Rock the Vote (In New Jersey?)

Hey faithful readers. A little departure from the usual zany ramblings of Yours Truly to let you know about a way you can help an unsigned band.

My cousins Chris and Joel in New Jersey have a friend in a band called Full Out Freak. This guy Will used to play (maybe still does) in a band called Big Orange Cone. Chris and Joel like to refer to them as B.O.C., which ruffles my feathers a bit because we all know there is just one B.O.C.; the unstoppable, on tour forever and simply amazing Blue Oyster Cult. (B.O.C. stories, real B.O.C. stories, will undoubtedly appear here someday).

A couple of summers ago, I had the chance to catch Big Orange Cone at a club at the Jersey Shore. One tip about visiting Jersey; don't call the Shore the Coast. It's on the East Coast, but it's not the Coast. Out here in California, you're on the Coast. Out there, you're at the Shore. Whatever. Big Orange Cone is basically a cover band, but they're really good at what they do and have a pretty big following. They sport two lead singers, Will and another I can only call The Other Guy. Will stood out from the other members of the band to me that night. As well as being talented, it seems he's pretty humble and a genuinely nice guy. Pretty rare traits for a professional musician.

Turns out he's in this other band, Full Out Freak, as well and they had a song played on one of NYC's biggest radio stations in what looks to me like a battle of the bands sort of thing. Chris emailed me a link to the station's website and asked that I vote for Full Out Freak on today's election. Now I'm asking you all to vote as well. I hope you're reading this today, Wednesday April 28th, so you can vote. Check out the link below. (You'll have to cut and paste the link--the link function isn't working here today).

http://www.z100.com/elvis_zoo/radiostar3.html

This will take you to the site where you can click on the button beside Full Out Freak. While you're there, check out their MP3 to see if you like 'em. But vote first! Who cares what you think? Just vote and get the "nice guy's" band a chance at a recording contract! Bush? Kerry? No! Will!! Will in '04!

Here's the band's site: (Cut and paste)

www.fulloutfreak.com

For those about to vote, I salute you.

Juke Joint (Part Two: The Big Misunderstanding)

Walking into a party where you don't know anyone is pretty hard. You look around for some sort of familiar face or at least a place to hang out and look comfortable. Susan and I did this after walking into the Tamiko Lounge, but that awkwardness was amplified tenfold upon seeing the looks we were getting from the people inside. As I mentioned in Part One, we were the only white people there at the time and we got visually scrutinized with accompanying sneers and whispers. If you've ever been looked up and down by a 65 year old black woman tipping the scales at somewhere around 3 bills, I know you've never forgotten it. I haven't.

We walked the guantlet until we could find a place on a wall to lean against and wait for the 11:00 show. A big screen monitor was off to one side and had a live feed from the early show. The area we were waiting in was pretty small and dimly lighted. I did see a bar off in a corner and decided to get us a couple of drinks. Sensing the stares from around the restaurant as I walked across the room, I suddenly forgot how to walk. The brain sent the signals to the legs, but they checked out halfway to the bar. I felt like I was treading waist deep through the Everglades and probably looked like a caveman taking his first steps without knuckle assistance.

I made it to the bar and got the beer and Zima from a surly bartender. He never looked at me the whole time he took my order and I thought he put the bottles down on the bar with a little extra authority. I fished around in my wallet and paid the man. Intimidated, I think I tipped him $35.00. I walked back to Susan, retracing my steps through the place. I handed her the Zima and we both exhaled a little. We looked around and took inventory; beautiful ladies of all ages in evening gowns and nattily attired men in fancy suits with many sporting fedoras or other chapeaus . We then turned our attention to each other. Susan was wearing what she considered her dressy black shorts with a nice top and I was wearing Levis, a short sleeved button down casual shirt and tennis shoes. We didn't exactly look like white trash, but we stuck out a bit in this crowd (and not just because of our skin color).

The early show ended and that crowd was let out. Soon, we made our way downstairs into the nightclub. It was a very long, rectangular room with one wall completely mirrored. At one end was the small stage and on the other end was the bar. We came off the last steps and onto the floor of the club and scouted for a table. All of the tables seemed to be occupied, so we took up a couple of barstools along the mirrored wall, halfway between the bar and the stage. Susan commented that it looked like those walls in dance studios with the ballet bar. The interesting thing about having seats in that spot was that we could survey the crowd very easily. More than once, I caught a woman giving us the eye and when she realized that I had seen her, she would pretend that she was fixing her hair in the mirror behind us.

The crowd was filing in and I decided I'd better get us a round of drinks before it got too busy up at the bar. I bellied up to the practically empty bar, smiled and nodded to the barkeep. He looked beyond me and I turned around to see what he was looking at. Nothing there. I turned back and he was way down at the other end of the bar wiping the tap handles. Man, did I get dinked! So I politely wave to get his attention and I know he sees me out of the corner of his eye but won't acknowledge me. A couple of guys (black guys again--everyone's black here--I'll let you know when white folks pop up in this tale just for continuity purposes) sidle up next to me and just stand there. What do you know? Here comes the bartender in record time with a smile and cocktail napkins. Now, I've been in plenty of bars (I know that will shock all of you) and when you've come up to order and the bartender happens to catch your eye before the person that's been waiting for a while, you do the gentlemanly thing and point to that person, letting the bartender know that he should serve them first. This usually gets you a "thank you" raise of the glass or bottle when they get their drink. It's common courtesy among the bobbing and weaving class. But not at the Tamiko Lounge that night. No sir. These guys order up, pay the man, look at me, laugh and walk away. I figure, no big deal, I'm next. I raise my hand and say, "Yeah, hi, uh, can I get...." as the bartender's walking right past me to take the order of three more folks that walked up behind me. It took me about 20 minutes to get two drinks when I was pretty much first in line.

I knew this wasn't just bad service. This was racism. Maybe the people there that night thought it was cute or funny to hassle a white boy, but it got old pretty quick. But what can you do when you're in that spot. Raise a ruckus? I think not. Susan experienced a similar situation while waiting in line for the ladies room. Time after time, ladies would cut in front of her, thinking nothing of it. They probably knew that she wouldn't say anything and took advantage, maybe even having a jolly old laugh about it later. Pretty sad if that's what gets you off.

I took the drinks back to where Susan and I were sitting and we continued to watch the people file in. A table of three white people caught my eye and I realized that I knew one of them as a local blues promoter that I'd had on my radio show. I went over to talk to him for a little while. They'd seen the early show and classified it as a "shack run". I asked him what he meant by that and he told me it's a show by the numbers with the artist (this night being Little Milton of course) pandering to the audience by playing hits, covers and standards. He was disappointed in the early show and had hopes that the late show would be different.

After talking to the promoter for a while, I went back to Susan and we both agreed that we needed another round. I walked over and leaned on the bar, fully expecting to be ignored. The bartender was at the other end of the bar, so I waited patiently for him to make his way towards me. I happened to look over my right shoulder and met the eyes of a rare species; another white guy. He smiled and gave me an enthusiastic, "Hi there!". I nodded with, "How's it goin' man".

After another few minutes of watching the bartender find new ways to ignore me, I finally got our drinks. This time I got a gin and tonic for myself, something I could sip on for the show. I gave the drinks to my sister and headed to the bathroom. I then ran into a listener of mine (for the record: female, white--possibly actual white trash). She was mopping up a huge flood coming from one of the bathrooms. For some reason, she had pitched in to help clean up the place. I hoped this wasn't how she'd paid her way in. I trodded through the half inch of water (God, I hope it was just water) into the bathroom. There I got more of the "what the hell is he doing here" stares. Pretty hard to do your business when you feel like 6 guys that look like the defensive line of the Oakland Raiders are staring at the back of your head.

I walked back over to Susan at our barstools on the wall and she handed me my gin and tonic. We talked for a while and the white guy I saw at the bar earlier came over and took up a barstool next to us. He had two drinks.

Huh, double fisted drinker, I thought.

But then he sidled over past Susan to me and asked, "Do you drink gin?", his voice a little sing-song.

I told him, "Uh, well, yeah. This is a gin and tonic right here", pointing at my glass.

"Oh, well because the bartender must have misunderstood me and gave me this gin drink as well as my own", he replied. "If you want it, you can have it". This time I thought I detected a little lisp.

"Umm, okay. Yeah, sure", I said. I took the glass from him (hey, free booze!) and he gave me a really big smile. Everything went into slow motion as my brain screamed at me, "YOU DUMBASS! HE'S HITTING ON YOU!" I put the glass on the bar rail behind me and looked at Susan, a little numb and with a shocked half-smile. I looked back at the guy and mumbled, "uh, thanks".

Susan then leaned over to me with a huge grin and whispered, "Do you want me to pretend I'm your girlfriend and get rid of him?"

Damn.

She got me good. Here I thought I was doing a "big brother" thing earlier in the night at Club Fred and she was able to turn it around on me. Pretty humiliating for me, but then again, how was she supposed to feel when this guy hit on me with her sitting right there between us? Or wait a minute; does that mean that I just looked so gay that he didn't even think for a second that Susan and I could be a couple?

Damn.

I guess I should be flattered, but that was the wierdest damn place I've ever been hit on by either sex. At least I got a free drink out of the deal.

As for the show, it was another "shack run". To me, it sounded more like a '70s R&B show than a true blues show. Little Milton's backup band looked absolutely bored out of their skulls the whole night. And for someone known for guitar playing, he only busted out the instrument once, late in the show and ran through some scales as if he'd invented them. The audience loved it, of course and I smiled as the women in the crowd swooned upon hearing these most basic notes.

At the end of the show, we said good-bye to my new friend but I stayed real close to Susan on the way out.

I'm such a tease.

Juke Joint (Part One: White Like Me)

Back in the early 90's, my sister Susan was a student at Fresno State University and found out that the on campus radio station was looking to fill two slots in the schedule. She knew that I had always wanted to be on the radio so she called me because the program director had told her that I could do a show as a non-student if she was at least in the studio during the broadcast. Better that than dead air, he thought.

One of two available 3 hour long slots was your typical "college radio/alternative/punk/cutting edge/your parents hate it/absolute crap" shift on what I seem to remember was a Thursday at midnight thing. The other was a blues shift on Tuesdays at 3am, which was the end of the 9 hour run of the Monday Night Blues format. I knew a little about the blues, I knew playing the blues was better than the above described genre and I started work at 6am anyway, so I took the blues shift. I figured I could get up a few hours earlier for the "art". Susan remarkably agreed to get up at that ungodly hour to accompany me in the booth. To this day, I don't know how to repay her for that sacrifice of sleep. My boss scheduled me off on Tuesdays when he could, but if I had to work he would let me come in a little late. (I always felt a little funny playing Lightnin' Hopkins records--yes,LPs--while wearing a Coca-Cola uniform).

So I started my stint as a DJ; unpaid, on a terrible shift and with no previous experience. Susan would be there as required, but usually either slept or studied, whatever she needed to do most. If you've ever felt as if no one is listening to what you have to say, try the 3-6am shift on a low-watt radio station on Tuesday mornings. I could have read Mein Kampf with Mr. Rogers singing "It's A Wonderful Day In the Neighborhood" playing behind me and probably get two calls; one wrong number and one person asking who the kickass blues legend singing the "Could You Be Mine" song is. But I will tell you this: I got to play anything I wanted and that freedom, even on college radio, is rare these days. No playlist, no heavy rotation requirements and nobody looking over my shoulder. And friends, I played the shit. Stevie Ray Vaughan bootleg tracks from Japan from my own collection? No problem. Any (and all) tracks from Willie Dixon's "I Am The Blues"? You got it, brother. You want to hear KFSR's scratchy-ass original LP take of Muddy Waters' "Mannish Boy"? I got it and you're gonna hear it upon request right now. So went that show.

It wasn't long before the moron that had the primo 9pm-midnight shift got canned and I was asked to take the coveted slot. Oh, yeah! Now I've got an audience. I was excited and Susan was happier too, because she could go back to the non-vampire lifestyle she was used to. But now she also had to participate more in the show. She became Producer (pulled records and CDs from the library for me), Call Screener (weeding out the drunks and weirdos) and she even provided the voice of the intro to Blues All Night with Laughing Boy Tony Holt. (Tapes available upon request).

With the new time slot, I decided to take it upon myself to promote the blues in the Fresno area. I would talk about upcoming shows and play tracks from the artists visiting town. After a while, I made contact with local club owners and promoters and struck a deal to mention concert dates. KFSR, being a non-profit entity, could not accept advertising dollars but could have local venues "sponsor" shows by giving away tickets to concerts. Along with the giveaway tickets, my sister and I would also be put on the "list at the door" at venues around town. Even at a small club, it is a huge blast to the ego to say, "Yeah, I'm on the Guest List" and walk on by the security guys without paying the cover.

Yes, faithful readers, I'm getting to the CONCERT content.

In early August of 1994, I got a call (screened by Susan) from a promoter that was bringing blues legend Little Milton to town. I agreed to spread the word about the show in exchange for giveaway tickets and that I get put on the "list at the door". I plugged the hell out of that show for the next three Monday nights and gave tickets away over the air like they were escort flyers on the strip in Vegas.

A slight dilema surfaced when tried and true "sponsor" Fred Martinez of Club Fred fame had also given the Laughing Boy Show a bounty of six pair of tickets (plus a pair to me) to see Chris Hiatt and Cold Shot, a tribute to Stevie Ray Vaughan, on the same night at Club Fred. I wasn't worried about the listeners. They'd have to make up their own minds on what show to attend. I was more concerned about having free tickets to two shows and having to decide on which to sponge off of. Then I realized that Little Milton was playing two shows that night, one at 8pm and one at 11pm. I could make the Chris Hiatt show and get over to the Tomiko Lounge to catch Little Milton at 11pm. At the risk of getting too greasy, I could make both shows.

For a reason I cannot remember now (damn you to Hell, Adoph Coors!), my wife Mary could not make it to either show. My sister, being my Producer, etc., decided to see what this live blues stuff was all about. We went to Club Fred to see Chris Hiatt and Cold Shot. Susan and I got there a little late and ended up standing in the back of the room by the jukebox. I got a beer and Susan had a Zima (hey, it was the hot girly drink back then) and we took in the scene of the packed house until Chris Hiatt took the stage. I have to say, as a Stevie devotee, I got chills watching this guy pay homage to the late SRV. He had the moves, the chops, the tone and he even had the hat. I saw Stevie Ray live four times and this guy made me think it was five.

People were dancing and whooping it up and the energy level was off of the scale. Susan and I were enjoying the show immensly, but also looking at our watches because we had to get downtown to see the Little Milton late show. I got another beer and took my place leaning against the wall by the jukebox as a wobbling drunk came up to Susan and asked her to dance. My sister ain't no slouch in the looks department, so this came as no surprise to me. I watched as she politely declined his offer. He steadied himself and gave her the ol' "C'mon....issa party.....les dance you an' me..." line and she still gave him a polite "no thank you".

I was taking this all in while digging the show as it occured to me that I was standing right next to Susan the whole time that this idiot was hitting on her. For all he knew, I was her beau (we look nothing alike, so don't go thinking this is a West Virginia thing), yet he was so looped that he either didn't notice or didn't care. Upon his second refusal, he looked toward the stage for a moment and I leaned over to Susan and asked, "Do you want me to tell this guy I'm your boyfriend and get rid of him?" She shook her head, giving me the impression that she was used to this kind of troll. But still, I was a little bothered that I didn't cut an imposing enough of a figure to make someone not approach a woman standing right next to me.

At about 10:20 or so, we figured we'd better head downtown. We hated to leave Club Fred because Chris Hiatt was just killing everybody there. But I really thought that Little Milton justified the early exit. So we headed out and made our way to the Tamiko Lounge, based solely on directions given over the phone earlier that week by the promoter. For as many shows as I'd seen in downtown Fresno, I'd never heard of the Tamiko Lounge. I assumed it was a nightclub or maybe a ballroom that I'd passed by on my way to Wilson Theater or maybe the Caddilac Club. After navigating the downtown streets by the chicken-scratch notes I had, we arrived at The Tamiko Lounge. It was a nondescript building under an overpass with a parking lot enclosed by chain link fence with razor wire on top. The sign out front, in letters larger than those that named the place, read: SOUL FOOD.

We parked the car and started walking up to the venue. It wasn't long before we saw four very large black men at the entrance working as security. No big deal at all. Except for the fact that they were looking at us like we were on fire.

"Good evening", said one of them.

"Hi", I replied, sounding so white that even Edgar Winter would think he had a tan.

"Uh, can we do something for you?", he asked.

"Well, yeah. We're here for the show", I told him. I then gave him the kicker: "I'm on the list".

I gave him my name and he looked it up. He raised his eybrows when he saw it there on the paper. Susan and I walked in and it was almost like those cliche' moments in B-movies when the needle scratches across the record when someone walks into a party.

The lighting was dim and we had a little moment of re-adjustment as we looked around the place. A few steps inside and we realized that maybe we'd underdressed just a bit. The darkness could not swallow the shimmer of sequins and the glint of recently shined shoes. Nor could it hide the fact that we were the only white folks in the entire joint.

Next up: Juke Joint (Part Two): The Big Misunderstanding

Beating A Dead Mule (Part 2: Letdown in the Lobby)

We waited in line a little longer, wishing we'd left an hour earlier so we could have eaten. We both seemed to remember that the Warfield served food close to where we'd be seated, so we weren't too worried. Fending off the occasional panhandler helped pass the time. How many different ways can you tell someone that you have no spare change? In the words (that I never have the guts to use) of the late Robin Harris, "Spare change? Ain't no such thing. I got change...can't spare it. Why don't you get yourself a spare job? Then you'd have yourself some spare change".

The doors opened and we got up to the entrance pretty quickly. Mary went to the shorter, women's pat-down line while I waited for a few guys to get the treatment in front of me. I lost sight of her, but we always meet up right inside the doors when that happens. I was up next and the guy had all sorts of questions about the various items in my pockets. I pulled out my phone, my voice recorder, my pen and paper, my Chapstick and my Sharpie. I've gotten into the habit of bringing the Sharpie just in case I have the time to get an autograph or two. Since we were staying close by, I thought maybe we'd hang around by the tour bus after the show. But as I reloaded my gear into the various pockets of my cargo pants, Door Guy said, "Can't bring in the Sharpie, man."

"Huh?", I grunted, looking over his shoulder for Mary inside. I was still putting stuff away in my pockets and starting to walk past him.

"No Sharpies, dude", he said apologetically. "Sorry".

I must have looked confused because he added, "Graffiti".

"Graffiti?", I asked.

"Yeah, sorry. You can't bring it in", he said and he made a gesture with his hand, guiding me away from the door. What the hell did he think I was going to do, take a pen back to my car or something? Skip the show and go home, maybe? This ain't no camera or knife, kid. It's a pen.

I stared blankly at his arm outstretched in front of me for a second or two and looked back up to his face. I held out the pen and told him to toss it in the trash can behind him. "You sure?", he says.

"Dude, it's a pen", I told him as I passed through the doors and entered the lobby of the Warfield Theater. The walls are covered with posters and photographs from past performances just like the Fillmore, but there was no time for dilly-dallying. We had to score a table! But where was Mary? I looked around and couldn't find her. I was sure she'd gotten in before me, what with the delay I'd just had. I probably looked a little lost there for a minute. I could just hear the announcement over the P.A.; WE HAVE A LOST MAN IN HIS THIRTIES, HE'S WEARING A BLACK T-SHIRT AND CARGO PANTS. HE'S LOOKING FOR HIS WIFE AND HE NEEDS A BEER. HE SAYS HIS NAME IS TONY. PLEASE COME PICK HIM UP AT THE BAR.

I gave up on trying to find her because she probably figured I would get spastic and dart into the theater to get a table without her and saw no point in waiting for me at the door. As I made my way through the lobby, I saw two hippie-chicks asking anyone if they would trade their General Admission tickets for the girls' "good" balcony seats. Another pretty good indication that the Dead were here; these girls found out about it and wanted to get closer to the stage. I went through the doors that led to the main floor and saw Mary there. She was scouting ahead of me. That's my girl! I caught her eye and she shrugged. When I reached her, she told me that all the tables were reserved. I looked around and sure enough, placards were on each table. Then I looked down to the lower tier and saw that there were no tables there at all. They had been removed to make more standing room because of the expected crowd, so we were later told by a manager. There was a brief moment of helplessness, then we took a nice spot on the rail on the second tier. It was a great view of the stage with no obstructions because it stood about 3 or 4 feet above the main floor and we'd have a ledge to put our jackets and beers on, too. A table would have been a nice luxury, but this wasn't so bad. We got a couple of beers ($11--ouch) and smirked to each other as we watched all the people wandering around looking for a spot to watch the show from.

We needed to eat, so Mary ordered us up some grub. It was all pretty much California Cuisine and I'm a pretty picky eater, so I decided on the bratwurst. Eight bucks. That thing better be the best damn brat I ever had. Turns out it wasn't, but it was the biggest and easily the most phallic.

Chris showed up not too long after that and we talked for a bit, all of us excited to be there. Then another friend, Paul Taylor, came around. Paul's a fan of this Blog and I was only too happy to listen to him quote lines from past stories I've written. That was huge for my ego. I think more of you should take a cue from Paul. When you do, I'll act embarrassed, but really I'll be eating it up.

The floor area was beginning to fill up a little and I noticed something I hadn't seen before. On the floor, there was yellow and black tape--the kind you see in crash-test footage--to mark the aisles. If you stood in the aisle, an usher would come over and ask you to move within the taped lines. Who came up with that idea, Les Nesman?

Gov't Mule is a band that allows people to tape the shows from the audience and lets their fans trade these recordings amongst themselves. The only restriction is that the recordings not be sold. It's a pretty cool thing for any band to do. The equipment can be fairly sophisticated and quite pricey. But for the tapers, it's their hobby and something they enjoy. I, for one, am glad for that because I've gotten untold numbers of these recordings and it still kind of blows my mind to hear a show that I attended on a CD---sometimes only a few days later. Our spot on the rail was right above the designated taper's section on the main floor. It was facinating to watch these folks set up for the night, often working in tandem to set up mic stands, label DAT tapes, put in fresh batteries, etc. I was watching and listening to them compare their mics. It was very similar to car buffs looking over each others engines at a car show. The vernacular of the two hobbies seemed very similar to me, because I know nothing of either. At one point, I could have sworn that I heard one taper say he had an Illudium Q-36 Explosive Space Modulator and I had no reason not to believe that he did.

The lights went down and drummer Matt Abts took to his kit and started noodling around a bit. The other bandmembers joined him one by one, adding to the building tune until they blasted into one of my faves, "Blind Man In the Dark". This was the beginning of one the best sets I've heard Gov't Mule play. It was also the first show I've seen with the new permanent bass player, Andy Hess. I had a little wishlist of bassists I wanted to see Mule play with and Andy wasn't on it. Not because I didn't like him, but I really didn't know him or his playing. I was thoroughly impressed that night. He also cracked me from time to time because he seemed to stalk his area of the stage like the Crypt-Keeper. He also never straightened up fully. His knees were always bent and he slouched over his bass. I think that if he stood up straight, he must be 9 feet tall. I was really stoked and I looked around from time to time to take in the crowd's reaction. Heads were bobbing and there were smiles all around. It was a very powerful choice of tunes and I was into it.

One taper was dancing very awkwardly. He was grooving pretty good, but he looked like he was operating an invisible telephone switchboard. Mary got a kick out of him and mimicked his moves from our perch right above him. I joked to her that she was missing a good show and she said the show was right in front of her. Then she said, "Watch this, I'm gonna go dance with him", and she started to make her way around the back of me to head down the ramp to the main floor. I flailed at her and caught her shirt. "Ah, ah, ah....No!", I scolded her. She just laughed at me and kept teasing that she was going down there. But I know if I hadn't caught her, she would have done it and I could just envision her knocking over mic stands and stomping DAT tapedecks in the darkness like a bull in a china shop. The look of sheer horror on the faces of the tapers would have made a good story though.

After what I think was about 90 minutes, the band broke for intermission. We caught a bathroom break, got a couple more beers and waited for what seemed to be inevitable. The band came on for the second set with Phil Lesh on bass. Uh-oh. As they started the first tune, the guitarist that we met in line was standing next to Mary on the rail and asked her if the bass player was playing the same song as the rest of the band. She said that she thought so. He just shook his head. Mary was already looking to bail out on this set, but I was going to give it a few more minutes. Then Lesh opened his mouth to sing. We were out of there. I've seen German Shepherds react more slowly to a dog whistle than Mary did to Lesh's vocals. We waved to Chris and Paul that we would be in the lobby. Good time to look at posters.

Photo of me in the lobby taken with camera-phone.

In the lobby, the scene was surreal. I expected us to be the only fans out there. But there were many more people than I would have bet on. As we walked to the bar, a guy caught a look at my Gov't Mule shirt and shook his head, "You believe this shit?" If I wanted to go to a Dead show, I'd go to a friggin' Dead show". I shrugged and told him that it shouldn't have been a surprise. He knew to expect it, he just took it harder than he thought he would. Another couple of guys were walking by and overheard our conversation. One guy had on his new Gov't Mule hat and new 3/4 sleeve Gov't Mule jersey (which I thought about getting just for nostalgic purposes---I haven't worn a jersey style concert shirt in 20 years), both of which he had just purchased before the show. He was livid. He said he was disgusted and was leaving. Mary and I told him that there would be a third set and he would kick himself for leaving, but he didn't care. He motioned to his buddy and they walked right out the door. I was dumbfounded. He seemed sober, intelligent and pretty normal, but man, was he pissed! Chris and Paul, both Dead fans, even joined us in the lobby for a while, mentioning that while it was cool to hear the Dead, they weren't playing anything too exciting or surprising. Just then, Paul stopped talking and listened intently for just a moment to the sounds coming into the lobby from the open doors to the theater. His eyes opened wide and he shot away from us as if he remembered he'd left the stove on at home. Apparently, they were playing something interesting after all, but they had me fooled.

Another merciful intermission came and went. The Mule came on for the third set, but Mary and I had the wind taken out of our sails a little. They played fine, but we questioned the song selection. The first set was so inspired and intense, that this one seemed a little anti-climatic to me. Of course, fatigue was also starting to set in. By the time they played their signature tune, (the song called Mule--which brought us back to life briefly), Mary and I had been up for 22 hours. The third set ended and after some time, they returned for Soulshine which was no surprise at all. In fact, we left upon hearing the first notes. I just didn't have to hear Soulshine again. It's a great song, but it's becoming an albatross around their necks. Stairway to Heaven for the jamband genre.

We walked out and many others were doing the same. I was a little disapointed, but all in all, it was a great show. It was also great to hang out with Chris and Paul. And while I realize that the Dead appearing onstage that night was a big deal for most people, I just can't force myself to swallow it. But as sour as I may have been after the first set, I have a feeling I'll be right back there, wherever Gov't Mule play with whomever they choose to share the stage with. Because like a woman that thinks her man will change someday, I just know the Mule will come around and see things my way and play a full concert with no guests someday. But probably never in San Francisco.

Beating A Dead Mule (Part 1: What a short strange trip it's been)

Q: When is a Gov't Mule concert not a Gov't Mule concert?

A: When it takes place in San Francisco

Gov't Mule and I have an unbalanced relationship. I adore them and they don't seem to know that I exist. I champion for their cause, telling anyone who I think would like their music about them, yet lately they've been trampling on my devotion a bit. This last time up at the Warfield on Friday, April 16th in San Francisco was a crushing blow.

Mary and I had already seen Gov't Mule perform live 10 times when I got an email annoucement about the 2004 West Coast swing of the Rebirth of the Mule tour. Fresno does not have the demographics to support of band like this, so we end up having to travel north or south to catch the shows. In the past, we'd gotten lucky with the dates working out for us, most of the time falling on a weekend, but we've even been able to take time off of work when they happen be weeknight shows. Twice, we made the Fresno to S.F., S.F. to L.A. and L.A. back to Fresno journey just to see Mule two nights in a row. Those were tough hauls, but it was worth it because this band doesn't play the same show twice, especially two nights in a row.

This year's San Francisco show was on a Friday night. My current schedule has me working Saturdays, so I stressed a little about getting the time off to see them this time around. Seeing them that Saturday night in Los Angeles was probably an easier option because we could just leave after I got home from work, but I prefer S.F. to L.A. as a city in general and I also found out that the Warfield show was Gov't Mule's 1000th performance. It promised to be a special night. I should have seen it coming..........

We made our plans to see the Warfield show a few weeks before the date. I was able to get the day off, so I ordered two tickets online and reserved a room at the very cool Hotel Metropolis, which is within "stumbling distance" of the theater. We like to stay there when we see shows at the Warfield because with no driving necessary after the show, we can cut loose a little (okay.... or a lot). We were all set and were looking forward to the little getaway.

In the coming weeks, there was excitement and rumors were flying around the internet about what special guests would appear for the Mule's 1,000th show. At previous Gov't Mule shows in the City, members of the Black Crowes, Blues Traveller, The Meters, Metallica, Primus, Hot Tuna and many other bands have sat in from time to time. This is usually pretty cool to see, but does tend to dilute the experience of seeing a Mule show. Gregg Allman has sat in a couple of times and that's always a good time because Gov't Mule's guitarist and singer, Warren Haynes, is a member of the Allman Brothers. It's a natural fit to see them together onstage. Haynes is also now a full-time member of the Dead, which is what the remaining members of the Grateful Dead are calling themselves these days. I should have seen it coming............

About a week before the show, it seemed possible that the Dead could play at this show. I was hoping against hope that it wouldn't happen. I really have nothing against the Grateful Dead. I realize and respect what they are and what they mean to rock and roll. I just can't get into them. Sometimes I try, by checking out a Grateful Dead radio show from time to time, but for every moment that catches my ear and impresses me, there are more moments where I say to myself, "This is crap. Why am I listening to this?" I don't like the Dead, but I like the idea of the Dead. Great merchandise (the skull logo, the skeleton characters and the dancing bear stuff), a loyal following and a mythical status in rock history all make for an attractive package. I just don't care for the music. Too bad, because I really dig the shirts, but I think you should actually like a band to wear their gear.

Mary, on the other hand, hates the Grateful Dead. She does not like hippies, especially neo-hippies. She does not like the smell of patchouli, which is what most hippies smell like, but she'll take that over B.O., accepting the lesser of two evils. And she really hates the Dead's bass player, Phil Lesh, but I'll save that story for another time. Knowing that Mary and the Dead don't see eye to eye, I wasn't sure if I should tell her about the rumors. Because then the Gov't Mule concert for her would be like eating a delicious apple but knowing that there's a worm in it somewhere. She just wouldn't be able to enjoy the show.

After a few more days of speculation on the internet, it really seemed likely that the Dead were gonna be there, so I figured that I'd tell Mary just so it wasn't an unpleasant surprise. You know, like stepping in dogshit is unpleasant, but still a surprise. At least this way, she'd be prepared and I could plan for the right amount of Sierra Nevada beer it would take to get her to sit through that portion of the show.

On the day of the show, we took off as soon as I could get cleaned up after work. We were both pretty tired after playing a late softball game the night before and then getting up at our usual 3:15am for work. But we were excited to get out of town and see one of our favorite bands again. I said I'd drive so that Mary could catch a nap so as to prepare for a long night of jamming. I usually have no problem catching a second wind on concert days, but this time my body was shutting down on me. We didn't get more than an hour out of town when I was having trouble focusing on the road. Traffic was still light, but I knew that once we got close to San Francisco, I would need my senses to be sharp. So when we stopped for a bathroom break at our usual truck stop, I asked Mary if she could take a short shift so I could nap. She had no problem with that and I settled into the passenger seat thinking I'd close my eyes and relax. I don't remember anything from Los Banos to San Jose--about an hour--and Mary tells me I was snoring before she got up to speed entering traffic off of the onramp. I guess I was pretty tired.

With Mary Andretti at the wheel, we made good time up to the Bay Area. Most of the traffic was on the way out and we were fighting our way in. Both of us needed to eat, but didn't dare stop until we got to the hotel. Since we had General Admission tickets, we'd have to get to the Warfield early to land a primo spot. At the Warfield, the area in front of the stage is standing room only, then there is a step up where long tables are set up. These tables are usually all reserved. One more step up and under the balcony are more tables which are pretty much up for grabs. We've had luck in the past securing a table with a great view (and close to the bar!), so we were sticking to the game plan.

So I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and helped navigate. We cranked up KFOG and Mary changed the lyrics to Blondie's "One Way Or Another" to suit her aggresive driving style.

One way or another
I'm gonna pass ya
I'm gonna getcha getcha getcha getcha

One way
Maybe right now
I'll pass ya I'll pass ya
I'm gonna blow right past ya

Traffic was pretty bad due to the Giants/Dodgers game coming up at 7:15 that night, but our hotel was away from the stadium and once we got into the City itself, it wasn't too long before we were pulling into the parking lot, giving the valet the keys and heading inside to check in. Oh, and I needed a bathroom really bad, so I was glad when check-in took no time at all and we headed up the 10 floors in the elevator to our room. We turned the corner in the hallway and came upon the door to our room, number 1004. It was slightly ajar. Mary stopped and said something that did not register with me. I said, "Huh. It's open" and went right in. I did check to see that no one was in the room, at least in the open, as I made a dash into the bathroom. Mary was creeping into the room, not comfortable with this at all. As I stood there in the bathroom, relieving the pressure on my bladder that was 82 miles old, I did sort of get a Psycho moment when I imagined that someone could be behind the shower curtain. Leaning over (carefully aiming still), I brushed the curtain aside to see an empty shower. I was 90% sure it would be empty, but as I look back, what would I have done if some cretin was in there? I was tired, unzipped and kinda busy at that moment. That would not have been a good crime scene photo.

Upon further inspection, the room was clean, but had recently had some sort of visitor. The decorative pillows on the bed were askew and there was an impression on the bedspread. There was ice dumped in the sink and a little trash in the wastebasket. Mary wanted no part of this room, but we were running late and I was stressing a little. It was about 6:15 and doors opened at 7:00. I theorized that a maid probably came up here and took an unauthorized nap and didn't straighten up as she left in a hurry, maybe after hearing the elevator. Mary theorized that a homeless man probably snuck in the hotel and found this room's door ajar and had himself a nice, comfortable afternoon in there. The thought of sleeping on that bed got the best of me and I relented when Mary wanted to call down and change rooms.

We moved into our new room, which was uninhabited as best we could tell, cleaned up and I called Chris Brown (of Chris "Lefty" Brown's Corner blog fame--see the link on my sidebar) on his cellphone. Chris was making his way to the Bay Bridge, so we'd beat him to the show for sure. I told him we'd get a table and look out for him. We went down to the lobby and made our way onto Market street. We looked around for something to eat but could not find anything on that block. The end of the line into the Warfield was just ahead and we decided we'd get something inside. After standing there for a little while, a couple of guys in line asked us if we'd seen Gov't Mule before. We gave them a little history of the band and related some of our own experieces. After talking to them for a bit and hearing that they were musicians themselves, I was sure they'd be blown away at this show, but I did warn them that the night promised to feature some guests. I should have seen it coming...................

Next: Beating A Dead Mule (Part 2: Letdown in the Lobby)

Ozzfest '99 (Episode Three: The Gravel Pit, The Last Stand and The Abdication)

Janet and I entered the lot where the Second Stage was located and immediately felt gravel under our feet. I guess the promoters had it laid out to take the heat off of the asphalt. Not a bad idea in theory, but it was a little deep in places and traction was lacking. Fear Factory had already taken the stage and we both headed out into the middle of the standing crowd. The stage was fairly small, like one you'd find in a medium sized nightclub. The sun was over our shoulders now, falling towards sunset, and it blazed right into the faces of the performers. Better them than us, because then we wouldn't be able to see the full cups of water the guitarist was tossing into the teeming pit in front of the stage.

Janet likes to get into the action. She wanted to move closer to the stage and I was cool with that. We navigated through the crowd with ease; there was ample space out in the gravel lot so far, so people weren't crammed together. We found a nice spot about 20-25 people deep center stage and enjoyed the show. Fear Factory was pretty good live, but not so much on disc. I learned that one the hard way. Goodbye $8.99 (used price at Boo Boo Records in San Luis Obispo later that year). But we were into it at the time and so was the crowd.

The distance between people at the Second Stage was akin to the space between fans at a football game when they stand to cheer a play. That space is dictated by the rows of seats, otherwise who knows what would happen in that stadium. But out in the lot, people seemed to be laid back, if that's possible for a metal concert, and we just looked over the heads in front of us to see the stage, grooving on the slamming beat and grinding guitars of FF. It took me a moment to realize that the distance between us and the people right in front of us had grown. "That's odd", I thought, and went right back to watching the show. Upon further review, those people in front of us were now about 10 feet away, with their backs to the stage and looking right at us. I glanced at Janet to see if she'd noticed this, but she was headbanging, never taking her eyes of off the stage. I then looked over my shoulder and felt like Chief Brody's son in the water in JAWS.

We were alone in the vortex of the moshpit, not one person within 5 yards of us. Somehow, we hadn't noticed any pushing and shoving. The diameter of the pit was at about 15 feet when I first noticed it and it quickly matured into the standard regulation measurement of 25 feet by the time I realized that I needed to do something. The breed of this pit differed from the nightclub variety; in a nightclub, you're usually packed in so tight that it's really just an oceanic tide that takes place, with people rarely able to break free and really wail on each other. But out here in the Gravel Pit, there was ample room to gain speed and the participants did this by doing a skip-run around the inside perimeter of the human circle, taking a shove from time to time from those on the fringe. I looked around and got a little dizzy trying to find an escape route, watching the half-dozen moshers circle us like rabid dogs. Me, with my Colonel Blake-style floppy hat and Janet wearing her straw bonnet probably looked like easy prey out there.

I took it all in before we made our getaway. It was impressive; the diameter had now easily surpassed 50 feet and there were at least fifteen moshers gaining momentum on the deadly Merry-Go-Round. I hooked Janet by the back beltloop of her pants and pulled her steadily backwards to a possible break in the circle I'd seen. She whipped her head around at me and was about to ask what the hell I thought I was doing, when she looked around and I only could read her lips as she said, "oh, shit". We skulked out of the pit, never turning to walk forward, only backtracking to the edge. We dodged flailing humans like so much fleshy shrapnel in some weaponless war. Reaching safe haven on the perimeter, we watched as the pit collapsed for a moment upon itself to about a 5 foot diameter. Then, it gasped as a whole and came back up to the 25 foot norm. We were comfortable where we stood and happily pushed stray moshers back into the pit. It was "catch and release" at the Second Stage that day. One guy in his late teens wobbled out of the pit and into our space. I was about to feed him back to the human hurricane when Janet stopped me. "Here comes Florence Nightengale, hopping down the Ozzfest Trail".

This kid was obviously stunned, possibly from a blow to the face or maybe just pure exhaustion. Janet grabbed him by the shoulders, asking him all the pertinent questions: "All you alright? Do you know where you are? How many fingers?" He responded in grunts and I told Janet, "Aww, he's fine", taking a cue from Drunk One earlier in the day. We were a little relieved when a buddy of his came up and put his arm around him to escort him off (literally) into the sunset. I turned to Janet, "See? The circle of life".

After Fear Factory was done, it was time to rally with Mike and Chet at Camp Geezer. Janet and I went up the sloping concourse to the beer stand nearest the entrance to the grass area. The line moved slower than I would have liked and I was getting worried about running into some sort of "beer curfew". Finally, we got to the head of the line and Janet ordered. I noticed some concerned looks on the faces of the beer servers. As I got closer, I overheard them saying something about cups and the shortage thereof. Janet got her two brews, I stepped up and ordered and was told that they just used the last cup. What? I felt like asking them if they did not realize that this was Ozzfest when they planned the beer consumption rate. Then it occured to me that maybe they did and the cup shortage was planned! Bastards! In desperation, I offered to purchase a beverage in the runoff cup that sat beneath the tap. "No, man, you don't want that one", the beer guy replied. I didn't see the problem; only beer runoff came into contact with the cup, right? But his raised eyebrows held more of a story and I trusted him. We waited for a while until a cup delivery could be made and then we heard the roar; Rob Zombie had taken the stage.

Blew off the second pair of beers. Janet would share the two with the Four. We bounded down the hill, now in early darkness. Camp Geezer stood the test through Slayer and then the dEFTONES. Mike and Chet had held firm and their tale of defense is unknown to me, but Janet and I returned with ale and we celebrated our reunion. I leaned in close to make myself heard over Mr. Zombie's racket and asked Chet about the dEFTONES. "You would have dug it, man" was his reply. The beer line had denied me the experience. Damn you, August Busch and all your offspring. (I later toasted ol' Auggie and his brood listening to the dEFTONES, with Janet, at a Metallica concert last summer. We're good now, Busch and me).

Rob Zombie put on an entertaining show, but it was a bit comical. We all had a great time singing the choruses to his radio hits and loved all the pyro effects. But I couldn't get the thought out of my head that I was watching some sort of Syd and Marty Krofft production of a heavy metal concert.

Meanwhile, the masses were gathering behind us up the hill. This would be our finest hour. The blanket was still unfurled and at it's full spread, but a little curled at the edges. Chet and I took the rear while Mike and Janet watched the flanks. Time after time, over the din of Rob Zombie and his circus-cum-horror flick rumpus, we had to shout people away from our territory. This took a little away from the enjoyment of the show onstage, but also gave us an extracurricular activity. This was not a passive event for us. The lights came up and we had lasted yet another act with Camp Geezer somewhat intact.

We finished the last of the beer and had to rehydrate. The bottles of water, as they had been all day, were a savior. Chet dug out two bottles from the backpacks. A girl next to us on the rail (a latecomer, I might add) wanted to buy a bottle of water from us. But we really didn't have that much and didn't really want to sell. If we sold, we were jerks. If we gave it to her for nothing, we'd get a rush of beggars wanting the water. We planned ahead for this event and now had to listen to these people whine as if it were post-apocolyptic Mountain View and we possesed the last untainted water. We all looked at each other and didn't know what to do until Chet spoke: "Fine, sell it to her". Janet took the lead here and turned to the whiner girl and firmly offered, "Five bucks". The girl was a little taken aback at first but then said, "Fuck that". We all agreed that the water was ours and was to be hoarded. Screw these idiots. Let them trudge up to the bathrooms and drink from the sinks. This ain't no commune sweetheart, this is Ozzfest '99.

The lights went down and there was a sudden surge forward. As much as we had prepared, we were caught off guard by the siege. Chet and I tried to hold back the throng. None broke our linked arms but we were pushed forward towards Janet and Mike, who were dealing with their own problems securing the sides of the blanket. I actually had my feet dug in and was sliding down the hill, unable to gain footing. Mike looked over his shoulder at us and laughed maniacally. Janet had a little panic in her eyes as she looked to me and Chet for suggestions. The only vision I've seen on film that I can compare that moment to is the attack on Helm's Deep in Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers. We were overrun and we knew it at the same time. Simultaneously, we yelled "Fuck it!!"

Janet dropped to her haunches and gathered the blanket into a ball. Chet, Mike and I threw or kicked the backpacks into a pile at our feet and we met four abreast against the rail. We all exhaled and started laughing while Sabbath assualted us with "War Pigs".


L-R Tony, Chet, Mike (obscured) and Janet

Chet looked over to our right, elbowed me and we all screamed, "No way!!" It was Drunk One and Drunk Two at the rail next to us, right where they'd been so many hours before. They had returned from who knows where and we all wondered what tales they could tell. I can only think that they were like rock and roll homing pidgeons. They both had bleary eyes and crooked smiles, but they were energized. They gazed at their king, Ozzy, as he lept around the stage singing "Fairies Wear Boots". High fives all around. It was the comeback of the century.

Black Sabbath did not dissapoint. All the great tunes were played and each was received with a great roar. Electric Funeral, Into the Void, Sabbath Bloody Sabbath and of course, the Twin Towers of Heavy Metal; Paranoid and Iron Man. While Mike and Janet were respectfully appreciating the tunes, Chet and I were getting off. This was Sabbath! I hadn't seen Sabbath since '82 and hearing Tony Iommi's riffs live again was overpowering. Ozzy was frenetic onstage, doing some sort of 2-inch leap from time to time that seemed to take great effort from him like he was doing a standing broad jump. It was hilarious, but we cheered every time he attempted it. God bless Ozzy.

After the show, the lights came up and we witnessed the exodus of the Thick Brows up the hill. We hung out for a little bit so the demolition derby in the parking lot could begin without us. Looking around, the grassy area looked like a battlefield. Garbage, shoes, blankets and the occasional passed out human littered the General Admission section. We saw rockers picking up their fallen compatriots and drag them off to the parking lot. No mullet left behind.

Ozzfest has come around every year since then and I haven't had the interest that I had when Black Sabbath reunited. I guess I'd go if it fell on a Saturday night or if I had the time off. I know it just wouldn't be the same. Except that I'd most likely run into Drunk One and Drunk Two on the rail, drunk off their asses at 11:30am. God bless the Washington Two.

Ozzfest '99 (Episode Two: The Encroaching Horde)

We lost sight of the Washington Two as they staggered off with their heads down into the crowd on the hill. We turned our attention back to the stage where Puya was finishing their set. System Of A Down was up next. We ate a little and stretched out on the blanket while soaking up some sun during the stage changeover. The crowd was growing, but we still enjoyed our little plot of land. We got more and more neighbors, but they all seemed pretty cool because they had blankets and shared our respect for personal space.

System Of A Down came on and gave it their all. They weren't nearly as big as they are now and the crowd seemed indifferent to them. It was strange to watch an act from so far away in the bright sunlight while they played to half the house. From our distance, it was easy to lose track of who the musicians were and who the stagehands were because there is no ability to spotlight the performers in the daylight. During one song, I watched the guitar tech tune an axe behind the amps, thinking "What is the guitar player doing back there?" I felt pretty stupid when he handed the guitar to the real guitar player for the next song. Rookie move.

After System's set, Chet and I went for a walk on the concourse. Godsmack was up next and we figured that it would be okay to take off now for a while. Got some beers and took a good look at the merchandise. The days of the $13 concert shirt were far gone. One shirt caught my eye; the back had the two futuristic pilots from the Never Say Die album on it and the front had the logo from Sabbath's reunion album. I thought maybe I'd pick it up after the show. In reality, I just didn't want to cut into the beer fund. If I bought a shirt and ran short of beer money, I'd resent that shirt. If I had money left over and was able to buy the shirt, that means I was a good boy and deserved the shirt. If I drank too much and didn't have the cash for the shirt, I'd just rationalize until I felt better about not having the shirt. (Jumping ahead: they sold out of the shirt and I had the money for it. What did that mean?)

We picked up four more beers and headed back to Camp Geezer. We both were really looking forward to seeing Primus, probably the "odd man out" band of the day. They were absolutely fantastic that day, maybe the strongest set I'd seen of theirs to that point. The crowd was much more into them than I'd expected, too. And this is when we felt the first rumblings of the approaching troglodyte army. If you've ever gotten the feeling that someone's looking over your shoulder, multilpy that by four-thousand and you start to get the idea of what it felt like on the rail. We had a prime spot and the blanket took up enough square footage to hold about 12 people. We were but four strong with hundreds, if not thousands looking to fill the remaining 8 lots in this Hellish subdivision.

Now, after Primus finished up, we were making ourselves look bigger as if to fend off predators. Each one of us stood on a corner of the blanket facing outward like totem poles. Time after time, people came down the hill after seeing a patch of space from high above. They would approach us and look down at the blanket, look at us, look back up the hill and shake their heads as a signal to their chief, alpha dog or whoever they answered to that the space was indeed taken.

Earlier in the day, I had mentioned that I'd like to check out the Second Stage headliner, Fear Factory. I'd read some positive things about them and sometimes Second Stage acts went on to bigger and better things. So I thought it would be cool to check it out and asked if anyone would like to go with me. Chet and Mike wanted to check out Slayer, who was next on the bill, so they opted out. Janet trusted my instincts on Fear Factory and agreed to trek out to the Second Stage. We hung around until Slayer hit the stage just to see what they were all about. I had only vague knowledge of Slayer going way back to the '80s. I figured they were just some "Satanic" band, capitalizing on the fear of parents and school administrators.

What they were, or at least what they appeared to be that day in beautiful Mountain View was frightening. I'm rarely shocked by what I see on television or movies these days and music that purports to be shocking usually just makes me laugh. (C'mon, who's really scared of Marylin Manson?) But I tell you that on that sunny day in July in the year of our Lord Nineteen-Hundred and Ninety-Nine, I was scared. It was still daylight when the ominous music started up and the crowd went insane. All four of us looked around to see angry faces and raised fists. Real estate was getting precious at this point. Then the video screen fired up and showed the cover art for Slayer's then upcoming album, the name of which escapes me. Then, we all saw video in close-up of a young man's arm having "SLAYER" cut into it with a razor blade. A quick edit then jumped to the young man squeezing his fist to make blood pump throught the letter-wound, all the while this thundering background music is blasting. The audience went berzerk. I was okay until the next video effect. This was video footage of a young man about 19 years old, beaten and bloodied, obviously in a concert venue, leaning over a rail (oh, shit) and screaming "Slayer!!!" This footage was looped to show the moment over and over again. I haven't seen the tapes, but I imagined that this was something like the Faces of Death video series.

Janet and I hung around for two songs before we had to head out for the Fear Factory set. For the record, Slayer's music wasn't frightening at all. Just very heavy, very fast and very garbled. I refer to that genre as Fast Mud instead of Heavy Metal. But the crowd was very scary. A huge moshpit/skirmish had taken over the center of the grass area. From our vantage point, we saw chunks of turf flying through the air, a massive dark cloud of dust collecting and people backing away quickly in an obvious attempt at self-preservation. Janet and I headed up the hill with dusk taking over the sky. I took in all the faces as we passed by. I would break it down like this:

35% Ozzy fans
15% Black Sabbath fans
8% there with boyfriends, bored out of their minds
2% looking for lost boyfriends
10% lost boyfriends (8% of which wanted to be lost)
30% Orcs

We both got out onto the concourse and followed the signs to the Second Stage when I had a brainstorm; we should get beers to watch Fear Factory. Janet responded by reminding me that I was a genius, so we headed to the beer stand. Two tall cool ones would get us through the set and we could pick up another quartet of brews for the Fresno Four back at the rail.

Sipping the waxy edges of our cups so as not to spill the prized elixir, we came upon the entrance to the Second Stage. The gateway to the other stage was actually a partition in a chain link fence out to the parking lot. The stage was set up on one end of a circle of temporary chain link fence in the closest lot. We started to walk on through and the Rent-A-Unemployable-Person security guard notified us that we couldn't take our beer out to the Second Stage area. We protested politely and were told that since the stage was in the parking lot, beer consumption was not allowed. Janet asked the guard if he saw all the tailgating going on before the show and wondered what the difference was. He shrugged and I was pretty sure Janet was sizing him up for a bum rush. But we "clinked" our cups together, said something to the effect of salud, chugged the beers and headed into the Second Stage area.



Next up; Episode Three: The Gravel Pit, The Last Stand and The Abdication

Ozzfest '99 (Episode One: The Rail)

"You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villiany. We must be cautious"-Obi-Wan Kenobi to Luke Skywalker, describing Mos Eisley spaceport in Star Wars.

Obviously, the old Jedi master never went to Ozzfest. Mos Eisley is a day at Disneyland compared to what Chet, Janet, Mike and I saw at the Shoreline Ampitheater in Mountain View, CA on Tuesday, July 20th, 1999.

The reunited Black Sabbath was to headline the festival that year. Black Sabbath had really never gone away, trudging ahead after Ozzy left in '79 with an assortment of singers. They made two really strong albums with Ronnie James Dio, one album with Deep Purple singer Ian Gillan that flopped commerically but remains one of my guilty pleasures, a solo album from guitarist Tony Iommi that turned into a Black Sabbath album with Glenn Hughes at the helm and then a string of releases with Tony Martin and yet another with Dio thrown in there somewhere. The Tony Martin albums were hardly noticed by the buying public, but they hold up just fine in the Sabbath catalog in my mind. In 1998, Black Sabbath performed a couple of U.K. reunion shows in Birmingham, the band's old hometown and released a double live CD culled from those shows. The subsequent success of that release led to the original lineup of Black Sabbath headlining the Ozzfest in 1999.

Chet and I were excited and made plans to make the day happen. We both secured that Tuesday and Wednesday off so we could stay the night. We also asked Janet and her (now ex-) boyfriend Mike if they wanted to head up with us. They did and actually offered to drive. We called ahead and got a couple of hotel rooms close to the venue. We decided to buy General Admission lawn tickets. You see, the ampitheater is built in a bowl, with seats spreading up a hill away from the stage in a semi-circle. Then comes a rail and a huge grass berm in which people sit on blankets or on rented low-backed chairs. There are more banks of speakers up there to relay the sound instead of the stage's setup having to support the entire venue and there are large video screens at the foot of the lawn section as well. From my experience at the concerts I'd seen from the lawn, it was a great place to kick back and enjoy the show. But those were shows from the likes of Yes, Rod Stewart and other acts where people are respectful of one another. This was Ozzfest. What were we thinking?

The bill boasted something like 8 bands on the main stage and started at 11:30am, so we left pretty early from Fresno. We made good time on the 101 up to Mountain View. I was glad because I get a little antsy about getting to shows early, especially general admission shows. To be honest, I turn into a Nervous Nellie with worry warts and an ulcer. Going over my plans to get to just the right spot again and again probably drove the others mad, but I couldn't help myself.

We got to into Mountain View around 9:45 or so and stopped for some fast food breakfast gunk, bought some bottled water at a liquor store and checked into the hotel, really just there to drop off our bags, wash up and head over to Shoreline. We had backpacks full of food, bottled water and sunscreen. The SPF 2000 sunscreen was essentially just for me; it would be a long day in the sun and my companions didn't want me bursting into flames, at least until Sabbath hit the stage. We hopped back into the car and made the short drive over to the ampitheater.

After parking the car, we walked towards the forming line. It really wasn't too long, so we did well to get here early. The People-Watching was rife with subject matter, but there wasn't a varied mix of people at this event. The majority of these concert-goers were of the Under A Rock variety. It was probably the ugliest and single largest collection of mulleted, unbathed and dimwitted mouth-breathers I've ever set my eyes upon. I looked at some of these zombies and wondered how they tied their shoes that morning, much less how they found their way here. I saw one brute wearing a Megadeth shirt from the Rust In Peace tour that obviously was not dug out of the closet just for nostalgic purposes, but was worn on at least a weekly, if not daily basis. It was threadbare and had turned gray after so many years of obvious wear. Just a little fashion hint to all you metal-heads out there; if you can see your nipples through a shirt that was once black, it's time to retire said shirt.

The gates were opening and we did that slow, shuffling, penguin-like walk on the way up to the security pat-down. Near the turnstiles, there were demonstrators with signs, decrying heavy metal and it's influence on people. They seemed passionate and I found it facsinating that this was still an issue that some religious folks held onto. I really hadn't heard the term Satanic associated with music since the Judas Priest suicide trial of 1990. Most of the people in line were merciless in their ridicule of these protesters. It's probably not the best time to try to convert someone when they're holding a ticket to Ozzfest, just feet from the entrance and yelling in your face, "Yeaaaahhhh, I'm going to Hell!! Whhooooooo!!!"

We got searched at the gates. It was just your usual pat-down and the useless questions about having knives or other weapons. But when they searched our backpacks, we were told that we had to take the caps off of the bottles of water. Our response was a collective, "What? Why? I don't get it." We were told that Ozzy's people told security to make sure that no bottle caps were to be taken into the venue because they could be used as projectiles. We agreed that they could be, but that there were many other, more dangerous things that could be used as projectiles being brought inside. Like small humans, for instance. We reluctantly unscrewed the caps, tossed them in the trash can that held an assortment of other forbidden items like full beer cans and half-full vodka bottles and stepped through the gate, standing there together wondering how we'd be able to keep the water in the bottles throughout the day. Chet, being the engineer that he is, figured a way to use some plastic from a sandwich bag in Janet's backpack and some rubber bands that appeared seemingly out of nowhere to seal the bottles. It worked well and I remarked that a sealed bottle of water would make a much better projectile that a little ol' cap any day. The security lady smiled from outside the gate, acknowledging the insanity of such a policy.

Next we had to make our way around the concourse to get to the general admission area. We double-timed it up the concrete walkway that sloped upward toward the entrance to the grassy hill. Passing concession stands and merchandise booths, we turned around a slight bend on the way. There we found another line. Wah? The show was going to start in about 30 minutes and we still had to stake a claim out there on the grass. It gave me time to go over our plan one more time. The others rolled their eyes while I told them that we definitely wanted to be on the rail so as not to have anyone in front us, but we'd have to hustle because that's where everyone would go first. The troops nodded and Chet and Mike decided to get some beers for us while we waited. It was 11:05am.

We slammed the beer and prepared for our mission. Securing all of our gear in the packs, we agreed that we'd split up and do a sort of reconnaissance survey first, then agree where to set up Camp Geezer, named for the Sabbath bassist. The gates swung open and there was a push for the opening, causing a bottleneck that birthed humans out onto the grass like some unholy litter of jackals. We got seperated and became a bit disoriented, but shook the feeling when we realized that people were sprinting for the rail. Shit!

Like a scene from the Oklahoma Land Run of 1889, we all took off running at full bore, dodging those that chose to plop down higher on the hill. Many of those fools were tragically trampled and many blankets were destroyed because of the poor choice to settle down too soon. Trying to spot a place on the rail while at full tilt was pretty hard, but Chet and I landed at about the same place, looking at each other and breathing hard. We looked around for Janet and Mike. The rail was filling fast with folks putting down blankets and waving to others in their party to come down and help hold the space. We saw Janet off in the distance searching for a spot. She caught a glimpse of us and did an arms wide open shrug, telling us she'd had no luck. Mike was already more than halfway around the grass area, about 200 feet away, when he signaled that he'd found something. Chet and I almost left the spot we had to go meet him when he wildly waved us off; someone had jumped the claim. Chet turned to me and said, "Bird in the hand, man, bird in the hand". We decided the spot we had would do and Janet came over and placed the blanket on the ground to make our homestead.

Here's a picture Chet took of me at Camp Geezer before the show while Janet and Mike went on a beer run.



We had a little time to waste before the show and spent it watching the masses enter through the small portal to the grassy area. Janet and Mike returned with the beer and we all celebrated my successful plan. For all the fretting I did, it paid off with a nice little patch on the rail near a light/sound standard. It was about 11:45am when we got our first neighbors to the right. Two heavy and very drunk guys, whose momentum from running down the grass hill had them hit the rail pretty hard, looked down at the stage with wide, if not bloodshot, eyes. They high-fived each other and then high-fived us, yelling a raspy "Ozzy!!" After talking to them for awhile, we were able to decipher the following account; they had driven all night from Washington state and were here to see Ozzy. That's all we could gather for the moment. One talked very excitedly and the other larger one slurred badly. Did I mention it was 11:45am?

I'll paraphrase the conversation we had with them:

Drunk One: Yeah, man, we came all the way from Washington to see Ozzy!

Drunk Two: Ozzy!!

Chet: You know it's Ozzy with Black Sabbath, right?

Drunk One: No, man, Ozzy's here. It's Ozzy!!

Drunk Two: Ozzzzzy!!

Me: Well, yeah, it's Ozzy, but he's playing with Sabbath. They reunited for this tour. It's all Sabbath stuff tonight.

Drunk One: Tonight? When's Ozzy playing? (At this time, Drunk Two is weaving badly and cannot communicate anymore. It looks as if each of his eyelids are blinking at slightly different intervals. He makes burping gestures with his face, but emits no sounds.)

Janet: They come on about Ten, right Ton'?

Me: That's what I've read. There's 6 or 7 bands on before them, man.

Drunk One: But we're here for Ozzy, man!

Drunk Two: (garbled message)

Chet: You guys better pace yourselves. It's gonna be a lonnng day.

Drunk One: Naaahhhh, we're fine.

At this time, we wished them luck and went on with our good ol' time. Puya, a Mexican metal band that sounded great but sang in Spanish, was onstage to open the show. The four of us were checking out the show when we heard someone behind us say, "Man, that guy is fucked up and it's only noon". We looked over our shoulders to see Drunk Two passed out on his back up the hill a bit. Janet pointed him out to Drunk One and he flipped his hand and said, "Aww, he's fine".



But Janet has a little Florence Nightengale in her and went to see if he was alright. He had his shirt up over his impressive belly and was shuddering at times, possibly laboring in his breathing. The sun was at it's highest point and was beating down on him, so it was probably a good thing Janet went over. She came back to Drunk Two and let him have it:

Janet: Dude, you should get your buddy some help. He's gonna get heatstroke or something out here.

Drunk One: He's fine, I tell ya.

Chet: He's fucked up, man. Too much too soon. You guys should go chill out in the shade for awhile.

Drunk One: But Ozzy! We're here for Ozzy!

Mike: Dude! Ozzy doesn't come on for 10 hours. Go chill.

Me: Ten hours, man. That's a long way from now. You'll never make it if you keep partying.

Drunk One: But we haven't even been drinking or nothin'.

At this point, all of us gave him the look a mother gives her 4-year-old when she's caught him in fib. I may have even put my hands on my hips and slightly cocked my head to one side. A paramedic showed up to examine Drunk Two and sat him up. He was pretty bad off. Grass in his hair, red-faced and on his way to a mid-day hangover. The Washington Two stumbled off into the distance up the hill. We thought we'd never see them again.

Next up: Episode Two: The Encroaching Horde

The Assault (Alone Again, Naturally--Part 2)

By choosing Taco Bell as my dinner, I had inadvertently made up some serious time. Now, with an hour or so to kill before doors opened, I walked around the blocks surrounding the Fillmore. On one streetlight pole, I found a poster for a Gov't Mule show that was about a month away. Down it came and found it's way into my cargo shorts' side pocket. It's funny to think, but I actually looked around and waited for a time when no one was walking by to take it down. A guy could be pissing on the sidewalk and nobody would glance at him sideways and here I'm afraid someone's going to see me taking a poster and say, "Hey, what do you think you're doing? Put that back!" I'm an idiot sometimes.

I walked past a small but classy looking place that had some great jazz pouring out of the open door. Large windows revealed a five-piece combo playing to a well dressed crowd, mostly African-American. The band was crammed onto a small stage, which was butted up against the windows facing the street. I stood there and watched through one of these windows, soaking up the atmosphere and enjoying the music. From my vantage point behind the drummer's seat, I could watch the interaction of band. It was pretty cool until I noticed that some of the folks were watching me bob my head and grin like a simpleton through the window. Some were smiling at me and others had a look of impatience as if to say, "When is this moron going to leave?". That question was answered when the drummer looked down at something on the floor to his left, caught me out of the corner of his eye and did a raised eyebrows, ever so slight double-take. If the window weren't there, we were close enough to shake hands. I think he rather would have bipped me on the nose with a drumstick and told me to shoo. It was a good time to continue on towards the Fillmore.

I approached the Fillmore and got in line. I wanted to get in early to check out all of the amazing concert posters that adorn the walls upstairs in the bar and especially in the restaurant. The restaurant is where most of the older posters from the psychedelic era are displayed. The ceilings are really high and the framed posters climb the wall all the way up. Some are hard to make out, but it's fun to watch everyone craning their necks to view them. Posters are still made for current shows, but not every one. When I asked a bartender (imagine that, me at the bar) if there was one made for the Rollins show, he told me no and they usually only commission posters for shows that sell out in advance to make the cost worthwhile. If there is a poster for the show you attend, you get one for free on your way out the door. So far, I have a Gov't Mule poster and one from a recent Lucinda Williams show.

Once inside, you climb a short staircase that takes a turn to the left, where you're greeted by someone with, "Welcome to the Fillmore". I said thanks and asked him if there was another opening band besides Mother Superior. He never met my eyes and said quietly, "I dunno I dunno" and dismissed me by booming over my head to the folks behind me, "Welcome to the Fillmore". Man, this guy has one job and he takes it seriously. He's gonna be able to negotiate a fine wage as a Wal-Mart greeter someday.

I got a beer and checked out the merchandise. Got a Rollins shirt that has the Search and Destroy tattoo design on the back. Picked up the two Mother Superior CDs I didn't have and ventured on to the poster viewing. After a while I made my way down onto the main floor. The opening band, Supafuzz, who was supasucky, was just starting up. I endured their clamor by having a couple more beers.

After their set, I talked a little to the guy next to me. He had on a shirt that I had to ask him about. It had a logo and text that read: The Gaza Strippers. I thought that was pretty funny. Turns out they're some punk band. No wonder I've never heard of 'em. He asked if I'd heard of Mother Superior and I told him about them also being the Rollins Band et al. He seemed a little amazed and I was hoping I wasn't coming off like some music nerd. I know, it's a lost cause.

Mother Superior came on and wowwed everybody. They sounded great and got a real strong response from the crowd. I had a great spot about 20 people deep from the security rail, slightly stage right in front of the guitar player. Personal space was not at a premium yet, so it was pretty comfortable.

I've never caught anything thrown from the stage before. Not a drumstick, not a sweaty towel (thank God), not even a guitar pick. Once, I was able to deflect a Rick Nielson pick at a Cheap Trick show and snatch it off of the ground before the hordes swooped in, but I don't count that because I think he averages just under 250,000 picks thrown per show. How he gets a note in, I don't know. The guy's like some sort of pick tree in Autumn.

Right at the end of Mother Superior's set, I raised my cup of beer to take a drink. I never took my eyes off of the stage and I noticed that the guitarist, Jim Wilson, took his hand back frisbee-style and flung his pick into the crowd. I remember thinking, "Man, he got some distance on that one", when I noticed a slight arc in the flight of the pick. It was coming right for me at a high rate of speed. Hands flashed over heads, swiping at the treasured plastic triangle, missing it as it completed it's long, curving dive. I was frozen in awe of Mr. Wilson's feat, with my cup of beer about an inch from my lips, when that pick hit me right in the mouth.

I emitted something that sounded like "ook" from my throat and before I knew it, fifteen guys were swarming at my feet. No one seemed to notice that I'd been hit, but they knew that pick was in the area. I stood there in shock, the cup still an inch from my face. I looked in the cup to see if it had landed in there, but it did not. What I was amazed at was the fact that Jim Wilson's pick had negotiated a treacherous path and made one final manuever to split the narrowing gap between my smackers and the frosty beverage. Kind of like Luke and the Deathstar.

The lights came up and I timidly looked around to see if anyone was laughing at me. In my mind I could hear it, "Man, that pick hit that dude right it the face and he didn't even move!". But no one seemed to care. I suppose, had I snapped my head back, they could have put two and two together. So the possum act did the trick.

I got another beer for Rollins' set and took a place about 30 people back this time. (Let's see you hit me now, Wilson). Actually, it was in deference to the burgeoning pit that was already taking shape while some live Humble Pie played over the P.A. These Cro-Magnons would mosh to a polka if it were loud enough.

The lights went down and Mother Superior (now, of course, in the form of the Rollins Band) walked onstage and began to play "Disconnect". This tune has a somewhat long intro and I figured it was to build up and make for a dramatic entrance by our hero, Henry Rollins. During this intro, I looked around and saw the very confused faces of the audience. Why were these guys back onstage? I could read their minds. To my right, Gaza Strippers Guy was listening to a large, obviously very drunk man who looked remarkably like Chris Farley. Then, Gaza Strippers Guy pointed to me and Farley lumbered in my direction. He looks down at me at says, "Dat guy says you know these guys. Where's Rollins Band at?"

"Those guys are the Rollins Band", I tell him, pointing to the stage.

"No, dat's Mother Supeeeerieeer", he says.

"Actually, they're both", I said.

He spins around to look at the band onstage, then whirls back to me and asks, "What, da Rollins Band get sick or sumtin' and dese guys are fillin' in?"

Now I had to explain this carefully or I feared he may grind the gears in his head and set off the smoke detectors in the Fillmore. But I didn't want to be condescending in case he could detect that through his foggy state. So I said, "No. This is Mother Superior and they are also the Rollins Band. Rollins liked 'em so much he made them his new lineup."

"So they're the Rollins Band right now?", he asks, a little flicker of light showing behind his eyes.

I replied, "Yeah, this is a Rollins tune they're playing right now. So, yeah they're playing as the Rollins Band right now".

Then the dull gaze returned to his face and he asked, "Okay. But just for tonight right? The the Rollins Band comes back on tour?"

Henry hit the stage and the crowd went wild. Farley was still looking at me waiting for an answer, so I just said, "Uh-huh", never looking away from the stage. He said something that I couldn't hear, seemed to notice that his leader was onstage and charged forward with a "whoooooo", raising his beer and breaking the circle of the pit like a daisy chain. He took two tours around the inside rim of the pit, then tripped on something and went down hard. His beer cup hit the floor with such force that it spit up a fountain about two feet higher than the heads of those surrounding the pit. Apparently, those people thought that now the moshers were throwing cups of beer around and they retaliated by throwing their full cups of brew into the pit. It was like a water park ride in Hell. I stayed at my 30-man-deep position and turned my attention back to stage.

Rollins played a nice long set that never seemed to falter in pace or energy. He's 40 years old and rocks harder than anyone I've ever seen. I was exhausted just from watching him. Maybe he sucks energy from you as you watch like a rock and roll tapeworm. I know that as I walked back to the Kabuki garage, I felt as if I had a good workout. I passed the jazz club (on the other side of the street) and I half felt like knocking on the window to the drummer, but that would have been juvenile. Instead, I waved to all the faces and did a little dance--you know, the "driving the bus" move--from across the street. I'm an idiot sometimes.

Alone Again, Naturally

Rollins Band Guitarist Assaults Fresno Man

That's what the headline would read if anyone would have seen it happen. But I'll get around to that later.......

Some people really have trouble being alone. They feel the need to always be in the company of others, whether it be at home or not. I think the cell phone craze has really helped these people; how many times have you seen someone hang up on a cell call, just to dial another number so they can continue interacting with someone else? These people cannnot fathom seeing a movie alone, going to a resturaunt alone or heaven forbid if you're a woman, even going to a public restroom alone. Me? No problem.

For the first five years of my life, I was without a sibling or neighbor my own age. So I learned to entertain myself and became comfortable being alone. To this day, I can sit at the DMV, the doctor's office or any otherwise boring place and just entertain myself by getting inside my own head. I like it in there. I don't know if any of you would be comfortable, though. You might not understand what's going on.

I've gone to a few concerts by myself. Concerts are a communal experience by design. You and your friends go out to see a band and whoop it up, right? That's where you're wrong and I can help you see the light. It's not about being somewhere with someone, it always boils down to your own personal experience.

Watch a concert film (DVD, whatever) and you get fixed moments in time that will exist forever as chosen by the director of the film. But attend a concert in person and you choose the shots; look at the band, look at your significant other, look at the drunk guy two rows down who's headbanging to the ballad you had played as the first dance at your wedding reception. You make the call.

The best part about being at a concert alone is that you don't have to worry about anyone else's experience but your own. No "oh man, I hope she isn't bored" crap and no "I'm into this, but my buddies aren't getting it" thoughts creeping into your own enjoyment. You are there because you wanted to be there and you're not on the hook for anyone else.

In August of '01, I called my concert stalwarts, longtime chum Chet and my sis-in-law Janet about my plans to see the Rollins Band up in S.F. (Keep in mind, Mary had noooo interest in this show). Chet could not make it due to some prior plans that I can't recall now and Janet passed under the misconception of what the Rollins Band actually was. She thought they were a jamband like Gov't Mule or maybe even the Dead, probably because Mary and I were (and are) so into the Mule and talked about their shows so much. I didn't understand her negative answer at the time and should have asked if she'd heard the music before. I later felt bad that I had assumed she knew what the Rollins Band sounded like, because when I played some Rollins stuff on our way up to see Metallica at Candlestick Park last August she really dug the CD. Oh well, next time around. (Candlestick Metallica show story will be on this site in the future--stay tuned).

So if I wanted to see this show, which I did very badly, I would have to go it alone. I talked to Mary and she understood that this was something I could not miss. While she was not completely comfortable with me travelling up to the City alone, she relented and I made the plans. I found a motel out by the airport, bought my ticket online and was ready to go.

Henry Rollins has been pretty big in my life for the last few years. I've been reading his books, listening to his spoken word CDs and of course, listening to the Rollins Band discs. I've found that the Rollins Band CDs are the best thing to listen to while working out. Henry pushes you to work hard; push it, lift it, hit it, hurt it, kill it, maim it or just grind it under your boot. Whatever he's singing about, I'm buying, maybe only because he's so convincing.

The latest incarnation of the Rollins Band has really put out some quality stuff. Henry had already ditched the latest batch of characters in the Rollins Band when he discovered an L.A. group called Mother Superior. Check them out here: wwwmother-superior.com. He was so impressed with their sound that he produced an album for them and then invited them to work on material which would become the next Rollins Band album, "Get Some Go Again". Part of the selling point for me travelling up to San Francisco was that Mother Superior would open the show and then pull double duty backing Henry as the Rollins Band.

Another plus was that the show was going to be at the Fillmore. I love the Fillmore. So much musical history has taken place there. It's probably my favorite venue, not because of the comfort factor (of zero--it's all standing room only unless you get lucky and commandeer one of the two or three tables up in the balcony that have views of the the stage) but for the pure vibe that resonates through the building. I get a little giddy just being in the place.

On Friday, August 31st 2001, I embarked on my journey from Fresno to the City by the Bay. I got home early from work, showered, packed and loaded the truck. Kissed Mary goodbye and was on my way. What I had forgotten was that it was the getaway day for the Labor Day weekend. Traffic was pretty horrendous getting out of the valley and that put me a little behind my schedule. But once I got through Los Banos, it was a free-for-all and I pushed the Ranger for all she was worth. Her and I pulled into the Red Roof Inn at SFO around 6pm, both of us breathing a little heavy.

I checked in, washed up a little and prepared for the sojourn into the City. A cold 24oz Silver Bullet from the Shell station next door had primed the pump and it was "go time". Driving into San Francisco on the 101 that early evening, aggressively fighting off the Yellow Cabs and Swivel-Headed tourists, I kept yelling Daffy Duck's Robin Hood staff instructions; "Ho, haha, guard, turn, perry, dodge, spin, ha, thrust!" With KSJO blasting and laughing out loud at my own Warnor Brothers induced nerdiness, I made good time into the Haight-Ashbury district.

I parked the truck in the Kabuki Theater's garage and made my way onto the streets of Japantown. I had ideas of getting a nice meal in a cafe' somewhere, sipping a local microbrew and finding stimulating conversation. I would be so cosmopolitan . In reality, I was running out of time and couldn't decide what to eat so I found myself in a Taco Bell, shovelling in a Grilled Stuffed Burrito and sipping on a Diet Pepsi, afraid to say a word to the extras from the Thriller video that were shuffling around me.

Next Post: The Assault