"I feel uptight on a Saturday night
Nine o' clock, the radio's the only light
I hear my song and it pulls me through
Comes on strong, tells me what I got to do
I got to
Get up
Everybody's gonna move their feet
Get down
Everybody's gonna leave their seat
You gotta lose your mind ..."

- KISS - "Detroit Rock City"

          The Summer of '90 KISS Concert

Back in the Summer of 1990, I was working as the weekend courier for a small, privately owned medical laboratory (now long defunct due to incredibly bad business management and some textbook examples of upper echelon stupidity). I won’t tell you the name of the lab, but let’s just say that the name of the company rhymed with "fuck it" which is pretty much the attitude I had the whole year that I worked for them. I don’t think I was alone in this particular sentiment either.

They say in the business world that shit rolls down hill and the bottom of the hill at fuck-it labs was a motley collection of part time and full time medical couriers. The money was good, but if you didn't know how to dodge the constant waterfall of upper echelon, trickle down bullshit, you could find yourself with many much misery in a quickness. After a few weeks of working in the transportation pool, of learning the basics of being a courier and of seeing others feel the effects of passed along upper level managerial incompetence, I grew quickly adept at avoiding my own share of misplaced ineptitude while not only sidestepping any downfall but of passing it back onto my boss whom I had nothing but the deepest amount of disrespect for. It became a goal of mine to not only show him up for the utter power-tard that he was, but to get him fired and replaced by a good looking blonde girl whom I had gone to school with and who, in no way shape or form would ever go to bed with me. No, I was not doing this for sexual favors, I was doing this because my boss was an imbecile and the girl I wanted to replace him was a single mother and a much better manager thus more deserving of the higher paying position than someone who thought you spelled NASCAR with a "3" in it. Call it a Robin Hood complex if you will. I eventually gave the poor son of a bitch so much grief that he did quit and the logical replacement was the woman I wanted to have the job. Shortly thereafter, all of the weekend couriers were terminated because the time was being given to the full time couriers who had complained about not making enough money. It was a Pyrrhic victory to be proud of.

You, dear reader, would not believe the total tonnage of shit that rolled down the steep managerial hill of fuck-it labs. Above the courier level, it was strictly shining stainless steel with a Teflon coating. Shit didn’t stick at anything over the courier level, it all just slid down to the lowest point of the totem pole and that was the transportation department. You could screw up a lab report and the blame would fall on a courier, not the tech doing the lab testing, even if the courier had never handled the specimen.

"What? You left the specimen out on the counter and it ruined? No problem, obviously the courier is to blame!"

One time, a particular courier (me) got in trouble for some specimens that had expired. I was written up for not putting the specimens in a umpty thousand dollar piece of medical equipment and I guess also for not having the four year medical degree required to operate said piece of equipment. No one told me that I had to take the specimens and put them in the $140,000 Mark III Specimator or whatever the hell the big oven looking cryo-freeze Xenon incubator was called let alone gave me instructions on how to even turn the damn machine on. That was the job of the lab tech, not the courier, since it was the lab tech who would be running the tests.  I was a courier, that meant that I drove real fast on two lane roads to out of the way medical offices staffed by families of Middle Easterners who all had the name of Patel and barely spoke a lick of English. The actual truth was that my boss was supposed to have waited around for the specimen I was bringing in and then he was supposed to log the specimen and place it in the super duper high tech ultra-expensive machine. Well, he forgot, or he had to leave in time to see the big game on TV and I was not told any different.

Like I said, shit rolls down hill so who do you think got the blame?

Yeah, me.

It was that way all the time at fuck-it labs, trust me. I got even though. He wrote me up for his mistake, passing the blame on to me.  I cost him his job because I didn’t like him and he was a tampon smoking cock butler.  I considered it payback, with interest.

If you could avoid the sewage run off from higher ups, being a courier at fuck-it labs wasn’t that bad a job and the money was good, in fact, the money was very good.

Being a medical courier is akin to barn storming in a lot of ways, you fly by the seat of your pants most of the time. Hell, I’m surprised that we never got a group shot, say one in grainy black and white, showing us all with leather bomber jackets, flying scarves and posing next to our squadron of red Honda Civics. My job was to drive a beat up Honda Civic, pick up samples of cancer, contagious diseases, AIDS, hepatitis, and other wonderful ailments and maladies of the human race and carry them around with me, at high speed, in a small enclosed interior.  Most of the time, the only thing separating me from a slow, nasty, incurable death was about half an inch of styrofoam chilled by some dry ice.  I don't care what anyone tells you, nothing in the world smells worse than a quick frozen stool sample.  You just can't escape that ... smell ... in something as small as a Honda Civic.  In hindsight, despite the vast battery of inoculations that we were required to receive before we could drive for the lab (paid for by the lab but if they could they would have found a way to make the couriers pay for their own inoculations) exposing yourself to this kind of disease and sickness, especially in an enclosed environment for hours, probably was something that Darwin would frown upon.  Or smile upon, depending on your point of view.

Ah, the stripped down, no-frills courier special Honda Civics.  Where fuck-it labs got these cars I'll never know because they were stripper models that redefined the word.  I loved to race the pinstripes off of a red three door, four speed manual, four cylinder Honda Civic hatchback that was assigned to me. It wasn’t my car, shit rolled down hill, and I wasn’t paying the bill for gas or maintenance on the little four banger so I gave it as much hell as I could and trust me, I gave that poor little car all shades of hell to Sunday. Now, I know I’m not alone in my actions so if any of you who are reading this are thinking about purchasing a used courier car, my honest advice to you is DON'T. These cars have been to hell and back, probably more so than any taxi or ex-police car. Trust me, I know I drove my little Civic to Hell, round trip, at least twice and was on my way back there again when my position was eliminated (I guess to free up more money so the owner could go gamble it away, or so I heard).  I have a high amount of respect for the little Honda though. I abused the hell out of it and it never quit on me once.  It was like a bad trailer park relationship, I used it like I wanted to, kicked it, beat on it and it always came back to me and told me that it loved me. 

Honda.  Yeah, I'm a believer.

Of course the Hondas were all ordered or purchased with a set of options that would have made even a Spartan frown in obvious discomfort. There was no cigarette lighter because we were told that the lab didn’t want us smoking in the cars. Not that that stopped anyone, there is a piece of modern technology called a disposable lighter, most couriers carried them in conjunction with their packs of cigarettes.  In hindsight, I guess carrying explosive, flammable materials and having an open flame in the car probably was something that Darwin would approve of as well, not that those circumstances ever appeared in my line of duty because I didn't smoke.  Darwin probably smiled a lot at our little hearty band of daredevils.

I never thought (or knew) that you could order a car without a cigarette lighter and the logistics behind that to this day intrigue me.  Just how much can you strip off of a car before it leaves the assembly line?  I don't know but what I do know is that fuck-it labs did their best to find out as well.  The talk among the transportation pool was that without a cigarette lighter, you couldn’t use a radar detector and therefore you wouldn’t speed so much and therefore you wouldn’t get caught and smear the good reputation of fuck-it labs or perhaps have an accident and have someone sue the ever living dog-shit out of fuck-it labs. God knows they loved to make money, and they sure as hell didn’t like to give it back out to anyone if they could prevent it at all.  They were open arms taking money in but tight pockets giving it out.

The only reason the Civic had air conditioning was that some of the medical specimens needed to be kept cool, otherwise the cheap-ass bozos who owned the lab would have tried to get some credit on their purchase with an air conditioning delete. There was a rear window defogger and a wiper, if I remember correctly and the rear wiper had just two speeds, on and off. We used to joke that if they could have, we all would have been sitting on old phone books held together with duct tape and the lab would have ordered the cars with a seat delete option to save even more money.  As it was, the seats in these cars made the interior of a Pinto look plush.  The seatbelts never truly locked or felt like they would lock.  In fact, if you slammed on the brakes hard enough, you were more prone to slide under the seat belt and be on your way to meet the foot pedals than you were to be held in any kind of upright position.

The radio, if you could call it that, was little more than an AM-FM receiver (no stereo option) and it seemed to love to receive raw static more than anything else. I quickly learned that a Sony Walkman and a nylon gym bag full of old ‘80’s heavy metal cassettes (along with a spare pack of double A batteries) were required survival materials for my six to ten hour sojourns into the realm of the medical version of the Pony Express. I think the car had one working speaker and that was somewhere in the middle of the dash.  As you can guess, the quality of the speaker and its strategic location made for some simply incredible concert quality sound, when it worked.

Stamped metal wheels, no hubcaps or trim rings, a two speed wiper with an annoying mechanical motor and squeaky rubber blades, a horn that might deafen an ant (if you snuck up on it) and the mysterious stains in the carpet that appeared from weekend to weekend. My car always smelled like cheap perfume and even cheaper cigarettes, courtesy of the redneck woman who drove my car during the week. Rummaging through the glove box usually found a spare tampon and sanitary napkin (put there for emergency use I assumed though what good they would do me in an emergency I had no idea).  I guess I could jump around and wave them in panic at passing traffic to see if anyone stopped or not...  The cars didn’t carry fire extinguishers, first aid kits, or storage compartments. If you’ve never driven a small subcompact in the summer (let alone a hot, humid, Mississippi summer), with the smell of human feces samples starting to warm up from their frozen state, it’s a little slice of hell that you really never should ever be subjected to unless you've done something really, really bad like vote democrat. Oh, for high tech’s sake, we did have a small Igloo cooler, the kind with the lid that slid from side to side and was barely big enough to put a six pack inside.  The lid never sealed very well so the aroma and smells of the various specimens we were carrying (decaying flesh, stool, etc.) were free to slowly waft out of the cooler as they pleased and what these aromas pleased the most was to fill out inside the interior and head straight for your nose.  Thank you, fuck-it labs, for your ample generosity.

Our uniforms were simple; we wore khaki slacks or shorts, sneakers or loafers, a blue Polo style shirt with the fuck-it lab logo on it, and a name tag / ID card on a shoe-lace type loop. I supplemented this wardrobe with my trusty black leather, fingerless driving gloves and my Ray Ban Aviators. In the winter, I even got bold enough to accessorize with my black leather jacket and sometimes a black baseball cap.  I looked like a barnstorming devil and truth be known, I was.

Early morning rituals included filling up the Honda Civic at the corner Chevron station (now a Valu-Rite pharmacy) and going to Krystals (White Kastle to you Yankees) for the biggest sweet iced tea that they had and a fresh blueberry muffin, the deli kind with the crunch sugary coating on top. Sigh. I miss those blueberry muffins, they were good enough that I actually enjoyed getting up at 5am to get ready for the hellish toil that awaited me as long as I had some sweet tea and that scrumptious blueberry muffin to start me off. Why Krystal ever stopped serving those muffins beats me, but I’m guessing the decision was made by some recent managerial staff that had just been hired, say some staff that might have been previously employed at making bad decisions at a privately owned medical lab facility.

But I digress, so on with my story.

The tea would be poured into my Jr. Food Mart “Mega-Mug,” a thirty-two ounce red and grey Aladdin insulated cup that fit perfectly between the seat and the door panel, sliding in to ride out the roughest of my barn storming without ever spilling a drop.  Thirty-two ounces of sweet tea would get me about 100 miles down the road then I'd find a Junior Food Mart somewhere and refill the mug with Pepsi on the rocks.

Once my muffin was in hand, my tea was secured and my Walkman was blasting out some choice tunes from the hair bands and heavy metal groups of the ‘80’s, I was off, at a high rate of speed, to parts of the state that I’m sure even God forgot about, all in the name of making a good bit of money and having some fun doing it as well.

I have many tales to tell as a medical courier. This is but one of them...



How I scored two free KISS concert tickets using
The Force and simple Jedi mind tricks…


I was finishing up my Saturday route, all 250 miles of it, when I heard that the local radio station was broadcasting live from a computer store in a small strip mall and that the next person to pull in and say they heard it on the radio would get two *FREE* tickets to see KISS in concert in Jackson, MS. This was when KISS had just come out with the album that had “Forever” on it and that song was being played to hell and back on the radio. I had never seen KISS in concert before, I liked their music and I thought it might be interesting to go see the aging rockers play to a bunch of John Deere and NASCAR apparel wearing, Skoal dipping simpletons.

The computer store the station was broadcasting live from was only a mile and a half away from the lab. I had a decision to make, turn at the next light and finish my route by clocking in on-time at the laboratory, or dart ahead and try to score some free tickets to the KISS concert. Well, it really wasn’t much of a decision to be made: I was going to that concert. I was never one to pass up free tickets so I managed to get the Civic up to about Warp Factor 1.28 and some change. This involved holding every gear until the engine screamed in protest. With no tachometer, I just listened for the engine to whine like a jet turbine before I shifted out. Sometimes I would hold a gear at WOT until it sounded like a band saw trying to cut through a metal pipe, then shift by side stepping the clutch, hoping for an authoritative bark of rubber. The most I ever got was a mild shudder and it was at that time, and still is today my professional opinion that, even when held to what felt like 40,000 rpm, the Honda four cylinder engines of those days had just barely enough power to pull the condensation soaked label off of a bottle of warm beer. Needless to say, in my quest for free tickets, the Civic and I achieved a velocity that probably would have made that all time safety Nazi Ralph Nader (as well as the entire Civic Core Design Team) shit golden sweet Hostess Twinkies with a quickness.

After a few minutes of dodging traffic, testing the adhesion qualities of cheap tires mounted on pie-plate thick rims and racing down side streets in a manner that would have been at home on any episode of Starsky and Hutch, I threw the red Honda Civic hatchback into the parking lot, literally slid into a parking spot, jerked the emergency brake up and hopped out as the car was still rocking on its suspension. The motor was pinging like mad as I slowly rounded the hood of the Civic and come face to face with the competition; a jock who has just pulled his beat up, rebel flag festooned, four wheel drive Chevy truck up in front of the same computer store and hopped out of it at the same time that I hopped out of my Civic. I know he’s after the concert tickets, but he probably doesn’t know that I’m after them as well so I may have an advantage here. With any luck, he probably thinks I’m some kind of delivery guy for one of the local businesses and not any competition for his assumed groping of my tickets. I hope his limited jock mentality will allow me to use simple Jedi mind tricks on him, that he can't read the big medical laboratory logos on the side of my retina burning red Honda Civic and I’m also hoping that he won’t wonder why a medical lab courier is standing around in front of a computer store. You will learn that the Force is a powerful ally, and that it was flowing through me that day. I focus my Force related powers on the jock, he looks at me and asks:

“Hey, man. Do you know where they have those free tickets to the KISS concert at?”

I effortlessly go into full Jedi Master mode.

"Free KISS concert tickets." I repeat flatly.

The Force is strong with me.

"Yeah. Free KISS tickets. I just heard it on the radio. They said they were broadcasting live from this shopping center and that the next person who pulled up got the tickets, but where are they broadcasting from?" the jock asks.

"Broadcasting from this shopping center." I repeat flatly, staring at him.

The Force is my ally.

The jock was staring around nervously.

"Yeah, man! They said it was THIS shopping center. Some kind of store but which one is IT? There are like ten stores here.  Oh, man..."

The Force flows through me. The Force guides me.

"The radio station van is in front of the women’s boutique. I think the radio people are in there.” I say.

“Really?” the jock asks, confused as to why free tickets to a KISS concert would be located in a women’s hair boutique.

The jock looks at the radio station van parked in front of a hair boutique for women, does some simple mental arithmetic, fails, arrives at an erroneous answer, yet somehow accepts it as fact. He fails to see that all the electrical cables and power cords are running from the van to the two open front doors of the computer store and that all of the cables disappear within the depths of the computer shop, not the women's hair boutique.

“Yeah! Hey, you’re right! They must be in there because the van is parked there in front. Uh, thanks, man! I owe you!”

The Force can have a powerful effect on the weak minded.

I nod and smile as the Jock lopes off in a dopey run that shows he has a few flaws in his genetic recipe somewhere down the line. I watch him yank the door to the boutique open and shout:

"Hey! Is THIS the place for the ...." before he charges into the hair boutique.

I would have loved to have seen the expressions on all of those old ladies faces. The clock is now ticking, my diversionary tactic will soon be known and thus I sprint with Jedi quickness into the computer store where the real KISS concert tickets are located. (Incidentally, I had had some previous trouble with the employees of this particular computer store about a year before. I had special ordered a computer game and it had taken a few weeks to arrive. When I was called by the store and told that the game was in stock, I drove up to the store only to find that two of the employees had already opened my game, installed it on one of their high end machines and were playing it. They had also made a copy of it (in a time before CD ROM). To say that I was pissed was an understatement but I didn’t let it show, paid for my game, collected all of the packaging and manuals and left.)

Now I stood in front of the very store I said I would never do business with again. The Force flows through me as I round display table after display table, staring into the eyes of each salesman that approaches me. I wave them off with a motion of my hand and they fall away from me as I pass through them effortlessly.

The Force is my best friend. It is a powerful ally. The Force is bond. Word.

I walk up to the DJ standing at the microphone, broadcasting. He looks at me. I look back at him.

“I am going to the KISS concert.” I tell him, focusing all of my Force reserves into meeting his stare.

“You are going to the KISS concert.” The DJ says.

“You have two tickets for me.” I say.

“I have two tickets for you.” The DJ says.

I smile at my success.

“Yes!  You are going to the KISS concert tonight! Now if I can just get some information from you for our listening audience…”

Needless to say, I manage to score the free tickets in short order. The Jedi mind tricked jock finally figures out that he’s been duped big time and comes running into the computer store, right up to where the DJ is handing me the tickets, broadcasting live with me on the radio, congratulating me on my prize. The jock stares at the tickets as they pass from the DJ’s hand to my hand. I imagine this was happening in Matrix style bullet-time for him and that our voices were really slowed down.

"And can you tell us what station just gave you two free tickets to see KISS live in concert tonight in Jackson?"

"WHSY. Rock 104." I said and that was that.

Suddenly the jock bowed up and the DJ and I moved back somewhat in a defensive posture, unsure of what to expect from a jock who had just realized that he had been hoodwinked. I thought I was about to have to fight what appeared to be a rather large defensive lineman for the local university but as the jock bowed up, he also sighed and deflated just as rapidly before turning and walking away, mumbling to himself.

“Damn, man.” The jock said. “I got tricked by the Domino’s pizza guy…”


The DJ and I just stared at each other in a mutual uncomprehending way. Huh? I look at how I’m dressed and short of the baseball cap, I guess I’m wearing the same uniform that someone who works at Dominos’ Pizza does. The jock hung his shoulders and sulked out of the front entrance. It was very surreal. The tickets were mine thanks in part to the adamant torture and abuse of a company owned Honda Civic, my own driving skills, and the judicious use of The Force.

The DJ then tried to get me to look at a computer system that was for sale, the one he had been bragging about on the radio. The salesman implied that since I had just received two free tickets that I was somehow obligated to listen to the sales pitch and thus buy a $1700 home computer system. I don't think so, Sparky. The world would be nice if it worked like that, but it doesn’t. Free is free and adios means goodbye. I considered it justice for what they had done to me a year ago with my game. I gave the DJ and the salesman a two finger salute to my forehead, turned and walked out the door with my tickets.

It felt good to be going to the KISS concert and for free! The gods of heavy metal were rocking hard in the heavens above and I had received a blessing from them. I practically floated across the parking lot and back into my Honda Civic. I left the salesman in mid-sentence explaining the features of the PC he was intent on selling me and I never looked back.

Heavy metal was summoning me and I had no time to listen to the inane bantering of mere suit and tie wearing, game plundering cretins.

          The KISS concert
Hot in the Shade Tour
Mississippi Coliseum
Jackson, Mississipp
August 17, 1990

The concert was pretty good but I thought that KISS wasn’t pulling out all of their toys and FX. Why should they? After all, it was just Jackson, MS (yeah, Kid Rock sings about the place, get over it), not Los Angeles or Austin so I could understand their minimalist approach to doing a concert but, still, with their reputation, I was more than a little disappointed. Overall, to see them in gear and just playing was cool, but I felt I could have gotten the same effect if I was watching a KISS tribute band in some local bar back in Hattiesburg. It seemed like they could have just been prancing around on stage while the guy in the sound box played cassettes of their greatest hits.

It really didn't seem like they were even in concert or really wanting to be there at all. Overall, the members of the band seemed really subdued, like someone had turned a Milli Vanilli ray on them which I guess is why the crowd took it upon their selves to up the ante and get some excitement back.

One guy three rows down and about twenty people away started throwing ice on the stage during the songs. I guess his greatest ambition in life was to peg Gene Simmons upside the head with a hunk of frozen water, which he succeeded in. The concert was immediately brought to a halt as Gene Simmons verbally berated the guy up one side and down the other. Gene also said that if this was Texas or California, that those people around the guy would be beating his ass right now. Gene got pretty furious, and even threatened to cancel the concert if he didn’t see a bunch of people jump on this poor kid and beat the shit out of him. When no one moved to do anything, security calmly stepped in, the guy flipped KISS off, and he was escorted from the premises. It was anti-climatic to be sure and I expected veteran rockers like Gene Simmons to handle the situation better, but then again maybe he was just having a bad day. I mean, it wasn’t like he was playing Los Angeles or Austin, Texas, you know.


During another song, from somewhere out of the crowd, a bottle rocket ignited and sailed towards the stage. I guess the target had been one of the band members, but the rocket launcher had been a little off on their aim. The bottle rocket struck one of the bouncers right in the face and popped loudly. The bouncer went to his knees, both hands going to his face, and two other bouncers quickly hauled him away through one of the exits, semi-dragging him between them. Three more bouncers appeared at the metal gates that separated the stage from the concert goers and started bowing up at the fans. One bouncer even waded out into the crowd, elbowing and forcing his way back, looking for the rocket launching trouble maker, but after a futile search and lots of bravado and shouting to a group of people in the general area where the firework lifted off from, he turned and went back to the barrier, climbed over, and stood there menacingly with his arms folded.

No more bottle rockets were launched during the concert.


"Detroit Rock City" was an awesome song, and I think they used up nine-tenths of their pyrotechnics with just that song alone, which should let you know just how much fireworks they used in the whole show. At the end of the song, these huge column mortars went off in front of the stage, whoosh! Fire, sparkles, and huge smoke rings / mushroom clouds rose towards the ceiling of the coliseum. At the very back of the floor, at the opposite end of the stage, there was another loud explosion, almost identical to one of the column mortars.

Everyone looked, because we thought it was something cool, that KISS was maybe going to actually do something awesome, even this late in the show, but such was not to be. It seems that some dumb redneck had smuggled in some kind of homemade pyrotechnic of dubious quality and as his tribute to the greatest band of his life, he had set it off on the coliseum floor. Unfortunately, he managed to detonate it while he was too close. All we saw was a spectacular flash, a loud report, rising smoke ring / mushroom cloud, and this slumped, smoking body of some teenager. A big, burly bald headed security bouncer, dressed in black jeans with the required black T-shirt with yellow easy to read “security” lettering, walked over, bent down, and picked up the boy in one hand by the teens belt. The bouncer then proceeded to effortlessly throw the teen over his shoulders and walk slowly towards an exit. We never did find out what happened, but Gene Simmons came to the microphone right after the explosion had gone off and said “Damn, Jackson! You’re almost as loud as we are!”

I guess this made up for the ice throwing incident.


A skinny girl in a tank top was sitting on her boyfriend’s shoulders down in the crowd near the stage. I guess that alcohol or drugs made her start yanking her shirt up to flash her breasts at all the other guys and the band members, maybe to try to distract them but trust me, what she had looked like a pale version of what you would see in a Feed The World commercial. Several hands reached out touch the merchandise and were slapped away, but not before more could reach out and make contact. She tried to dance around and avoid the groping but the more she twisted, the harder it was to hold her on her boyfriend’s shoulders. Meanwhile, he couldn’t do anything about the hecklers because he was trying to hold on to her gyrating form and if he let go, she’d fall off and probably, in a fit of panic, pull him down as well. There obviously wasn’t a lot of fore-thought that had gone into this stunt.

I’d estimate the package to be in the borderline B cup range, nothing really to look at unless you were a mouth breathing fat kid who had never seen a real vagina before. If you had ever seen a set of female breasts before, good sized ones (not the kind that come with training wheels on them), then like I said, it wasn’t very impressive. I mean, for pity’s sake, they didn’t even jiggle when she bounced and when she leaned back laughing, they almost disappeared into her chest.

Oh, well. I guess they made someone happy that night. I’ve heard small women say that more than a mouthful is too much, but I had a girlfriend one time who was an honest 44 double D cup. Her motto was “more than a mouthful is a hell of a lot more to play with.”  I tend to agree with her though I'm more of a legs and ass man than a breast man.  As long as you have them, and they aren't so huge that they get in the way, I really could care less how big they are.

The whole display lasted about two minutes and the band never broke out of key. People started patting her ass from behind and this only made her boyfriend angrier. Her gyrations grew more intense as people edged closer to get a cheap feel of free titties and Newton took over the rest. Down she came, carrying her boyfriend with her over backwards into the crowd. Two bouncers quickly moved forward and escorted the pair of them out of the concert. As they were leaving, several people got one last feel, and the boyfriend responded by decking a guy who got a good handful. Security took the boyfriend and girlfriend out of separate exits and another security bouncer took the guy who had been decked out of the crowd as well.


Overall, it wasn’t the KISS experience I had hoped or imagined that it would be, but then for the price of free admission, I guess it wasn’t bad, all things considered. I wouldn’t have paid to have seen that concert, personally, but for free, it was mildly entertaining and a good way to end a hard day of driving back road country two lanes at 90mph, driving a four cylinder, four speed stick Honda Civic hatchback while transporting frozen shit in a Tupperware bowl and paper thin slices of cancer infected human tissue.

I carried a lot of pain and misery in my travels, most of it wasn't even mine, but those are stories for another time...