An old friend in Georgia I haven’t seen in years facebooked me a few months ago after he read an essay I wrote about the moshing antics of my sons. He wanted to know if I was just embellishing as a writer, and if not, whether my husband and I just fork over the health insurance card to the moshers on their way out the door.

I really wish the answer was yes, I make up this crap for good copy. But my kids truly are this insane and honestly do habitually place themselves in pits. Yes, there is the possibility at a concert they will lose teeth or their ability to procreate (the teens would shudder at the blasphemous use of “concert” here. IT’S A SHOW, MOM! NOT A CONCERT! My apologies.).

Our 17-year-old son L. was in Chicago Saturday to see Emarosa for their Squash the Beef tour. I don’t know what “squash the beef” and mosh conjure up for you, but if you have sons, I have an idea.

Of course, we worry a little when the boys head off to a show! They always meet a host of characters in line for tickets, and moshers do seem to be a relatively loving crowd of headbangers. But what about the thrashers who love happy cabbage (and happy dust) and in their wasted state may inadvertently squash the beef?

The afternoon following the show, L. proudly revealed to me an epic purple and gold souvenir across his midsection. It's this sort of stuff that widens the generation and gender gap in our house. Genuine pride! For internal bleeding from strangers kicking and smacking each other to the “music” of vomit sounds!

In spite of my preference for minimal slugging and groin kicking while grooving with fellow “Seal” fans at a concert, I do understand the infectious high energy these rockers tap into at moshfests. There are plenty of days as a mid-life mama I can relate to Emo and pent up rage. 

Sure, depression and despair are common to both middle age and adolescence. Also rage. Negative energy needs to be burned; I get it. I was right there thrashing old school at A Flock of Seagulls circa 1982. But I’ll still never fully comprehend a boy's joy for a flesh wound sustained while dancing.

L. (lifting shirt): Look at this one.

(Displays irregular bruise the size of a large hoagie on the soft flesh above waist.)

Me: Why?

L.: It was amazing. I was passed all the way up to the stage. I almost touched Johnny Craig. I really wanted to touch him.

Me: But the bruising—you didn’t get that from moshing?

L.: No. Somebody just smashed me in the side as hard as they could while I crowd surfed. Look at this one too!

Me: Yeah. Your school colors. Let’s take a picture.

Clearly a Kodak...errrrr...Ko-Wack moment. Something sacred in a gnarly, half-misunderstood, post-moshtrocity, mother-son moment to giggle about someday with his grandkids.

If the family beef is not squashed in a mosh pit.

Michele has a husband, two children, a master's in counseling and a blog at hellolovelychild.blogspot.com.