Well, here goes nothing. I figured I'd try to document somehow the memorable moments I have had at concerts, both recently and way back when. This blog will not serve as some sort of concert review source. I find that very boring. I may mention moments from the performances from time to time, but most of the time I remember specific events during my personal experience that don't pertain to what's happened on stage at all.

For instance, I really can't recall much of what happened onstage during my first concert---Ozzy, Selland Arena, Fresno Ca, Jan. of '82--, but I do remember it was then that I found out my best friend's little brother smoked pot. I was astonished, but tried to play it cool, even when he offered me a hit. I said something like, "Thanks man, but emphasima runs in my family. I just can't." Really lame, but in that moment, I got the concerned nod from the stoners as if they lamented the fact that I couldn't (should read: was scared to) partake.

I also remember that my mom drove me to and picked me up from the show. What else was I gonna do? I was a freshman in high school. Looking back, it was pretty cool of her. In the days before the show, I was excited and played the 45 I had of "Diary of a Madman" over and over. My dad listened in with me one day and just shook his head. Rumors flew around my high school campus about pig's blood spraying into the crowd and, of course, everyone just knew that Ozzy worshipped Satan and we'd all be subjected to some sort of sacrifice.

I bought my first concert shirt, a quarter-sleeve jersey, for $13 and a program for $7. This $20 pattern continued for the first two years of my concert going experience and the quarter-sleeve became a sort of trademark for me.

I also found that wearing the concert shirt the very next day at school was a badge of honor. While wearing mine with pride and getting new found acceptance from a certain faction of the student body, I strutted around that day like a heavy metal peacock. While standing with some friends at break, some hardened upperclassmen metalheads hanging around a few feet away were staring at me. I was thinking to myself that they obiviously were impressed by my shirt and recognized that I was, in fact, so very cool because I had attended the previous night's show. One of them said to me, "Hey, you went to the show?". He was smiling and I saw this as some sort of opportunity to pull a Jane Goodall and mingle among the primates. I said, "Yeah man, I was there", turning so he could see the full effect of my glorious jersey. His faced changed into a scowl and he fumed, "Fuck you, he sucked!" I didn't know what to say to this. It was my first show ever. Maybe Ozzy did suck that night, but how could I possibly know this? I laughed and nodded and gave him a look that conveyed a fey, "Oh you!". His disgusted look shot through me like the lasers at Dio shows I would attend later.

I had a lot to learn.