I Woke My Grown Ass Up at 5 AM to See Blink-182 on 'GMA' So You’d Better Read About It, Dammit

The last time I saw Blink-182, my high school girlfriend came running out of the pit, covered in dirt and crying hysterically. “I thought I was gonna die!” she screamed. “I got trampled and no one would help me up.” We spent the rest of that day at Warped Tour getting her hydrated and reducing her hyperventilation. That was 1999. Now it’s 2016, and I’m old.

I didn’t really care for the band at the time. I thought they were silly and lacked the songwriting depth and groundbreaking vision of Dropkick Murphys and H2O. (I hope the sarcasm came through there, because I was being very sarcastic.) I didn’t really take them seriously until my 20s, which is a weird thing to say about a band that sings predominantly about blow jobs. I can still enjoy them today. They come from the Descendents school of pop punk and I appreciate that. I don’t like them enough to pay $80 plus another 20 in service charges to go see them, though, but given the opportunity to catch them for free, would I go? Sure, why not. Well, the universe called my bluff recently and afforded me such an opportunity.

The band was scheduled to play a free show as part of Good Morning America’s summer concert series in Central Park. On their website, the show advised getting there by 6 AM as it would run between 7 and 9 AM. My minimal motivation to see the band was greatly eclipsed by my morbid curiosity over what kind of lunatic lines up to watch Blink-182—or any band for that matter—before the sun has even fully risen. So on July 1, the 182nd day of the year, I woke my grown-ass up at 5 AM to go see Blink-182.

When the alarm goes off at 5, the immediate remorse sinks in. That’s a strange feeling, to wake up to sense of regret. I put on my most Warped Tour clothes—a hat and shorts, both by Volcom, the brand of choice for men in their thirties who swear they could totally still do a kickflip.

The people who ride the subway before 6 AM are mostly service workers and a couple of overachieving white collar men in suits. This being a summer Friday before the fourth of July weekend, many of the men carry overnight bags so they can head straight from work to their houses in the Hamptons or Martha’s Vinyard or wherever. My only weekend plans include rewatching Rick and Morty episodes and using a small stack of Domino’s coupons before they expire. I fantasize about making small talk with them. “Morning, gents. Off to see the big Blink-182 performance, I presume? I do hope they play the song about fucking the dog in the ass. Well, cheers!”

When I arrive on line, it’s already several blocks long, stretching from 69th Street (nice) to the park entrance on 72nd Street. I have severely underestimated the crowd. One guy says he woke up at 3:45. Two women say they didn’t go to bed at all. I realize I shouldn’t have stopped for that breakfast burrito. I expected a handful of park joggers who remember “Adam’s Song” from their teenage years and decided to swing by because what the heck. But instead there is a sea of hardcore fans, all decked out in their Blink shirts. They are young enough for me to be—not necessarily their dad, but certainly the guy who bores them with stories about what it was like seeing the band before they were born.

Conveniently, I get stuck in front of THE WORST PERSON IN THE ENTIRE WORLD. Having an extremely loud conversation with her mother on the phone, she tells her how bummed she is that her blind friend couldn’t accompany her so that they could skip the line and get in faster. “Plus he could see… I mean hear the show. LOL. You would think his disability would pay off once in a while.” Wonderful! Then, she gets into politics, and is apparently not much of a Hillary Clinton fan. “Honestly, on women’s issues, Trump has been better and more consistent. But building a wall is ridiculous. You know what else is ridiculous? Waiting on this line to see Blink-182.” Well, at least I agree with you on that, worst person in the entire world.

After the line moves, and I make it to the front, the guy from the parks crew stops it with four people to spare in front of me. “That’s it,” he tells us. “No more.” Once again, I curse that delicious breakfast burrito. I, along with the rest of the dejected line creatures, go through the park to try to at least watch the show from outside. We do a circle around the concert space until we find ourselves on another long-ass line and it’s unclear what it’s for or whether or not anyone on it will get in, but when you see a line, you gotta wait on it, right?

The staff at the front tells the crowd that they might not get in and that they may want to start exiting the park, which prompts the line to sing a few impromptu lines from Enema of the State: “Say it ain’t so! I will not go!”

A bicyclist rides alongside the line and asks a cop what everyone’s waiting for. “Blink-182,” the cop tells him. “Remember them from 20 years ago, when that was a thing?” In front of me, a woman has a sign that reads “From Venezuela to New York to see Blink-182.” Behind me, a middle-aged tourist mom who is chaperoning a group of tween girls asks them to join in a prayer circle to ask God for his help getting them into the concert and keeping them safe. If you’re listening, God, please also send the floods to wash me away now, I think to myself.

Amazingly, the line starts moving, and, despite being about 100 people deep, I make it in. I enter to see a crowd hype-man in a Hawaiian shirt on stage, getting the fans pumped. He reminds everyone to tweet and Instagram the event, using the hashtag #blink182onGMA. Let me get on that…

A live camera crew sets up a little spot behind me to film a commercial throw. A producer-type woman, presumably looking for people who would be good on camera, asks me, “So what brings you here today?” A fair question. “I’m 33 and I don’t really know what I’m doing with my life,” I tell her. I didn’t make it to TV. She instead used a bunch of adorable little kids and a woman holding a sign that said, “Good Morning America Today I’m 21.”

Wait, let me fire off another tweet…

Being live TV, there is a lot of hurry up and wait. On multiple occasions over the course of an hour, Hawaiian guy has the audience count down from 30, but nothing ever happens at zero. Just a lot of cheering that I assume the show is using to segue in and out of commercials. After the fifth or sixth countdown, the crowd starts to turn. They grow angry and restless. Three women behind me, one of whom admits that she only wants to hear “What’s My Age Again?”, start to boo. The boat shoe-wearing bros next to them start to quote situation-appropriate lines from Half Baked and Family Guy that, let me tell you, are downright scathing.

Hawaiian shirt guy comes back out after a half-hour and has an announcement. “Are you ready? George Stephanopoulos is heeeeeeere!” Because if there’s anything Blink-182 fans love, it’s Clinton-era political advisers turned news correspondents. Two kids in front of me try to sneak a joint and the smoke wafts my way. Oh, I know how to handle this…

Finally, Blink-182 comes out and they play their new song. I don’t know the name of it. That new one. It’s received with tepid applause and people shout for them to “turn it up louder!” I want to lecture them on the maximum decibel levels permitted in public spaces outlined in New York City’s noise code laws, but decide against it.

An additional layer of patheticness gets added to this whole experience when I am reminded that Alkaline Trio’s Matt Skiba now plays in the band, having replaced guitarist and UFO enthusiast Tom Delonge last year. I know Skiba. Not super well, but well enough. We’ve hung out a few times. We catch up when he’s in town, and I once filmed a documentary about him trying out for a part in Fat Mike’s weird BDSM musical. And now I’m watching Skiba, my peer, on the other side of this barricade, playing for a park full of fans while sweat runs down my back and I contemplate the social etiquette of asking him if I can borrow $4,000.

After a commercial break, the band plays four more hits in a row: “What’s My Age Again?” (the woman behind me is ecstatic about this), “All the Small Things,” “The Rock Show” (during which the hosts came out on stage and danced. I don't know their names. Not Kathy Lee and Hoda, that’s The Today Show. And not Charlie Rose, that’s CBS. So… I dunno who ABC’s people are. Kelly Ripa?), and “Feeling This.”

The band played with the enthusiasm that an 8 AM show would merit, which is to say… fine-ish. Except for Travis Barker. That dude has two settings when he’s drumming: 20 million percent or none at all. But it wasn’t rowdy enough for teenagers to come running out of the pit, crying. Mosh pits don’t usually happen before breakfast, I’ve found.

For their sixth and final song, Mark Hoppus pointed to the crowd and said, “This one’s for you!” before launching into “Dammit.” Not sure who the other songs were for, but thanks, Mark Hoppus.

So that was it. Several hours, and two huge lines for a handful of songs. I took a little informal survey of the crowd about seeing the band in a live TV setting afterwards. The verdict: “It sucked.” And, wait I got a notification on my phone…

Oh hell yeah, my man Travis understands the existential struggle. Glad I said those nice things earlier about his drumming.

As everyone filed out, I walked through Central Park, past the people taking their dogs for pre-work walks. Then I did the reverse commute on the subway, pushing my way through an oncoming crowd of adults heading to their adult jobs in their adult lives. That’s a good metaphor for being an aging Blink-182 fan—constantly battling upstream against adulthood. Not to sound cliché here, but truly, I guess this is growing up.

Dan Ozzi is on Twitter and no one likes him when he's 33 - @danozzi