Last week, the perpetually vacuous annals of correspondence that is the Diaspora delivered to me a heartfelt letter from Robin Thomas ‘12 that urged everyone to “have all your mid-life crises now” and to “stop trying to secure a joyful life later at the expense of a joyful life now.” All sound advice. So far this week, I’ve lived a joyful-er life than any of you assholes reading this. By the end of Monday night, my third favorite T-shirt was completely soaked in the sweat of dozens of 30-something shirtless South Bay residents. My body is still somewhat sore, but my soul had achieved unity—if, you know, you believe in that sort of thing. On Oct. 11, Alice in Chains, along with Mastodon and the Deftones, played at the San Jose State University Events Center and some psychedelic friends and I made the trip. It’s now fourth on my list of Best Decisions I’ve Made in My Life.

Now at this point, a faction of you is contemplating dismissing the rest of my words as the ramblings of a drugged out hippie or burnout. To the doubters, I won’t say anything as cliché as, “Free your mind, man.” I’ll just ask that you reserve judgment until the 800th word. You still with me?  Radical, because for some reason, Alice in Chains’ expertly constructed songs about heroin addiction were the biggest aid in preventing my angsty prepubescent self from doing anything as stupid as attempting suicide. We all had dark places in adolescence; it’s what made us work so hard. At that 5,000-seat arena, I finally settled the score with 14-year-old Peter.

The show, by the way, was badass. I was quite gratified to find out that no white man alive could replicate Layne Staley’s voice. Of all the bands from Seattle to make it big, Alice in Chains always had the most blue-collar fans, and the diversity of the South Bay helped to balance out the prep school-trending crowd that was more there to see the Deftones (whose concert footage would make a beautiful graphic novel, by the way). I was by far the most hipster kid there. Even better, I finally discovered the inspiring egalitarianism that is the General Admission floor (aka the mosh pit). No rich bastards in the front row, just the people willing to fight their way there. I’m never letting seating assignments restrain my rocking again. All their songs brought the requisite ferocity, though their drummer had a tendency to drag. The most soul-piercing moment came when they busted “Nutshell” onto the audience, a song that doubled as a séance for ol’ Layne. The venue was the most functional municipal sports arena you’ve ever seen, perfect for Jerry Cantrell smoking and drinking on stage.

It was without a doubt the most hardcore Monday night of my life, but after the lights came on and I was able to reorient myself, my inner Stanford student came out again, and all I could think about was the work I still had to do, stupid Poetry and Poetics. Waiting in line at 7-Eleven for a recovery Slurpee, I felt the pull of the Stanford bubble more than ever. All I wanted was to retreat into the safety of my studies and apologize to the University for having too much fun on a Monday night and to my fellow Bandies for bailing on rehearsal to go have an actual once-in-a-lifetime experience. It’s that whole real-world thing. It can get pretty annoying.

But please, do not despair, though I know most of you aren’t because you wouldn’t even attempt something so profligate. I remember when RJD2 came to Kresge (R.I.P.) freshman year (RJD2!) and no one on my hall would go because it just so happened to be during finals week. That’s lame. In case you forgot, we’re supposed to be the iPod Generation, a name that must make Steve Jobs ecstatic. We care more about music than any other prior generation. Our iTunes library far outclasses our libraries of anything else. I’m sure you all remember the first musician you loved, and how you were ready to forsake the world just to see him or her in concert. Suppressing that child because you have a paper due, or because you’re sick, or because you didn’t budget for it is your first step toward becoming boring. So please, keep track of your favorite bands from adolescence. If they’re coming on tour, go see them. Save your money, and if you have an assignment due the next day, manage your time properly. Your 14-year-old self will thank you. Oh, and do it soon, because I have a suspicion that in 10 years, no one’s going to be hyperventilating over a Passion Pit reunion.

Want to find out which three decisions topped Monday night? E-mail Peter at [email protected].