Chillin'

It's winter—again. Like the time that passes between unwelcome chores, winter inspires thoughts along the lines of “Didn't we just do winter last year?”

Not that I should complain. Since the epic winter 2013/14, the last three have been fairly mild. A year ago saw February temps reach into the sixties. But about November first the awareness of this becomes a breeding ground for a peculiar kind of Old Testament guilt.

We haven't been made to suffer sufficiently, oh Lord. We beseech thee to bestow upon us the punishment we so richly deserve. As the ungrateful recipients of mild winters we neither deserve or even enjoy, we beseech thee oh Lord for your most unmerciful meteorological displays, that we might be made whole again in your eyes.

Echoing the neutral-to-nuclear social dynamic that currently infests our republic, daytime highs have either been forty degrees Fahrenheit or twelve. 

True, there was a munificent stretch of stress-free weather prior to Christmas that allowed shoppers to empty their wallets without the unpleasantness of wind chills, wintry mixes or winter storm advisories marring the festivities.

But this was followed by a two-week spell (which neatly coincided with student's Christmas break) that saw temperatures remain below twenty. And they were often far-lower. It was the longest such period in Chicago's history.

Snowfall has followed a similar pattern. It was mostly a rumor until we flipped our calendars to February. After what was being termed a snow drought, we have seen snow on three successive weekends.

This past week, it snowed every day, with massive snowfalls predicted for the weekend. This was reinforced at every turn by a panicked media, even as there were no new developments to report. We obediently rushed out and filled supermarket check-out lanes with carts stuffed with food enough to last until spring.

In the end, was there significant snow? Yes. Was it snowpacalypse? No. 

And I am ungrateful because a howling blizzard would have allowed me what I enjoy most about the season: watching people drive. Yes, the first snow of the season unfailingly reminds me of a NatGeo or Animal Planet special, because watching drivers contend with it is like watching baby animals take their first steps.

There is the halting creep to a stop sign or traffic signal. Brake lights flicker as a driver tests their footing. Then there is the tenuous negotiation of a turn. And ideally, the skillful application of acceleration afterwards.

Slow ensures the insurance agent will remain a stranger.

Of course, it doesn't always go this way. Drivers of SUVs and pick-up trucks, armed with an inflated sense of indomitableness, feel compelled to display their vehicular-enabled superiority by passing the rest of us with barely disguised contempt.

Your patience will be rewarded when, several miles down the road, they are seen frantically dialing their phones in search of a tow truck with a winch. Even with high ground clearance and four-wheel drive, ditches, culverts and gullies don't release their captives willingly.

Amusement aside, winter is expensive. And time-consuming. Yes, winter is a lot of work.

It requires insulated coats. Gloves. Scarves. Heavy boots. Hats. Anti-freeze. Windshield washer solvent. Scrapers. Snow brushes. Snow tires. Snow shovels. Snowblowers. Salt. Heat. Not to mention the storage space required for these when it's not winter.

We have to warm up our cars. For those of us without garages, we have to clear off our cars. Scrape windows. Walk more carefully. Drive more slowly. Put more clothes on. Take more clothes off. Leave earlier for work. And arrive home later.

We have to wash our cars more often. And clean road salt off our coats when we don't. Wash floors. And sweep unidentifiable muck from our garage floors. Can the folk who calculate what texting costs American business in lost productivity please tell us what winter costs?

But then there is a sunset painted in pewter, yellow and blue. And the pink sunrises and sunsets that occasionally follow a winter storm. The graceful curve of wind blown snow and the way it can trace the branches of a tree.

There is the distinctive crunch of it underfoot and the clarity of a chilled, star-filled sky at night. A cup of hot chocolate. The smell of cold air. And a renewed appreciation for the comforts of a warm bed.

It could be worse.

Mystery Train

It's tough to be a monopoly.

Without having to craft marketing campaigns that sway consumers to your brand or sussing out new and better ways of doing things that keep you one step ahead of the competition or monitoring expenses to ensure that you remain lean and mean, what the hell do you do all day?

Calculate the extent of your monopoly? 

With obesity at epidemic proportions, shouldn't you be concerned that the sedentary lifestyle afforded you by your monopoly places you at risk? 

And so it is for METRA, the government-created railroad which operates Chicago's commuter trains.

In ways that would make Karl Marx proud, METRA is routinely unable to convert a rail monopoly in the nation's third-largest metropolitan area into profit. Despite the fact that 300,000 people pack their trains every day, it is not enough.

Students of history may recall the struggles of Cecil Rhodes and John D. Rockefeller to make their monopolies profitable.

I guess this monopoly business isn't all it's cracked up to be.

With its feckless brain trust unable to conceive of any other option, METRA looks to the private sector for inspiration. Like them, it takes the path of least-resistance: for the fourth time in four years METRA has raised the cost of a ticket. And cut service.

The fourth time is always the charm, isn't it? Or something like that. (When you operate a public sector monopoly, close is good enough. Precision and accuracy are not required.)

Besides, what are commuters going to do? Ride the competition's trains?

Back in 2011, METRA tried to get out of its own way. It hired a two-hundred seventy-five dollar an hour consultant to observe its operation and draw a conclusion or two. The consultant reported that scores of riders were riding for free, with METRA's very well-paid conductors more interested in newspapers than in the inconvenience of collecting fares.

Four fare-hikes later, I wonder if anything has changed.

As a bus driver who delivers riders to METRA stations five days a week, I am told that riding under radar still isn't the anomaly paying riders would hope. It certainly seems fair to ask what portion of these incessant increases cover conductor ineptness?

And if not that, what do they cover?

With unemployment at a twenty-first century low, ridership should be booming. METRA's cash flow should resemble the torrential flash floods seen in California. And yet it does not. Again, for the fourth time in four years METRA has its hand out.

Four times. Four years. You can't turn a profit with a monopoly? Seriously?

Having only its long-term health at heart, we the people should be demanding that METRA be placed on a low-fat diet; one rich in transparency and accountability and low in avoiding potentially unpleasant face-offs with employees and board members.

As an ardent believer in unions and mass transportation, I wince at the damage METRA does to the public perception of both.

The fraud at METRA must stop. Without the demands private sector businesses face, god knows they have the time.

The Super Bowl

I admire what Robert Kraft and Bill Belichick and Tom Brady have achieved in Boston. Really.

My hometown Bears can't string together three consecutive winning seasons, much less seventeen. Ditto my once favorite football team, the Dallas Cowboys.

And this without the benefit of high draft picks. Belichick has consistently rebuilt through the dicey free-agency game, and if you think that's easy take another look at the Bears.

And the five Super Bowl trophies? They exist in an entirely different dimension. One the vast majority of NFL franchises have no idea even exists.

So yeah. I respect the hell out of 'em.

But at the same time, I'm tired of 'em.

It was sixteen years ago that the Patriots won their first Super Bowl. It was nice seeing the mostly downtrodden franchise get their time at the top of the mountain. They deserved it.

But if people were tired of the Bulls after a mere seven years (my co-workers in Albuquerque, New Mexico complained that NBC stood for nothing but Chicago), you can imagine the fatigue football fans feel towards the Patriots.

In sports, churn is a good thing. It keeps fan interest up, not to mention hope. We all love seeing a fresh, new champion.

Brady and company are the guests who request a drink re-fill even as the hosts are clearing away the dishes and the silverware and suppressing a yawn.

Guys? It's really time to go.

Which is why I'm rooting for the once mortal enemies of the Dallas Cowboys. Philadelphia hung together and persevered despite the loss of their all-world quarterback and haven't won a championship since 1960.

It's time.

Will Bob Nutting Walk the Plank?

JK is upset. Taking the glass-is-half-full approach, at least he cares. The ardent fan of the Pittsburgh Pirates wants the current ownership to sell the team, citing recent trades of the club's two best players as proof they are not committed to winning.

He started an online petition to rally others to the cause—and they have responded. (Not that Pirate fans don't have reason to be touchy.)

When Barry Bonds left town after the 1992 season, the Pirates went to seed. Ownership either couldn't or wouldn't spend to maintain the talented team they had assembled, and twenty consecutive losing seasons were the result. 

That stands as a record-setting monument to ineptness among domestic professional sports franchises.

But six years after current owner Bob Nutting purchased the team in 2007, his tenure bore fruit. The Pirates won 94 games in 2013. After a second unsuccessful trip to the post-season in 2014, the light-hitting Pirates were re-booted and morphed into a 98-win powerhouse the following year.

But they lost a one-game play-off to the Chicago Cubs, and the Pirates post-season fortunes have been buried like their namesake's treasure ever since.

For JK, the tipping point arrived last season when the team attempted to unload stellar right-fielder Andrew McCutchen at the trade deadline. He correctly viewed it as management officially giving up on this collection, presumably to begin assembling a new one.

As a Cub fan, I can empathize—deeply. The Pirates are one of the sixteen original major league baseball teams, with a history as rich and as resonant as any. It wasn't too long ago they had an exciting young team that was the envy of baseball.

They have a gorgeous (and still relatively new) ballpark set against the glittering skyline of a renewed city that has successfully recast itself as a modern metropolis trading in education, medicine and technology.

And sadly, there is the post-season history that—at least since 1979—evokes strains of Mozart's Requiem.

Take heart, JK. These aren't the dark days of the Kevin McClatchy era, where you could rightly fear MLB invoking the English Premier (soccer) League's custom of dispatching underperforming clubs to a minor league until they got their act together.

Nutting has sunk capital into the franchise. He upgraded facilities and managed to put a winning team on the diamond at PNC Park. And after two decades that saw losing and austerity become entrenched like an ingrown toe nail, that is akin to turning around an oil tanker within the Panama Canal.

Kindly let me know which of these McClatchy could list on his resume.

Yes, it's painful to see talent like McCutchen and Gerrit Cole leave town. But one has only to look at my hometown Blackhawks to see the dangers of growing old with your talent—long after the window of opportunity has closed.

Now might be a good time to quote the great Branch Rickey, who after being asked for a raise by future Hall-of-Famer Ralph Kiner replied “We can finish last without you.”

Until there is evidence the team is being operated as a tax write-off, Bob Nutting deserves the benefit of the doubt. He's turned it around once—there's every chance he'll do so again.

And if you can bear one more quote, I would remind Mr. Nutting that it was no less than Oscar Wilde who observed that the only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about.

Only 62 days until opening day, Pirate fans.

Concert Bummers (part 2)

With another tip of the hat to Speedy and 'So Many Roads to Ease My Soul', I present part two of the ten most disappointing concerts of my concert-going career. 

As always, comments are welcome.

5. Yo La Tengo/Buffalo Tom/My Bloody Valentine Vic Theater 6/24/92 The most telling thing about this entry is that despite the presence of Yo La Tengo and Buffalo Tom on the bill this show still made the cut.

In the right hands, volume can be a wonderful thing. It amplifies a chord or a riff or a drum beat and makes it larger than life, sort of like a Charleton Heston or Kirk Douglas monologue. It is thrilling.

In the wrong hands, it is a taser. It numbs your neural network, leaving you oblivious to any and all external stimuli. And experiencing stimuli is kind of the reason we attend concerts in the first place, isn't it?

Like you, I adored My Bloody Valentine. And as a certified musiholic leapt at the chance to see them. But after ninety minutes of being bludgeoned by a sound system more appropriate for Glastonbury than a 2,000 seat theater, I was done.

If hearing loss was the point, it was a rousing success.

If hearing one of the most innovative bands of their era was, it was a failure.

Anyone can turn it up to eleven. Not everyone could compose a piece of music like Soon. 

Pity MBV opted to be the former. And every time I listen to Isn't Anything and Loveless I regret it.

4. Johnny Adams Legends 10/22/94 I was hooked on Johnny Adams from the first time I heard his spectacular 1969 rendition of Reconsider Me. It was easily one of the most awe-inspiring things I'd ever heard.

But success was hard to sustain. It was the usual story of singles and the occasional album released on small, obscure labels that disappeared without a trace. It wasn't until Adams signed with Rounder Records in 1983 that his fine and soulful albums began to appear on a regular basis. They even remained in print.

But seeing him live was another matter. However hard I scoured concert listings in those pre-Internet days, I could never uncover one for him. That is, until he landed at Buddy Guy's Legends for a weekend in the fall of 1994.

After a decade of waiting, I was beyond eager. It didn't matter that none of my mates wanted to attend—with Adams' voice for company nothing else was required. 

Unfortunately, my enthusiasm didn't guarantee an unforgettable show.

Adams came on and ran through a pedestrian set of covers, the nadir being Sweet Home Chicago. The *$#@! Blues Brothers have made that the unofficial anthem of Chicago, and too many performers feel obligated to perform it whether they can or not.

I hated seeing Johnny Adams join them.

A second set was marginally better, but for whatever reason it was clear that this flight wasn't going to get clearance for takeoff. Adams seemed determined to avoid the inspired material his Rounder albums overflowed with.

Never mind Reconsider Me.

I gutted out a second intermission. It was getting late. I was tired. The third set began. Nothing. I conceded defeat and left.

After he died in 1998, I learned Adams had struggled with prostate cancer for years. For all I knew, he had just finished a grueling round of chemo before his appearance at Buddy Guy's. As a self-employed musician, he was likely in a financial free-fall following surgery.

I don't know. 

What I do know is that it was a very long walk to my car.

3. New Order Aragon Ballroom 11/21/86 Nothing like the burden of great expectations, is there? 

So it was for New Order when a Chicago concert date intersected with something I rarely possessed—disposable income. Truth is, after missing them in '83 and '85 I would've sold a body part to attend. Long-addicted to the astringent synths and steely bass lines of their austere yet propulsive music, I had been waiting for this show since I first heard Temptation five years hence.

So imagine my disappointment when I was greeted with an indifferent performance, an awkward, meandering set list and sound that could best be described as the aural equivalent of mud. Even for a band that traded in a certain icy remoteness, this was a chill I didn't need—especially with winter approaching.

I had been warned that New Order was a hit-or-miss proposition live, and as any experienced concert-goer knows a live performance is nothing if not a crap shoot. While the show was one of dozens for New Order on that tour, it was a one night only deal for me.

I left feeling as overcast as the weather and as barren as the trees in front of the Lawrence Arms hotel.

By the time they toured in support of the disappointing Technique they had dumbed-down their sound to appeal to a broader demographic. The magic was gone. And lest I forget rule number-one of concert-going, if you don't like the new LP think twice about seeing the show.

2. Tracy Chapman/Neil Young Poplar Creek 8/16/88 I don't believe there is a more stubborn performer in rock and roll than Neil Young. Neil does it his way and damn the consequences. That he continues as an artist capable of filling arenas is a miracle given the capriciousness of audiences and their tastes.

My girlfriend and I decided that a beautiful way to pass a summer's evening would be in the company of Mr. Young, then touring in support of This Note's for You. Nearing the end of his most challenged—and challenging—decade as a performer, tickets weren't hard to come by.

While aware of the potential for disaster, I naively hoped that the signs of reemergence on his latest offering weren't a mirage.

The concert began well enough, but soon veered into a listless, indulgent quagmire from which it never recovered. Its nadir was a twenty-minute-long acoustic dirge seemingly inspired by the Epic of Gilgamesh.

I recall feeling like a parent tolerating the creative excesses of their offspring at a middle school talent show. Young almost seemed to be punishing his audience by offering up the most mundane material he could muster.

The insertion of After the Gold Rush in the middle of the set almost felt like a bribe—or an apology.

When the lights came up afterwards, we all looked at each other. We were flummoxed. We hadn't a clue what to make of it. Beforehand, such a show seemed like an impossibility for someone as abundantly talented as he.

Now we knew better.

We were rewarded two and-a-half years later with a show as fiery and as passionate as this was disappointing.

As the man once said, you pays your money and youse takes your chances.

1. Bob Dylan Chicago Stadium 10/18/78 As someone who grew-up in the throes of Beatlemania, the rock and roll of the sixties influenced me greatly. The Beatles, the Stones, the Yardbirds, the Who, the Kinks and the Animals. 

The Doors, Sly & the Family Stone, Motown, Soul. Jimi Hendrix, Cream, Creedence Clearwater Revival, the Jefferson Airplane and Janis Joplin.

Theirs was the music by which I would judge so much else.

I neglected to include Bob Dylan. He cast an enormous shadow over the sixties, and even if you maintain he didn't influence you, he probably influenced the musicians who did. He pushed the Beatles towards more introspective and topical songwriting, which in turn yielded two of their most highly regarded LPs—Rubber Soul and Revolver.

So yeah, he was a big deal.

Then he disappeared.

When he re-emerged, he was a living legend. His 1974 tour with the Band was eclipsed in media coverage by little else. And while it has its critics, it clearly renewed him. Blood on the Tracks showed up that winter, followed by Desire. They were his strongest back-to-back offerings since Highway 61 Revisited and Blonde on Blonde.

With the creative juices flowing again, Dylan envisioned another tour. A revolving band of traveling minstrels, joining when they could and leaving when they had to. It would avoid the well-worn population centers of traditional tours and opt for out of the way venues in out of the way places.

The Rolling Thunder Review was arguably the highlight of his career. To my ears, Dylan was never more expressive a singer, nor were his rearrangements ever more effective. Surrounded by influences and peers he was loose and ready to try anything. The music was airborne and magical.

So I was beyond excited when plans for a nationwide tour were announced in 1978. I knew the Rolling Thunder Review had been retired, but its magic just had to rub-off on its successor. 

Didn't it?

After a train ride from downstate, my buddy and I arrived in Chicago just in time for a walk through the remnants of skid row to the old Chicago Stadium.

The glitzy, streamlined staging provided a remarkable contrast, and not only to the wizened, emaciated souls on Madison Avenue. One of rock's greatest chameleons had reinvented himself yet again.

No longer part of a band of traveling minstrels, Dylan was now a polished showman, coiffed and suited. As the show unfolded, it was hard not to feel betrayed. (And no, I didn't stand and yell “Judas!”)

I tried to appreciate this new incarnation of Dylan and his music, but after the soulful, ragged-but-right ecstasy of the Rolling Thunder Review this sounded plastic and rote and fake. Only an overnight wait in a downtown bus station could (and did) compete.

A recently-surfaced bootleg revealed the show wasn't quite as bad as I thought all those years ago. But at an age where passion ruled and everything was felt so keenly, I cannot forget the Dylan I didn't see. 

And my disappointment upon the realization that I had been the kind of fan who put an artist into a box and expected him to stay there.

Concert Bummers (part 1)

Seven years ago, I posted a list of the best concerts I ever attended. Now, inspired by Speedy and his estimable blog So Many Roads to Ease My Soul (and keeping in mind that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery), I am going to share the worst.

Thankfully, it is a much shorter list.

So many things can go wrong at a concert. Traffic. A fight with a girlfriend. A fight with your buddies. A crappy sound system. Crappy seats. The people around you. A tired, intoxicated and or disinterested performer.

It's a wonder more don't go off the rails.

So without further delay, here are my ten worst, most disappointing, most regrettable concert experiences:

10. The Moody Blues Poplar Creek 7/18/81 I had always enjoyed the Moody Blues. So when they regrouped, recorded Long Distance Voyager and went on tour, I agreed to accompany a Moody Blues fanatic-slash-friend of mine to an area show.

There was just one problem: we had gone the night before.

That had been a fine show. Entirely satisfying. The band had even received word beforehand that Voyager had gone to number-one, so they were over the moon. But however much I enjoyed both performer and venue, I didn't need to see either two nights in a row.

But my friend craved them. They were his Springsteen, his Zeppelin, his Who, his Dylan and his Stones all rolled into one. He could not move forward with his life without seeing them again.

So I caved.

It was like going to the same movie night after night: same setlist, same dialogue, same everything. Not the best way to discover your Moody Blues threshold.

It was part of a pattern in those years. See a good show and return again within days, weeks or months, only to be disappointed. This slot could have been filled by any one of half a dozen shows: ELP in '77. UFO and Bad Company in '79. The Kinks in '85. The J. Geils Band in '82. Even Bob Seger in 1980.

But we do these things for our friends, don't we?

9. Stu Daye/Derringer/Jeff Beck/Aerosmith Comiskey Park 7/10/76 If sitting in an antiquated baseball stadium with seating that pre-dated airline's current coach configurations in one-hundred degree heat while one of your favorite bands cavorts on a stage five-hundred feet away at three-thirty in the afternoon is your idea of a good time, then this was the show for you.

You either like the communal buzz of outdoor rock shows or you don't. Personally, I just wanted to be immersed in the guitar interplay of Joe Perry and Brad Whitford and the stinging, loose-limbed funk that emanated from the era's Aerosmith records.

There is no specific criticism I can level at the performers (indeed, all concerned made heroic efforts to give us our money's worth), my seatmates, the PA or anything else, but this was a big, giant non-event. The definition of anti-climactic. It was like watching people attend a concert in the dull, flat light of mid-afternoon.

Afterwards, dismayed by the throngs waiting for buses back to the Loop and irritated by the mediocre show, my buddy, his girlfriend and I decided in our adolescent wisdom to walk downtown. We were already at 35^th street—how far could it be?

That depended on whether you were measuring in miles or socio-economic strata.

After locating State Street we began the walk north. What we didn't realize was that our route cut through the heart of the city's largest housing project—the Robert Taylor Homes. And being a wretchedly hot and humid day, the majority of the project's population was out of doors.

There, they could better observe the two rail-thin long-hairs and the female accompanying them (dressed in the era's halter top—no bra—and short shorts). We passed block after block of young males honing their gangster lean against parked cars with only a “What 'choo all doing down here?” to show for our efforts.

Not that I'm complaining.

Once in the relative safety of the Loop, I wasn't sure it was the byproduct of our walking that darkened the armpits of our t-shirts.

Can you say young and stupid? 

8. Frankie & the Knockouts/Point Blank/Loverboy UIC Pavilion 5/31/82 At the risk of being drummed out of every music site on the Internet, I will admit it: Yes, I saw Loverboy. Paid to do so as a matter of fact.

As do so many tales of regret, this one begins with “There was this girl...” Followed by be careful what you wish for.

After finally getting “Karen” to go out with me, we endured an awkward dinner together before spending a beautiful spring evening listening to Frankie & the Knockouts and Loverboy yelp about all manner of things. Love, falling in love, falling out of love, sex, break-ups, broken hearts, love etc.

I eventually retreated into a semi-conscious state not dissimilar to a coma while my date was standing on her chair, having the time of her life.

Can I have a “Woo-hoo”?

By the end of Loverboy's encore (a fifteen-minute rendition of Working for the Weekend punctuated repeatedly by “Lemme hear you all the way in the back!”), I suspected we weren't destined to be soulmates.

This was confirmed when she criticized me afterwards for my reaction. I confessed to being unaware that I had compromised her enjoyment of the show in any way.

Strangely, there never was a date number-two.

7. Black Oak Arkansas/Molly Hatchet/UFO Alpine Valley 5/22/81 Sometimes, the worst concert is the one you don't see. No external intervention is required.

Even though punk, reggae, new wave and R&B by now dominated my turntable, I maintained a soft spot in my heart for UFO. It didn't hurt that their latest—The Wild, the Willing & the Innocent—was, to my ears, their best LP since the seventies.

So a buddy and I rustled up a couple of tickets and made plans. With no interest whatsoever in Black Oak Arkansas and Molly Hatchet, we decided to arrive late—just in time for the evening's star attraction.

After all, the concert's promoters listed UFO first in typeface three times larger than either Black Oak Arkansas or Molly Hatchet. They were likewise the featured band on radio spots. Was it not entirely logical to assume they would be headlining the show?

You see where this is headed, don't you?

A fragrant spring breeze carried on it a familiar tune as we handed over our tickets. A mounting sense of panic enveloped me. Every step confirmed my worst fears as the music grew louder and more distinct.

We entered the pavilion just in time to see UFO wrapping up their set. “Goodnight Alpine Valley! It's been fun! Rock on!”

The applause felt like jeering. I wondered if the ghost of Ronnie Van Zant hadn't taken umbrage with our plans to bypass Black Oak Arkansas and Molly Hatchet in favor of the English headliner and switched the bill.

We were crestfallen. Alpine Valley was in a remote portion of southern Wisconsin and had taken a two-hour drive to reach. It was the only time in thirty-four years of concert-going either of us saw this happen.

I wrote angry letters to the facility, the promoter and Ticketron. They were made moreso because it wasn't my first bad experience at the venue. It was my second—in two visits.

To no one's surprise, all went unanswered. But it was the last time I bought a ticket for an event at Alpine Valley.

6. John Mellencamp Rosemont Horizon 1/31/92 It has been said that you can't choose your relatives. The same holds true for the people surrounding you at an all seats reserved concert.

Having missed Mellencamp's epic 1987/88 tour in support of The Lonesome Jubilee, I especially wanted to catch him this time around. As was my girlfriend. We were made happy when a pair of main floor seats opened up.

Come the big night, we were filled with anticipation when we discovered our proximity to the stage. The lights went down, the band came on and we were swept up in that opening blast of euphoria when a long-awaited concert finally kicks off.

All was well until an usher's flashlight illuminated the six empty seats in front of us. It wasn't that the attendees had finally arrived. No, it was that they were deeply and profoundly intoxicated.

They stumbled to their seats and promptly stood on them. Then they fell off them. Then they stood on them some more. Even during the slow, ruminative numbers.

Understandably, they were pelted with debris. Since not everyone in the audience was gifted with an arm like Joe Montana's, some of the debris hit us. The half-filled cups of beer were especially annoying. Especially to those of us who wore glasses.

Ecstasy had turned to agony. (And the drunkard in front of me hadn't even fallen backwards over his chair yet.)

I cornered the first usher I could find, a young lad who had yet to touch razor to skin. The specifics were likely lost, but my gesturing, strained sternocleidomastoids and bulging eyes left no doubt as to the urgency of my request.

Several songs later, a half-dozen beefy males in black windbreakers with 'SECURITY' stenciled across the back arrived. The drunks were removed, kicking and screaming, to the applause of the section.

But the damage had been done. Half the show had been spent either protecting ourselves from flying projectiles or fending off stumbling shitheads.

I didn't attend another arena show until REM's 1995 go-round in support of Monster.

A Teacher Seeks to Learn

Deyshia Hargrave, a teacher in Louisiana, was attending a school board meeting and had a question. In the two hundred-forty years of American democracy which preceded the Trump administration, this was not a crime worthy of expulsion and arrest.

But she dared question why the superintendent was getting a 21.7% raise when so many of the district's other employees—teachers included—hadn't seen raises in a decade.

She was escorted from the meeting by a city marshal and subsequently arrested for “remaining after being forbidden” and “resisting an officer”, which too often is law enforcement-ese for asking a question.

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the future. And please note our newest commandment:

Thou shalt not question thy superior(s), which is anyone making more money than you.

Have a nice weekend. : )