Ladies and Gentleman, this next saga is not for the feint of heart. In fact....it's sick as hell. Literally.
So, as I was just getting home from school one day, tossing my backpack to the floor and flipping on the power switch for my Sanyo component (cheap-ass turntable, tape-deck and radio - ALL-IN-ONE!) stereo to catch some of KOME, when my life was changed forever. Sorry, John Lennon's death hit me not, same with Hendrix....just too young, I guess. In 1982 I was 15. But when I got home that day, and the first thing I heard was that Randy Rhodes was killed in a freak small plane accident, it hit me. It hit all metalheads, but hard. We were all still reeling from Bon's death, but not Randy! Too damn young, and just fricken started to blow minds. Gone. Just like that. Diary was less than a year old, and I don't think it left my black plastic turntable with that damn 4 inch tall inserted "multi-vinyl" loader which never worked....just played that record smooth....down to the nub. Gone. And I had pissed off my chance at seeing Ozzy and Randy not a couple months prior at the Cow Palace...for a girl. A date. Uh, that was a mistake.
A couple of weeks went by, maybe a bit longer, and I see in the pink section of our Sunday paper.....OZZY'S COMING BACK! Brad Gillis? Hmmmm.....Who is that? I hear a local guy, so jeez, that ain't bad....Rubicon? Heard the name but never heard the music....but dude, he's with Ozzy, so he's gotta be good.
I pay the $11.50 plus 75 cents service charge (rip-off) and wait for the show to come to Oakland.
Finally, the day arrives, and I want to be right up front (as usual) and so I catch the first Bart train out to the coliseum and sit down on the cement, I think I was the fourth or fifth person there. Got my backpack filled with some warm beers I had stashed under my bed, a bag of weed, two sandwiches I had made, a couple of black pens so I could spend my time drawing "Ozzy" and bats and stuff all over my pants to pass the time. I had also constructed out of two-by-fours that were laying on the side of our house, a five foot cross, with Ozzy in silver paint on the front with blood dripping down the center part of the cross....it's amazing what they let kids bring onto Bart trains in those days, and I had not a chance in hell of being allowed to bring THAT into the show. I wandered just out of line about ten feet to the ivy covered hill and planted that bastard like some metal astronaut claiming this ivy hill in the name of Ozzy. The cheers of 4 or five very tired guys at the front of a line at 6am is....well.....let's say, just slightly less than inspiring.
Well, I down the beers, smoke some of my dope and start passing it around, gathering up more beers in exchange...I'm catching a good buzz, and it's 11am. Nice.
By the time 6pm rolls around, I'm rolling around in the ivy, off my nut trashed drunk and I have unplanted my cross and am walking up and down the line inciting the chants of hundreds now. "F#$k YEAH!!!" and "OZZY RULES, dude!" is shouted up and down the line. The cross probably outweighs me 2 to 1, and I'm a wreck hammered to the tits, so I keep stumbling to and fro, and I wind up tripping over my own foot, tumble ass over heels down this ivy hill, and my spine connects with about three semi-hidden sprinklers jutting out from ivy. This, on top of striking myself in the cranium a couple of times during the ride, from a 75 pound, sacrilegious, wooden Ozzy chant evoking device. I tell ya tho', the crowd chanted even louder after that....could've been laughter, but I'll say it was chanting.
Boozed, bloodied, and bruised, and suddenly I had realized that I gave up my coveted fifth-in-line status to make an ass out of myself. I head back down the line, when some older group took me into their spot in line, popped a can of beer and handed it to me, saying, "dude, it's gonna be alright". I tilt the beer back, wipe another layer of blood from my face, and thank them for being cool to me. I pull the last bit of weed from my pocket, someone rolls it and suddenly we're all buds. All good.
The line starts to move, and I'm getting ramped up! We all scurry to quickly down any and all beer in our possession, which luckily the crowd that I was now a part of, had the foresight to bring ALL their beer from the car cause no one likes warm beer after a show. I toss about 1 and a half more in the next 2 minutes, and I'm feeling no pain. We all go in, and this new group (who tower over me), grab me and we all plow our way to the front barrier. I get handed the rail, and am told to hang on and not to let anyone allow themselves to budge me. I agree, and we form a small militia of barrier cling-ons. Someone passes another spliff around, and we're all smiling, straining to become immovable. Lights drop, and this band Axe hit the stage....whatever. They're alright, but they've got one hit song, "Rock N' Roll Party in the Streets", but merely a footnote for the evening.
After they've left the stage, this huge MF descends on our small posse, along with three or four other buffed out Danzig lookin' mo-fo's....well, let's just say there was a coup that day, my friends, and we were not victorious. We broke ranks, and scattered to the four corners of the arena, never to have our paths consciously cross again. Pissed and pissed, I decided to take a piss. I stumble through the cement hallways, and notice the small rivers of vomit, trickling down either side of the ramp, almost following me. I hit the main floor just outside the arena floor, where the merch is, and I'm struck. Man.....shirts.....oooh. O.k. Drunk I sort through my pockets for cash, nope...that's a kleenex.....that's my Bart ticket.....ahh....DOUGH! I ain't got enough for the jersey (never seem to, for some reason), but I got enough for that shirt and that program....snap! I throw the shirt on over my torn and blood-stained tee, roll the program up and into the backpack it goes. Oh yeah....piss. I turn to look for those signs above the heads of the throng, and some guy is barreling down toward me with those oh-so-familiar two fingers pressed against the cheek-puffed lips....something fetid this way comes.....I step (fall, really) back and this guy projects a stream of putrid spew up over me, and hits the faces and torsos of about four folks behind. Well, as disgusting as that is, they all decide to fight, right there in the puddles, and they're hitting this guy in the face, which is covered in puke, and then getting puke all over their fists, then from the impact of fist to puke soaked face, get splashed even more. The beauty of this is, is that it's cyclical is a moronic way.....the more puke they get on themselves, the angrier they become, and the harder and more frequently they strike the object which is producing the offending substance to begin with. The need to pee overshadows my interest in seeing if there was an end to this Rubic's cube of regurgitation, so off I go.
I enter the mens room, and nearly slip and crack my skull on the veritable small lake of puke in this slick tiled hell hole. I make it to a urinal, only to be flanked by someone with their head in their urinal spewing (I drunkenly tell the guy that I think the smell of the pee cake is making him heave), but that only prompts further wretching. The guy to my right is laughing so hard, he's pissing all over the place, and including the feet of the biker monster to his right....uh, dude....WHAM! Laughing face kisses tile, blood and grunts, falls backwards, into the puke swamp floor, with johnson pointing skyward, not unlike a foul sprinkler, catching way more feet than the one biker.
I finish and vamoose as quick as a goose.....only I succeed in slipping this time, knee in the goop, and I catch whiff....urp....uh.....lookout! I slide outside the door and spin 'round to face a overflowing trash can, but I suss out the recently emptied 24 oz. cup, and give it a refill. I had enough to make it an inch before the rim, and place the cup back on the stack, as if none of this had ever really occurred. Feeling....not better, but lighter...and that's something....I head back to the floor to see if I can reclaim a "bit of the barrier".
I head back up the ramp, as I drunkenly decide it would be strategically prudent to attack from the rear, and descend through the rows, over the hand rail, drop down to the floor and make my way from the side to the goal. I shuck and jive my way through the rows, and I get down to the second level walkway, between the two sections which are comprised of huge sections of seats on metal folded plates (like a giant fold-out couch of sorts), so they can raise the sections back up if there is a basketball game....anyway, the walkway is a slotted metal plate. As I'm walking down this path, I come across a sizable gully of spew, and there are these guys running up and down the ramps. I step to the side and step over the seats to get out of their way, only to see the second guy, slip, feet out front and not unlike a cartoon, fall flat on his back into this puddle of puke. The impact sends puke up on either side of his rib cage, and thusly, falling back down on top of his chest, splashing a nice top coat to go with his recently decorated back end. This result causes a backlash, and he turns over to add to the existing pool.
I step over a couple more rows of seats, and am nearly at the last row, which ends in a hand rail, and a slight drop to the floor. I step over, and see a couple making out frantically, and that's always nice to see. Except, this girl is looking a bit..."green"? No....no....don't....BLOEWUGHHH! She heaves her lunch directly into his waiting mouth (dude, you got tongue and her stomach on that one), puffing his cheeks out, till they spill, and we see a double-spew, two-sided cheek squirt....which turns to a standing drop puke onto the lap of the sick girl from above, which evokes another, self-coating lorp, again by the girl. He starts yelling at her from his standing position, but alas.....too late. She is passed out cold. Again, the rail is calling me, so I'd love to stay and see if there is anything I can do for this hapless couple, but I must bid a fond adieu.
Well, I squirm my weasel-like frame back up to the rail and watch the show for 6-7 songs, then retire back up to the stands mid-gig..... I'm tired, drunk and a bit well.....sick. I don't puke again, which is preferred, but this big-ass kid comes up to me, there ain't no one for rows and rows where I'm sitting, smacks me in the side of the head and tells me to get out of his seat. General admission, but he's way bigger than I and I believe he's not suffering from post-puking depression like myself...so, o.k f$%kface....you win. Take my random ass seat so you can feel like a big man for knocking a kid outta his rightful resting place....go ahead. I have a feeling someone is gonna come up and puke on your ass anyway.....punk.
Show was alright, Ozzy was cool, he hung a midget (sorry, little person), laser bat spinning must have made at least a few more people puke.....flying high again. I still have that shirt (cut all the pictures of Randy out of the program to hang on my wall), and it's still one of my favorite shirts. I think it's the only thing I brought back from that concert that DIDN'T have puke on it.
