I went to a Bright Eyes concert yesterday at the Riviera in Chicago. (Yes, the same Bright Eyes you probably listened to after your significant other who you were convinced was your soul mate broke up with you sophomore year of high school. No apologies–it was awesome.) When Conor could no longer ignore the screaming cries of the concertgoers who could not have been old enough to vote and returned for an encore, something long and white flew through the air and land with a thunk on the stage.
What the hell? I thought to myself. What was that?
I, along with everyone else in the crowd, strained to make out what had just been tossed on stage, but couldn’t make it out. A roadie quickly rushed out to remove the projectile; as he picked it up, everyone could see what it was: a prosthetic leg with a sock and shoe on the end of it.
(Oberst, settling in for a piano solo, played it cool, acting like he hadn’t noticed a fake limb tossed from the crowd onto the stage within feet of him.)
So. Someone either loved Conor Oberst so much that they were willing to gimp around on one leg for the rest of the night so the Bright Eyes frontman could have their prosthetic one, or they specifically bought and brought a prosthetic leg that they got from God knows where to the concert so they could express their undying love by throwing it at him.
I’m not sure which is more disturbing.