We went to a Blue Oyster Cult concert last night, and it was long and loud. I felt like I was turning in to my mother, complaining about the cigarette smoke and scowling at the teenagers with their dirty pillows hanging out. Then I pulled out a compact and checked my teeth in the mirror, confirming that my transformation into Mom was complete. But I digress.
The concert started at 7:00 with Foghat, who played for an hour and a half, which is impressive considering they were pretty much a one-hit wonder band back in the seventies. And of course they didn't play that one song, "Slow Ride," until the encore.
The intermission was an hour long, during which a complete stranger standing behind me began to share the details of his heroin addiction, the armed robbery charge he was sent to jail for, his subsequent parole, and how he has to attend Narcotics Anonymous meetings five times a week as a condition of said parole. The saddest thing about this is that this is the second time a total stranger has felt the need to share this kind of story with me (Jason is still mad about the fresh-out-of-jail heroin addict we befriended at Six Flags New Jersey. Not my fault Kingda Ka broke down for 45 minutes and I have an approachable nature about me.)
It turns out that I only know three songs by Blue Oyster Cult: "Godzilla," "Burnin' For You," and "[Don't Fear] The Reaper." They played for almost two hours, and of course, "Reaper" was last.
Then Jason took me to Denny's for pancakes at one in the morning. He sure knows how to make a girl feel special! He didn't seem to mind at all when I fell asleep with my face planted in his hash browns. Good times!
The concert started at 7:00 with Foghat, who played for an hour and a half, which is impressive considering they were pretty much a one-hit wonder band back in the seventies. And of course they didn't play that one song, "Slow Ride," until the encore.
The intermission was an hour long, during which a complete stranger standing behind me began to share the details of his heroin addiction, the armed robbery charge he was sent to jail for, his subsequent parole, and how he has to attend Narcotics Anonymous meetings five times a week as a condition of said parole. The saddest thing about this is that this is the second time a total stranger has felt the need to share this kind of story with me (Jason is still mad about the fresh-out-of-jail heroin addict we befriended at Six Flags New Jersey. Not my fault Kingda Ka broke down for 45 minutes and I have an approachable nature about me.)
It turns out that I only know three songs by Blue Oyster Cult: "Godzilla," "Burnin' For You," and "[Don't Fear] The Reaper." They played for almost two hours, and of course, "Reaper" was last.
Then Jason took me to Denny's for pancakes at one in the morning. He sure knows how to make a girl feel special! He didn't seem to mind at all when I fell asleep with my face planted in his hash browns. Good times!
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