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The Misfits -- Writer's Poke #198

A few years ago, Megadeth was playing at the Aragon Ballroom in Chicago, and I asked Patrick if he wanted to go. Somewhat to my surprise, he eagerly agreed. Truth be told, though, he probably would have gone anywhere or done anything that I might have suggested. At the time, he was living three hours away from anyone he knew outside of work, and so going to listen to Megadeth probably never sounded so sweet.

The night of the concert I drove up to his apartment, which was maybe 100 miles from the venue. Forgetting that inbound Chicago traffic might be rough on a Friday night, we found ourselves caught in bumper-to-bumper traffic. At one point, I resigned myself to the fact that we might miss the entire concert. But we finally arrived, only seventy-five minutes late.

The Misfits were the opening act, and we had missed their entire set. Handing our tickets to the checker at the door, all we saw were goths dressed in black from head to toe everywhere we looked. They were in the lobby, the hallways, on the stairs, and every other nook and cranny of the facility.

Patrick is a posterboy for Country Club Monthly, and while I've never been "preppy," never had I felt so out of place. Moving past the shadows, we entered the main autorium, and once Dave Mustaine and the boys hit the stage, all of the goths had disappeared. It seemed that we weren't the only ones to arrive late, as the goths were replaced with heavy metal faithful; not surprisingly, though, Patrick and I didn't blend in any better among the Megadeth fans who took the shadow's place.

When have you felt like a misfit? Did it bother you, or did you relish being different?

"Even among Misfits your misfits." -- Yukon Cornelius

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