Got an all paid invite to go see Dalton and Clapton out in Ft Lauderdale. So... trucked on out to the "Bank Atlantic" center, formerly National Car Rental Center, formerly Panther Arena, formerly Office Depot Center, formerly Broward County Civic Arena. Due to dismissal of all input from the navigator (moi) and a stern predisposition by the captain and pilot that "the place is right off the Turnpike", we arrived, "butt to seat", fully 45 minutes after Roger Daltry, OBE, 66, twit, took the stage.
This late arrival was just as well. The seats were in the upper periphery of the E Region, of the ionosphere, better known as the Heaviside layer. Better put, we were able to converse with pigeons, look down upon the blokes in the catwalks running the lights, and were jeered and laughed at by those lucky enough to be seated far far below, in the K Region, of the seating chart, better known as the Nosebleed section.
The seats, as they were, required portage of several precipices better navigated by mountain goat or Canyon mule. The mule insisted on holding the flashlight, and merely pointing with a laser to our seats. So as the mule gave us a "good luck" in some foreign language (Swartheley), we grabbed our chairs and sat down. Looking forward.... my stomach began to turn in knots as the vast vertical desolation between my own body and terra-firma actually sunk in. I began to feel thankful that I didn't have any lunch or dinner. Then I looked about and saw a monster video monitor, about 200 feet high, and it had some prancing 66 year old wrinkled twit in tight pants and open shirt, complete with gut spillage over the beltline, cavorting across the stage, mic in one hand, tambourine in the other. Roger OBE Daltry. That sealed the deal, and I began to dry heave. The only recourse was to close my eyes and grab the sides of my chair.
About that time, I started wondering when the jet would finally stop hovering over my head, and realized it was not a jet at all, but "the music". Beyond loud. Beyond beyond loud. Beyond frikkin ear bleeding, ass bleeding, groin crunching, brain mushing loud. I gingerly took one hand and fished a "poured into your ear fit" earplug in one ear. Then used the other hand to get the loud out of the other. So here I am, dry heaving, trying to save my hearing, or whats left of it, and devise a way back down, which will certainly not be via mule assist.
I kept my eyes closed through three songs. Daltry was done. Finally. Intermission. Which lasted a full 45 minutes, as they completely changed stage, even the on stage lighting and pleasantries. Out comes a big rug. Its EC's "channeling" rug. The one with the big tie-dye bullseye in center. He stands in it, and wont move two inches from its center. Thats it.
EC took the stage. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was half lit, half in the bag. He stumbled in, played two bad notes out of his entrance riff, and gingerly gave a finger wiggle to the crowd down below. He looked like hell. Worse than me even. Forget the "professor" look he's been doing for the last decade or more. EC was fat, I mean 50 pounds, or more, overweight fat. His hair is long down to his shoulders, his face is paunchy and bloated, and he was just... bad. I mean no fire, no luster, just sex-by-the-numbers bad. Dont ask me what he played. I cant remember.
During intermission, I found it very pleasant to keep the eyes shut... and began to doze off quite well. I saw EC come on, he played... I have no idea what... and I closed my eyes and fell asleep. I woke up when he was into the middle of an unplugged "Layla", thought how he managed to screw it up, and fell back asleep until the earthquake hit. The earthquake being the foot stomping of "we want more" ovation calling. EC walked back on and played... the worse rendition of "Crossroads" ever performed, for what seemed like a whole three minutes... gave another finger wiggle, and walked off. The lights came up and I went back into dry heaves again, seeing just how far up our seats REALLY were.
After some assistance, three mule rides, and a bit of makeshift rappelling, I managed to get back on ground level, and didn't care that the gawking crowd gathered, when I began, on hands and knees, to French kiss the pavement. I kept at it until they threw enough change to amply make up for both toll fare and Duncan Donuts coffee, grabbed the coins and beat feet to the shuttle craft for return voyage to Camp =CB='er.
Hey... at least it didn't cost me any money.
This late arrival was just as well. The seats were in the upper periphery of the E Region, of the ionosphere, better known as the Heaviside layer. Better put, we were able to converse with pigeons, look down upon the blokes in the catwalks running the lights, and were jeered and laughed at by those lucky enough to be seated far far below, in the K Region, of the seating chart, better known as the Nosebleed section.
The seats, as they were, required portage of several precipices better navigated by mountain goat or Canyon mule. The mule insisted on holding the flashlight, and merely pointing with a laser to our seats. So as the mule gave us a "good luck" in some foreign language (Swartheley), we grabbed our chairs and sat down. Looking forward.... my stomach began to turn in knots as the vast vertical desolation between my own body and terra-firma actually sunk in. I began to feel thankful that I didn't have any lunch or dinner. Then I looked about and saw a monster video monitor, about 200 feet high, and it had some prancing 66 year old wrinkled twit in tight pants and open shirt, complete with gut spillage over the beltline, cavorting across the stage, mic in one hand, tambourine in the other. Roger OBE Daltry. That sealed the deal, and I began to dry heave. The only recourse was to close my eyes and grab the sides of my chair.
About that time, I started wondering when the jet would finally stop hovering over my head, and realized it was not a jet at all, but "the music". Beyond loud. Beyond beyond loud. Beyond frikkin ear bleeding, ass bleeding, groin crunching, brain mushing loud. I gingerly took one hand and fished a "poured into your ear fit" earplug in one ear. Then used the other hand to get the loud out of the other. So here I am, dry heaving, trying to save my hearing, or whats left of it, and devise a way back down, which will certainly not be via mule assist.
I kept my eyes closed through three songs. Daltry was done. Finally. Intermission. Which lasted a full 45 minutes, as they completely changed stage, even the on stage lighting and pleasantries. Out comes a big rug. Its EC's "channeling" rug. The one with the big tie-dye bullseye in center. He stands in it, and wont move two inches from its center. Thats it.
EC took the stage. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was half lit, half in the bag. He stumbled in, played two bad notes out of his entrance riff, and gingerly gave a finger wiggle to the crowd down below. He looked like hell. Worse than me even. Forget the "professor" look he's been doing for the last decade or more. EC was fat, I mean 50 pounds, or more, overweight fat. His hair is long down to his shoulders, his face is paunchy and bloated, and he was just... bad. I mean no fire, no luster, just sex-by-the-numbers bad. Dont ask me what he played. I cant remember.
During intermission, I found it very pleasant to keep the eyes shut... and began to doze off quite well. I saw EC come on, he played... I have no idea what... and I closed my eyes and fell asleep. I woke up when he was into the middle of an unplugged "Layla", thought how he managed to screw it up, and fell back asleep until the earthquake hit. The earthquake being the foot stomping of "we want more" ovation calling. EC walked back on and played... the worse rendition of "Crossroads" ever performed, for what seemed like a whole three minutes... gave another finger wiggle, and walked off. The lights came up and I went back into dry heaves again, seeing just how far up our seats REALLY were.
After some assistance, three mule rides, and a bit of makeshift rappelling, I managed to get back on ground level, and didn't care that the gawking crowd gathered, when I began, on hands and knees, to French kiss the pavement. I kept at it until they threw enough change to amply make up for both toll fare and Duncan Donuts coffee, grabbed the coins and beat feet to the shuttle craft for return voyage to Camp =CB='er.
Hey... at least it didn't cost me any money.
