was still composing? By the same token, would I be happy to have Clementine outlast me in a mosh pit while I was still within moshing age? The answer to all of these questions, is, of course, a resounding no.
And yet, that’s exactly what happened. Just a few weeks ago, Clementine was able to hang all night in the mosh pit at a Green Day show in London, while I . . . well . . .I had to be carried out. What? You couldn’t read that? Well, I don’t know, the cost of ink and all, and there is a recession, and, um, well . . . Okay. Fine. I had to be carried out. I HAD TO BE CARRIED OUT. There, are you happy? It’s true: when the mosh pit went crazy, I bailed. And since I was too close to the front to move back, that meant I had to beg for help from the burly stewards in front of the stage, who dragged me over the railing and out of harm’s way. To add insult to injury, as I went I swore I could hear someone shout, “There’s somebody’s mum!” And the sad part is, they were right.
And so I went and stood in the back, with the other mums and dads, where there was room to move, and breathe, and drink, and dance, and waited for Clementine to come find me. When she did, nearly three hours later, she was completely squashed, and sweaty, and happy.
“That was the BEST SHOW EVER,” she gushed. “Billie Joe LOOKED at me. Where were you?”
“Here,” I mumbled. “In the back. With the mums.”
“Oh,” she said. “Why?”
And what could I say? That when the bodies started to pile on me all I could think of was Altamont, and then the 1979 Who concert in Cincinnati, and then every concert everywhere where something had gone wrong? That I could imagine all too easily a booted foot coming down and breaking my ankle, and what a financial nightmare being injured in a foreign country would be? That neither I nor my bra had the oomph to pogo up and down for the next three hours? Or, worst of all, that mentally I had left the mosh pit a few years back?
In the end, I didn’t say any of that. I muttered something about “the douchebag behind me” (which there was—I have the bruises to prove it), and she let it go at that. But really, the reason Clementine danced all night underneath Billie Joe’s nose, and I sat back with the mums, is because, much as I hate to admit it, when it comes to moshing at least, this Queen is dead.
Long live the new Queen.