momo and the giant goths

I'll tell you my tale of woe at my one and only Momo concert.
I was never a big Momo fan anyway, but my college friend Liz was, and he came through Mpls in 1999 I think. Well, ticket sales were so bad that they actually had to move the show from a small auditorium to a pretty big club (the same club where I met Ice-T in 1995, but that's another story). So this was a week night, we were riding the downtown bus home from school and decided to hop off on 1st Ave and see if there were any tix left. I was basically along for the ride. Well, it was early, and indeed there were tix left so against my better judgment, i shelled out that 19 bux for a Momo ticket.
Since it was early, we staked out a spot front and center. The club started to fill with pretty boys and their hags, several of whom were holding huge bouquets of gladiolus for the Man Himself. Then the older crowd with their spouses filled in behind that group. Well, it was tight, and from everything I knew about Momo and his ego, he'd be working the crowd when he got out. I was nervous. There was a group of big-bewbied goth whales (my friend Denis' term, not mine) behind us, holding bouquets and squealing. Momo made his grand entrance. They began to cry through their liquid black eyeliner and wave their gladiolus in the air (wave em like you just don't care) and they began to press forward. I stood my ground. Not content being 10 ft away from Momo, they felt the need to be in my space 6 ft from Momo, so the group thrusted forward. I pushed back. They pushed back. I cussed at them. They laughed and pushed forward, parting the seas with their big goth bewbs. I noticed a goth bewb resting on my shoulder. I realize that I'm slowly sinking in a sea of gothness, and that I can't find my school bag; it's disappeared into the sea. I see that I've been pushed a mere foot or so from the front barrier. I yelled to Security to stop them from pushing forward. Security yelled back at the goth wales "Stop pushing forward!" but to no avail. All the while Momo was playing to them and the inexplicable 12 year olds on the left of us, ratcheting up the frenzy. Taunting me with his graying pompadour. My chest was struggling through each breath. I realized I'd been pushed about a foot away from the barrier up front and I sort of lose it and yell to Security, "Get me the F**K OUT NOW!" so a guy next to me thrusts me up and Security pulls me out.
After the show, I see my school bag resting on the abandoned dance floor and I collect the trampled pages of photocopied essays and notes that are strewn about. Several of which had autographs from some of the Kids in the Hall who I'd met earlier in the semester, and whom I actually liked. I give one leaf to Liz to have signed by Momo, but he is nowhere to be found. Already, he is back on his tour bus relishing the remnants of thrashed gladiolus.
And to this day, I blame Momo the Clown for my fear of crowds. He totally triggered some latent PTSD factor of mine.
And, really, how embarrassing is it to have to be rescued from the crowd at a Morrissey concert?