I recently attended a concert featuring various bands that had their roots in the 1990s. I had tickets in the pit — on the floor, right up against the stage — with my mom, my friend, and my friend’s fiancé. I expected it to get quite rowdy, but I didn’t expect to see what is probably the funniest confrontation I have ever witnessed.

Throughout the whole show, there was an event security guard standing nearby that was huge. He was at least 6’8” and over 350 pounds. The crowd wasn’t too crazy until the headliner came on stage. Then, people started sneaking into the pit and were promptly told to return to their seats. Most accepted defeat and returned to their respective areas with no complaints.

One guy, however, just kept coming back and he had obviously had way too much to drink by this point. The big security guard told him to leave several times, and it was clear he was getting irritated at the guy. He told him one final time that if he found him in the pit once again, he’d be thrown out for good.

The guy (who was smaller than me, and I’m six foot even) decided the best course of action was to attack this mountain of a security guard. My friend’s fiancé pushed me out of the way as the guard picked the guy up and physically pushed him past us and into the arms of a state cop.

Have you ever seen a grown man be picked up by his armpits and literally thrown? We could see the look on his face go from, “I’m going to kick this guy’s a**,” to, “I f***ed up.”

The rest of the show went on without any issues, but seriously, what did he think was going to happen?

My husband and I are at a concert for a band I love. After a couple of songs, the lead singer grabs his microphone and walks to the front of the stage.

Singer: “So, our stage manager told us not long before we got on that he’d seen a guy crying outside. So, he asked him why, and the guy said, ‘My girlfriend just broke up with me at a concert for my favorite band! I’ve been looking forward to this and she just left me here!’ and WE! THINK! THAT’S! BULLS***! So, if you’re still here, buddy, come up on stage!“

The crowd gives a little cheer and then a louder one as a man really does walk up to the stage, though he’s a bit wobbly. The singer goes to meet him.

Singer: “You look pretty cheerful for a guy who got dumped an hour ago.”

Drunk Guy: “Yeah!”

Singer: *Pauses* “Okay, what does our stage manager look like?”

Drunk Guy: “Like s***!”

Singer: “Get off the f****** stage.”

I’m the author of this unbelievable story from my time living in Virginia, about forty minutes south of Washington DC.

At the time of this story, my mother is engaged to a man who is high-ranking in the Secret Service. (He is now retired.) [Mom’s Fiancé] is on Presidential Protection; He escorts the President personally and is paid to potentially take a bullet for him.

[Mom’s Fiancé]’s job has had some fun perks for my sister and me while we live with them, like getting invited to certain events. White House employees are always invited to the Christmas party and a few other major holiday celebrations.

It’s the second of July, 2010, and Barack Obama is in office. My mom calls and asks if I am interested in going to the White House’s Fourth of July party. She quickly confirms that, no, we won’t be meeting Obama, as he’s in Hawaii visiting family. (We previously got to meet George W. Bush at the aforementioned Christmas party, so this wasn’t a totally insane expectation.)

The invite is so late because [Mom’s Fiancé] was supposed to go to Hawaii with Mr. President but has to stay in DC for reasons he isn’t allowed to talk about. (That happens a lot.) I am bummed we didn’t get a meet-and-greet with the first black president, but I still want to go.

I scramble to get my shifts covered, and I am ultimately able to attend the party. I am aware that there will be a USO show of some kind, but my mom can’t remember who will be performing, and I don’t take the time to look up anything else about it.

The party is on the absolutely massive lawn behind the White House. We settle in a little bit further uphill from the stage, where Cedric The Entertainer is doing stand-up comedy. After his routine, he greets people from behind a waist-high metal fence that leads to a cordoned-off area backstage. He’s extremely friendly and a celebrity I recognize, so it is fun to say hi really quickly.

Another fun fact: I am seven and a half months pregnant with my first child. I am normally fairly slim, so my baby bulge is very noticeable. It’s hot and humid, so I stretch out on our blanket, sip my (nonalcoholic) beverage, and settle in, fully intending to not move for the rest of the party. My little sister is sitting with me and we’re chatting away. Meanwhile, a sound check is going on, so I’m dimly aware that a band will be up next.

We hear applause welcoming the band, but it is not introduced by name. My sister and I are facing away from the stage, deep in conversation, and not really paying attention, when we hear some music blaring out of the speaker. It’s quite distinctive and I immediately recognize it.

My sister and I go silent and lock eyes in mutual shock. Without a single word to each other or the rest of our family, we get up and run toward the stage, me with my third-trimester belly and everything.

We manage to squeeze in pretty close. I would’ve gotten even closer if I wasn’t so pregnant! Still, we are less than ten feet from the stage, shocked and ecstatic that one of our favorite bands is right there and we are watching them! It is an amazing set and we have a blast!

Looking back, I think this was my favorite concert experience because it was a complete surprise. The shock of recognition and our sprint to the stage made it all the more exciting. It’s one of those moments I’ll always remember very vividly.

The band? The Killers. That first song? Human. Best Independence Day ever!

Related:
Creepy, Cut-Off, and Caught!

I work security for a music venue, and since I’m one of the older guys, I usually get to roam the floor, but this day was different. I was stationed in the barricade between the crowd and the stage. The crowd started funneling in and filling up the space by the barricade immediately. I noticed that the crowd seemed to be older metal fans, so we didn’t expect it to get too rowdy.

The first act went on and the crowd was headbanging and lightly mosh-pitting along. Well, that didn’t sit well with the singer, so before the last song, he told the crowd to kick it up because security were his friends and they needed to earn their pay. Immediately, a guy crowd surfed to the front. I caught him and let him go.

The singer commented, “That’s what I’m talking about!” and then started their last song.

My coworker and I were almost overrun by crowd surfers, but we kept up until halfway through the song when a crowd surfer with no shirt, slick with sweat, came over and got shifted to the right at the last push of the crowd, and thus, we were out of position to catch him. He proceeded to fall through my coworker’s hands and hit my knee and bend it a little backward. I screamed, fell forward, hit my other knee against the barricade, and fell to the ground. Before my coworkers could help me out of the way, I got my head stepped on by a crowd surfer.

They wanted to try and stand me up, but I made them pull me out to the side. Once I calmed down a little, I noticed my knee didn’t hurt, so I tried to stand, but my right knee wouldn’t hold and I fell back down.

An ambulance was called, and the poor paramedics that showed up couldn’t lift my rather large self onto the gurney. I pulled myself up with the barricade enough to get the gurney under me and was wheeled out of the venue, to the cheers of the crowd. That was the first time I ever had a crowd cheer for me.

I ended up missing a week of work due to a hyperextension/sprain of my right knee, and then I was put on light duty for another week. But the venue changed their policy on crowd surfers to where you can once, but if you are caught again, you are kicked out.

Around the time I was around nineteen or twenty years old, I used to work in a small security job. We were basically a third-party company hired for different events such as concerts, festivals, soccer games, etc., AKA “Rent-A-Cops”. Despite being looked down on for being a younger female compared to the rest of my team, I was always placed at the entrances for the artists to check credentials because I was one of the few who would actually do my job and stop people from going where they were not supposed to go.

This includes the artists of the venue I’m working at, and I’ve had complaints — mostly from rappers or athletes — for not letting them on stage or having the audacity to stop them, period. This is mainly because I have anxiety and I would rather get in trouble for doing what I’m SUPPOSED to do rather than get in trouble for doing something I DIDN’T do. I also don’t keep up with WHO the artists are; I just listen to their music, and it’s not like the security company provides us with pictures to show us who certain people are. To be honest, they shouldn’t have to when credentials exist for a reason!

The main artist of the concert I’m working at has a band name dedicated to imagining a mythical beast. He usually comes in and out through my entrance surrounded by his personal security, and while I am a HUGE fan of the band, I’ve never seen the band’s music videos, so I’m not familiar with his appearance and I hardly see his face since he’s crowded by people.

At one point, one of his security managers walks in and out of the entrance I’m at like he’s looking for something before turning to me.

Manager: “Hey, have you seen [Name]?”

Me: “Um… I don’t know. The shorter guy in the green shirt?”

He gives me a very strange look.

Manager: “No… the tall guy in the red shirt.”

Me: “…”

Manager: “Super tall. Blonde? You know… [Name]!”

I just blink owlishly, trying to figure out why I should know who he’s talking about.

Manager: “THE SINGER?!”

Me: “Oh! Uh, no, he hasn’t been through here.”

He just stared at me for a second longer before leaving with a shake of his head. I, too, was pretty disappointed in myself for not even knowing the singer’s name.