I have always been a huge fan of doughnuts. Every Sunday when I was a kid, my dad would go out to the grocery store that was slightly better than Cub but not as good as a legitimate bakery and buy doughnuts before everyone else woke up. Long Johns with sprinkles were my thing, and if someone ate it before I woke up, you can bet they would feel my wrath, which is something akin to “Apocalypse Now.”
Another thing I am a big fan of is going to concerts of bands I have never heard of before and getting overly excited that they are playing “my song,” but also getting super pissed at the end because they didn’t play their third best song, which is probably due to the fact that the band has gotten more mainstream. Screw them.
Perhaps my absolute favorite thing in the world should be when my love for doughnuts and random concerts collide. While some may say, “But Meg, how have I never heard of this promise land of breakfast pastries and semi-attractive men stroking their guitars as they pretend to weep?” Well, that is because I have only come across this glorious amalgam once before, and though it may upset the delightfully plump cowbell gods, I’m willing to sacrifice my chances of a repeat experience by telling you how these two, although seemingly the perfect combination of awesome things, actually results in awkward and slightly embarrassing situations.
It all started with a concert of bands from my hometown playing in a place where “student involvement and youth development are encouraged in a chemically-free environment.” Maybe that’s where the problem began and also may explain why they were selling doughnuts. Next to the doughnuts, they also had glow sticks. How this establishment came up with that combination is beyond my comprehension. Maybe they wanted people to hang their doughnuts off their glow sticks as they raged while listening to mediocre high school bands? I’m not sure.
But with my love of doughnuts and that they had Long John sprinkled ones, I coughed up the dollar to get one. Doughnut in hand, I followed my friends to the middle of the sweaty teenage mosh pit, trying to protect my precious piece of fried, tasty goodness. Everything we walked past was a threat to my doughnut: flailing arms, grinding bodies, the out-of-place mom trying to keep a close eye on her slut of a daughter. Everything. And I was determined to get the full satisfaction of that doughnut.
After pushing through the crowd using the classic tale of “But my friends are just up there!” we settled close enough to the stage that there was only one row of people in front of us. One of the girls in front of us I knew vaguely because she was a friend of a friend, but we had never met or talked before. She must have been hooking up with the lead singer—and by hooking up I mean awkward make-out sessions in her parent’s basement in between the moments her mom went down to grab something she forgot in the laundry room—because the way she was jerking her body to the music was too much due to the fact that a) the song was not good and b) it was a slow song.
But the singer must have hit the right note because she whipped her hair back. At first, I thought the only damage was some unwashed hair caught in my mouth, but then to my horror I discovered a portion of my doughnut’s frosting was missing. Looking up, I saw the white flecks of frosting shimmering between her strands, with a few sprinkles spread about. I raised my hand in confusion—the one holding the doughnut—and at that exact moment I was thrust forword as some other lunatic decided they had to be near the front of the stage too.
Multiple emotions surged through me, but the biggest conflicting sentiments were the near hysteria of completely losing my doughnut to the point where it was inedible and the absolute fear that the girl in front of me would realize that an entire doughnut had been smashed into her hair—frosting, sprinkles, dough and all. As she reached her hand back to feel what had just occurred, I spun around and searched for the best exit strategy.
But once I heard the deafening “what the hell?!” I knew I just had to run for it or else become subject to a girl fight, and I was not about to pull on someone’s frosting-coated hair. So I pushed my way through the crowd and hid in the bathroom until the end of the concert.
I don’t think she ever found out it was me, but whenever we were in the same area, I made it a point to avoid her gaze. If I have ever slapped your hand while you reach for a piece of my doughnut, you have that girl to thank for making me even more protective of my doughnuts than ever before.
Are you the mystery girl Meg creamed with a delicious Long John? E-mail her at mburnton@wisc.edu and share a good laugh or at the very least, offer to repay the fried dough you so clearly owe her.
