Fall Out Boy's Evening Out With My Dignity (How Pete Wentz Ruined My LIfe): Part 1

In 2004, I was your typical too legit to quit scene kid. I worked (barely) for the sole purpose of having enough money to go to shows and blow the rest on ugly merch. I went to school (kind of), as long as it didn't interfere with my concert schedule (that meant no night classes. Ever). The bookmarks on my internet browser were neatly organized to give me the quickest access to the show schedule of every city within a 300 mile radius of me. There was hardly a band in the scene you could name that I didn't already know about.

Basically, I was a pretentious asshole.

While many people think of Southern California and the New York/Jersey area as the primary breeding grounds for the pop-punk genre that exploded during that time, bands like Allister and Spitalfield made people take a closer look at what the midwest had to offer. In the midst of this chaos was a promising young band Fall Out Boy, infamously named after a fan-suggested blatant Simpsons reference.

Between their clever song titles and pop sensibility, it was as though the band formed together for the sole purpose of luring me into loving them unconditionally. Despite the (or maybe because of) the muttonchops and blatant Taking Back Sunday references, I was completely hooked on Take This To Your Grave. At the time, the industry seemed to start crumbling under shaky times. Bands that started the "scene" began to break up, and new bands that didn't quite get it began to replace them. But TTTYG became a comfort. It may not be the greatest album, or the most original album, but the twelve angsty tracks became a landmark of the state of the "scene." And amongst my own confusion and appreciation, I desperately wanted to hear these songs live.

While Fall Out Boy tended to tour with bands I frequently supported, for one reason or another, I could never seem to work my schedule out to catch them on the road. However, this changed with the "Believers Never Die" tour. It was going all across California, and most importantly, it was hitting a venue near and dear to me: Jerry's Pizza.

Jerry's is a dive in Bakersfield, CA that really is a pizza parlor in downtown Bakersfield that happens to host indie shows in its basement. The staff and promoters have never known for punctuality, or professionalism, or anything resembling a legitimate concert venue establishment, but that has always been part of its charm. It tends to violate numerous health and fire codes, but no one cares because it delivers in immeasurable other ways.

Once you head down the stairs of the restaurant and pub, it is nothing but an unventilated dungeon surrounded by brick walls. The "stage" is one step high, at the north end of the basement, partially tucked in the main stairwell. The state of the art lighting system typically consists of a single flickering light bulb over the center of the stage. There are no barricades protecting the band and its equipment from the sea of sweaty, angry Bakersfield heathens. The sound mixer typically dwelled in the back corner of the stage, under the stairs. He rarely did his job correctly and often lit cigarettes and exhaled the smoke into the crowd. Again, this was not an establishment that particularly cared about violating fire codes. You either dealt with it, or you went upstairs and got drunk.




During the scene heydays, it was the go-to spot for bands on the way to legitimacy, and a come-back place to say thanks for believing in them when they were nobodies. As I walked to the corner of 18th and Chester on the day of the show and saw the sidewalk overflowing with a sea of underage kids in brightly colored band shirts, it was clear that Fall Out Boy was coming home.

As people began racing down the stairs, a definitive mob was forming. On typical nights, people would mill around in various areas, often ignoring the opening bands, until they slowly began migrating toward the stage and resembling a real crowd as it became closer to the headliner starting. On this night, however, the show was so overbooked it was impossible to stagger around. Everyone had to shove forward to accommodate the lines of people that would continue to flow down the stairs. I typically stood at the left side of the stage, an angle that gave me maximum vantage point without compromising breathing room or comfort. However, as I pushed toward the front I was disappointed to see some girls from out of town took my spot, so I shuffled around the first few rows, searching for a small crevice I could huddle into.

To my dismay, this ended up being the front and center. I was not up to the task of holding back this manic crowd from crumbling onto the stage, but due to my short stature, if I wasn't in the front row there wasn't a doubt in my mind that I would be unable to get any oxygen and would be ultimately trampled over. Conversely, since the stage was only a couple inches tall, if I stayed in the back, I'd be unable to see anything. If that were the case, I might as well have stayed home and listened to my CDs in my underwear like I usually did.

I've handled crazy crowds before. I told myself I'd be okay.

Since it was the biggest night Jerry's had in awhile, they took advantage of this opportunity and booked a few local bands on top of the tour's already full line up. The crowd began to get restless and angry as horrible band after band took the stage. By time the main support, Armor For Sleep, finally started, droves of excited fans who were waiting for the real action to start began rushing toward the front. I was getting used to the apathetic response from the other acts, so I was taken by surprise when I felt my knees buckling from the pressure. I instantly had to go into "I don't want to die tonight" mode and push the crowd back with every ounce of strength I had. Those of us in the front row often flew onto the stage, knocking over mic stands and band members in the process. I eventually planted my feet firmly on the ground, grasping onto my thighs to keep from falling over. I spent the rest of the set staring at the ground. I counted the number of checkers on my shoes a lot.

On top of everything else going on that night, it was the end of July, and like most Bakersfield summers, it was a hot one. The weather was consistently in the triple digits, and this night was no exception. Steam began to rise from the crowd as the sweat began pouring down our faces and soaking our clothes into transparency. As we were crammed between brick walls, there was absolutely not ventilation and the air quickly became stale. The small amount of air that traveled from upstairs was hot, which further propagated a dewy steam that hovered over us as we waited for Fall Out Boy to start.

I contemplated leaving the front numerous times, but every time I would turn around to try to locate a pathway I could squeeze out of, I realized that I was deadlocked from layer upon layer of sweaty kids. I was stuck at the front. I was pretty certain I was going to die.

Just so you can have an idea, this is what a typical crowd at Jerry's looks like:



This night, however, was different. Very different. I'm pretty sure it looked like this:



Or this:


Or perhaps this:




Or maybe even this:



Actually, I'm like 97% sure that's exactly what it looked like that night.

I can remember very little of Fall Out Boy's set because I was too busy trying not to be killed. I do recall yelling "sorry!" at Patrick and Pete every two seconds for crashing into them and banging them with mic stands. Everyone in the front row constantly fell over and would be crushed by the sea of bodies behind us. Eventually, the girl to my right yelled at me "if you have my back, I'll have yours!" and instinctively grabbed my arm to firmly link around hers. We spent the rest of the night holding onto each other and jumping up and down to the beat of the music, somehow believing the gravity of our movement would keep us from falling.

The happiest moment of the entire night was when they started "Saturday," signifying the end of their set. At that point, I stopped caring and did not bother worrying whether I was going to die anymore. I long accepted my fate. I was going to die at a fucking Fall Out Boy concert, and the majority of my memorial would consist of people pointing and laughing at my mangled corpse.

The song finally ended and I miraculously survived the night. As the crowd finally began to peel their sweaty skin off of me, I stood there for a moment, trying to remember basic things, such as what my name was and how to walk. Patrick was still awkwardly standing in front of me and asked "are you all right?" It was at that moment I realized I was blinking rapidly. I tried to nod. I was pretty sure I was having a stroke, but I didn't want to alarm him so I just threw an album in his face to sign. I slowly began walking back up the stairs, where I was greeted with fresh air. I had similar non verbal moments with Joe and Andy as I tried to maneuver my way out of the building. On my way out, I stumbled into Pete (literally). He was deep into a conversation with a couple of girls about Hot Topic. He started to defend his Nightmare Before Christmas-themed tattoos and added "isn't that right?" as I collapsed in his direction. I responded with something slightly sarcastic, prompting the girls to laugh and walk away. As he grabbed my CD to sign, I began to acquire double vision and felt incredibly nauseous. He started rambling about a new topic, but I was too busy debating whether I should drive myself over to an emergency room to listen or care. I gave him a side eye because I did not have enough energy to say anything, and eventually found my way back into my car. Although it was a hot and humid summer night, I began shaking uncontrollably in my own sweat the entire drive home while blasting the heater.

Needless to say, the next morning I was incredibly sick.

The Pete Wentz cooties started off simple enough. I was still quite dehydrated and drank glass after glass of water without ever feeling refreshed. My body continued to shake as I suffered a high fever. After a few days, I no longer felt parched, but my fever had yet to break. On top of that, I was beginning to get a slew of other symptoms. My mom began to hassle me to go to the doctor, and after a week of feeling miserable, I finally gave in.

After giving a laundry list of all my various symptoms, my doctor began to worry that I had pneumonia, or worse, Valley fever, something my dad had the year before. However, the x-rays and tests came back negative, so my doctor told me I had a bad sinus infection and prescribed me antibiotics. The antibiotics didn't help, however, so she prescribed me a different pack. I began to feel a little better, but then I got an uncontrollable, painful cough. I was then given codeine to alleviate the chest congestion, which led to a drugged out week I can't really remember.

During this time period, I was supposed to be moving to Long Beach and going back to school. In fact, the Fall Out Boy show was a last hurrah for me, before I would start a new life and have to find a new venue to call home. However, I could hardly walk across my room, much less pack it, so between coughing fits I had to ask my parents if I could stay with them for another year (it ended up turning into two years, but a.) who's counting? and b.) I blame the second year on Pete Wentz, too). Since I would be sticking around, I asked my old boss if I could have my position back, but she had already filled it. So I was 20, still living with my parents, jobless, and miserable with a mysterious disease.

I think Pete Wentz did this to me, I often thought in my fever induced hallucinations. I could have easily blamed this turn of events on the entire Fall Out Boy roster, or Jerry's Pizza and the numerous fire codes they broke, or the Bakersfield weather, or my allergies and susceptibility to sinus infections, or my own stupidity, but I engraved in my mind that it was solely Pete Wentz that was responsible for my life slowly unraveling.

I had absolutely no money.
This is Pete Wentz's fault.

In my desperation, I applied for a job at Target -- and got it.
This is Pete Wentz's fault.

I almost failed the required drug test because I was still pumped up on codeine.
This is Pete Wentz's fault.

I was stuck in a horrible city when I could have been living near LA.
This is Pete Wentz's fault.

I had to go back to my old community college and was stuck with a shitty schedule because I didn't register when everyone else did, since I thought I was finally getting away from this shit hole.
This is Pete Wentz's fault.

My nail beds suck.
This is Pete Wentz's fault.

Warped Tour 2005 was a hot mess full of annoying people that I got into about 50 fights with, before eventually collapsing on the ground in defeat in a cold room while I faintly heard "Sugar We're Going Down Swinging" in the background.
This is Pete Wentz's fault.

Oh No They Didn't aquired nude photos of Pete, and out of curiousity I clicked the link, scarring me for life.
This is Pete Wentz's fault.

The scene changed into this horrible mess of smudged eyeliner and shitty synthesizers.
This is Pete Wentz's fault.

Every band I ever liked fell apart and broke up.
This is Pete Wentz's fault.

I ended up moving to a another shitty city I can't stand, instead of my original goal of LA.
This is Pete Wentz's fault.

Myspace changed its layout.
This is Pete Wentz's fault.

Patrick Stump was arrested. I stayed up half the night refreshing TMZ.
This is Pete Wentz's fault.

Lakers won the championship.
This is Pete Wentz's fault.

Blink 182 acquired horrific openers on their reunion tour.
This is Pete Wentz's fault.

It took over six years before I finally got out of that hellhole known as Target.
This is Pete Wentz's fault.

Simon left American Idol.
This is Pete Wentz's fault.

I am forever alone.
This is Pete Wentz's fault.

There is no booze in this household.
This is Pete Wentz's fault.

The show Glee exists.
This is Pete Wentz's fault.

I am pretty positive I can explain my entire existence and why it sucks so bad and point it back at Pete. I am onto you, Pete. I am on to you so hard. Vengeance is mine.