Bad Medicine

I am part of the problem. I am a user. I do what I need to do to get my fix, and will pay any price to get it.

However, I may need to clean up my act. Not over guilt, not over lack of funds, but because my dealer has branched out of the neighborhood and taken over the whole operation.

My name is Carsen, and I purchase tickets through brokers.

The first hit bought outside of Ticketmaster/Tickets.com/Ticketron was for the AC/DC show in Boston in May 2001. I tried to go legal, but both the website and phone system refused to sell me tickets, though the show had gone on sale just five minutes prior. In a quick internet search, I found the name of a broker. Ticketsnow (TN) offered floor seats for the marked up price of $250 per ticket. The show was meant to be the central activity for a birthday weekend for my mother, so I justified shelling out the five hundred bucks. When we went to take our seats at the Fleet Center, we were stunned at the location: front row, center of the thrust. Angus tossed me his shirt, and Brian tried to slap my hand.

The knowledge that such tickets were available sat like a powder keg in my mind, but it would take a few years and a few shady dealings to light the fuse:

I got out of bed at 6a on a Saturday morning to drive to the [former] Meadows Music Theater to wait in line for Poison tickets. There were three people ahead of me in line, and three ticket windows set to open. At 10a, those first three were all sold second row tickets -- and then the printer at my window failed to work. Subsequently, those that were at other windows who had arrived long after me were scooping up tickets while the inept employee hit the device a number of times. While steam built up, ready to be released from my ears, I heard another one of the people on the other side of the window announce that the first section was sold out. This resulted in a spew of four-letter words and a tantrum, until I was told, "We'll get you better seats, ma'am." This may look polite, but be assured, it was spit in my direction. After typing in a code, I was presented with sixth-row tickets. Though I was thrilled to get them, how had they been procured? I thought the section was sold out...

Later on, I decided to try my luck "camping out" at a different venue [the former Oakdale] to get Tesla tickets. There was a decent crowd that had gathered, and we lined up to get inside to the ticket counter around ten til 10a. Five minutes later (five minutes before the public on-sale time), a man walked inside. When he emerged, he had a stack of tickets in his hands. Honestly, it was three inches thick. Obviously, this created chaos outside as we all began fuming about this man, and how he was able to purchase/obtain such a sizable block. As a collective, we decided to wait to scream and stomp until we saw what tickets we were offered. I was around fifth or sixth in line, and as I watched the first person negotiate the transaction, I knew the crowd was going to riot. She fought with the teller, as her seats were no where near the front. As the line moved forward, each ticket salesperson was met with an argument. I, too, asked why my tickets were in the second section though I was at the venue and it was only three minutes after the on-sale time. The response? "Internet." Given what I had witnessed, I still refuse to accept that answer.

The last straw broke the day I stood in line for Backstreet Boys tickets. We were given wristbands and told that only cash was accepted for the transaction. The highest-priced seats were in the sixty dollar range, so I'd pulled $150 to buy a set. As I waited with a bunch of ten year-olds and their moms (shut up), the printer broke -- again! -- and somehow, the ticket prices inflated. Now, the best seats were selling for around $110. This was a valid ticket outlet in Connecticut, not a broker. How can the price increase as the crowd stands there? So, I ended up with a single ticket, and some little girls ended up with nothing as their parents didn't have enough cash to cover the split-second skyrocket in price.

Since then, I have ponied up my money to TN whenever I need a dose of the good stuff. If its a band I don't care about, I go through the usual guys. But if it matters, I hit up my connection. TN has gotten me front row at more Def Leppard shows than I can count. Sure, other fans suffer at my selfishness, but I gotta have it, and nothing else matters. The high at getting a guitar pick from Vivian Campbell, or the euphoria at singing "slang" with Joe Elliott cannot be achieved in the nose-bleeds. And once I was there, I couldn't go back. I needed it more, and it had to be good. However, my connection has merged with the big dogs, thus making the good stuff even harder to get.

TN is now owned by Ticketmaster; in essence, Ticketmaster is dealing its own wares, just getting TN to take the fall. Oddly, the tickets are no longer as good but yet they're more expensive.

Thanks, Ticketmaster. You've left me no choice but recovery. Your substandard tickets aren't going to cut it, so I'm opting out. I'm getting clean and going straight.

Rehab may be for quitters, but it beats the alternative: mediocre tickets at exorbitant prices. I'll rock it from the cheap seats, and earn my admittance up front the old-fashioned way: I'll sleep my way in.

Runnin' on Empty

For the better part of the week, Nashville has been the victim of a gas drought. The city is almost completely void of fuel, and I am still not entirely sure why. I first heard rumblings of a gas shortage on my birthday, 13 September. My mother called to say that Huntsville was out of fuel, and it was spreading to Nashville. Oddly enough, when I ventured out to Elm Hill Pike later that day, the two stations in the area had bags over the pumps. I made the assumption that my mom was right and the city had just been hit. However, during the next few days I saw gas stations running per usual, and figured we'd just had a delay in shipments due to the hurricanes. That Friday, though, I saw the insanity firsthand. I knew there were stations without gas, so I drove around my area, trying to find a station with gas. Out of about ten, one had gas, one ran out as I pulled up, and a third had bags over the pumps, but lines out onto the road because a tanker was on site, presumably delivering fuel. I realized that I hadn't seen any coverage of our gas issues on any national news outlet, or corresponding website. Finally, on Saturday afternoon, cnn.com posted an article that talked about Music City's lack of fuel. The first sentence read: "Call it a self-fulfilling prophecy: An estimated three-fourths of gas stations in the Nashville, Tennessee, area ran dry Friday, victim of an apparent rumor that the city was running out of gas." It is entirely possible that this town did this to ourselves. At the pumps yesterday, I watched a man fill up his pick-up truck (one of those massive models) and then fill a gas tank that he put in the back of the truck. This was not a 5-gallon tank that might be used to fill a lawn-mower; instead, this man was preparing for the second-wave of Y2K. While people are lined up a mile-deep and an hour long, he has the audacity to hoard such a large supply of fuel. That was a disgusting display of selfishness. My taunts and snickers obviously did nothing to deter him. On the other hand, Atlanta is now facing gas shortages. That was posted on cnn.com today. However, no one dare accuse The ATL residents of bringing this on themselves. Their depleted supply was chalked up to the hurricanes, not to "self-fulfilling prophec[ies]" or likened to "Southerners rushing out to stock up on bread and milk when they hear it might snow." While I saw the panic firsthand, I also take offense at being labeled like this. I didn't wait in line to push my 3/4 to F. I have no designs to bring a gas can to the Wal-Mart down the road. I didn't even believe the initial hype/hysteria/rumors of the shortage. Instead, I went about my normal routine. Certainly, many thousands behaved like me. And certainly, many thousands more displayed the listed behaviours. Otherwise, we wouldn't be in this mess. To say we did it to ourselves, I take offense. You did this to yourselves. I, and many more like me, merely live here. Like the idiot that yells out an answer in a game of bar trivia, you ruined it for the rest of us. Take your fannypack and go home.

Rock! Rock! (Til You Drop)

I am officially in my thirties. I hovered at twenty-nine for close to a year, waiting out the calendar to mark a new milestone, a new threshold.

As of 24 August 2007, I had seen Def Leppard 29 times. It took until 1 August of 2008 to bridge the gap to a new set of ten. And August 2nd secured my foothold in the climb to forty.

Often referred to as "my gateway drug," the American video for "Pour Some Sugar on Me" introduced me to the bombast and glamor of rock and roll in the 1980s. While waiting for the video to come on MTV every afternoon, I would sit through Poison. And Warrant. And Motley Crue. Then I caught a tease for Leppard on Headbanger's Ball, a three-hour rock/metal extravaganza that played all these bands, plus the likes of Iron Maiden, Great White, and Megadeth every Saturday night. Looking back with more in-depth knowledge of the music and artists, perhaps some of these bands didn't belong back-to-back. But thankfully, the programmers were more concerned about the visual aspects than the audio and as long as they saw long hair and guitars, it was played.

Despite being bombarded with an overabundance of bands that fit the format I worshipped, I never forgot my first. I loved Def Leppard, as did my best friend. Janel called me in the summer of 1993 to let me know she'd purchased tickets to their show at the Sub Base in Groton, CT. Her parents drove us down there, and let us loose. At 15 years old, I was knowledgeable enough to know what to expect, but naive enough to not know how to handle it. I worked us up to around sixth row (it was general admission), and befriended a short British man in our vicinity. During "Rocket," he went behind me, bend over, and hoisted me on his shoulders. I was screaming the lyrics to Joe Elliott, a mere twenty feet away. Or so it seemed...that was half a lifetime ago.

While that was an amazing experience at my first Lep show, I've been paying for it ever since. My younger brother, the only person on the planet that is a bigger fan than I am, did not get to go to the show that night, and has reminded me of it at least once a month for the last fifteen years. Though I roll my eyes every time he brings it up, it provides an excuse to see the band "just one more time," over and over again.

He and I caught the band in 1996 on the slang tour, during a hurricane. Literally, come Hell or high water, we were going to get to Def Leppard. We saw them twice in 2000 when they were promoting Euphoria. This was the last time we could be viewed as fans; come 2002, we hit the fanatic level.

When the Leps released X (or Ten, depending which band member you ask), I was working two jobs and living with my parents. I had nothing but disposable income and vacation time. And I still had Janel. She called, saying Def Leppard was doing a show and in-store signing in Fayetteville, North Carolina (where she had settled after college). The bro and I piled in the car, and let our parents chauffeur us twelve hours south. After being corralled for six hours in the August sun on a blacktop parking lot, we were able to run to the front of the stage for the set and waited another two hours to get our albums signed.

Fresh off that high, I purchased tickets to shows in Reading, PA and Boston. I took my mother West, where we were eighth row, and the next night, my brother and I were front row to the East. Before the end of the year, I flew out to California for shows in Sacramento and San Francisco. My unemployed best friend in St. Louis accepted my offer to tag along, and I introduced her to my growing fixation.

While at my radio station in early 2003, I was on the Def Leppard website and noticed a date in their hometown of Sheffield, England. On a lark, I checked out flights on British Airways. They were incredibly inexpensive, so I called my mother, who had always wanted to go to England, and asked if she wanted to make the pilgrimage to the place where it all began. Not only did we get to see the guys in Hallam FM Arena in their stomping grounds, but Phil and Joe stayed in the same hotel as us. Granted, I was far too chicken to approach them, but the Marriott will always be the enchanted place where members of my favorite band magically appear.

Back on the left side of the Atlantic, they were gearing up for a full-fledged tour of the States in March. I secured front-row tickets for Cleveland, and took my brother. I got my first guitar pick from Vivian, and Joe sang to me. [This was not the last time this happened, but I get confused: we sang the second verse of "Slang" one evening, and "Make Love Like a Man" another. I fail to recall which happened when, and to that end, I curse the brain cells I've killed with alcohol]. From there, we were in the front row in Philly, and then my mother, brother and I boarded the Metro-North train for New York, where Def Leppard were doing three nights (sold out!) at the Beacon Theater. I took my mom to the front row the first night (bro was a few back), he hung at the stage with me the second night (she had to sit a few back then) and the third night, we were front row, center. We also had our buddy Stan with us, who was wise enough to document the night with a FunSaver (Ring of Fire! Stage Fright! Joe making obscene hand gestures, telling me to "Shake it up" during Sugar!).

From there, I went to shows in Charlotte, St. Louis, Boston, Rhode Island, Maine and Connecticut. Never more than three rows back, I caught more guitar picks, smiles and acknowledgements. To close out their American tour (and ours), the boys played Las Vegas. I had just moved to Nashville, so I met my mother and brother (still in CT) out there for 20 hours of Leppard-intensive fun.

Unfortunately for my crazed enthusiasm, but fortunately for my bank account, they waited two years to head back on the road. While my brother followed me to Nashville, my mom was still in Connecticut, so we flew up there to see them with Tesla at a casino in the Constitution State, and my mom and I drove to Maine the next night to sit front and center. Trying out a new touring idea, the band played minor-league ballparks with Bryan Adams later that summer, so I drove to Dayton, Ohio with a friend that loved Leppard but loved Bryan Adams. They also did a one-off night in Memphis, where I finally put my radio connections to use and met Joe and Sav.

Another package deal in 2006 - this time, Def Leppard was out with Journey. It pained me to see only one show that tour [Nashville], but given my lack of monetary security at the time, it was a blessing that it was basically a greatest hits/covers album promotional tour. And scamming backstage to meet Joe, Phil, and Viv certainly softened the blow.

In 2007, I had come into my own in rock radio in Music City, and was able to utilize a friendly relationship with members of Tesla to get into a festival in Minnesota that boasted both bands on the bill. While my brother and I were able to watch Tesla from the side of the stage, Leppard was more strict in their passes. Only those with Leppard clearance could enjoy the show from that angle, and we did not have the credentials. However, as we sat on a stone wall backstage, waiting to say good-bye to some of the Tesla guys, Frank Hannon came out, grabbed us, and plunked us on the side of the stage to watch the Lep set. I had been front row more times than I can count (though, after this blog, I bet I can tally it), but seeing the band from the wings surrounded by the five members of Tesla was beyond amazing. While I imagine that will be difficult to ever surpass, my mother shelled out for high-end tickets later that summer in Tampa, which (after a torrential downpour that soaked us to the bones) put us a few rows back and up against the thrust. It may have not been on stage, but it was still fantastic.

Twenty nine shows in total, as of August 2007...and I turned thirty the following month. For some reason, I was dead-set that I must see at least as many Def Leppard shows to correspond with my chronological age. I had to see 30 shows while I was still thirty, and I gave myself one to grow on.

Def Leppard released Songs from the Sparkle Lounge this year, and are on the road for a tour that I anticipate will mirror the itinerary for X. Two nights ago, they played the Sommett Center in Nashville, and while I had floor seats, I opted to sit in a box. It had been a very, very long time since I had enjoyed the experience of their show as a whole; being as close as I had been on most occasions, I had a tendency to fixate on the band members that were in front of me, missing the screen images and lighting effects. In this removed location, I was able to enjoy the body of work, musically and production-wise, that the band had created. I'd also met Sav and Viv earlier, so my photo-op was secure.

Last night, my mother, brother and I left Nashville to see our band in Birmingham. We were supposed to be "taken care of" by the venue, but we were very low on the list of priorities. As a fanatic who has braved hurricanes, plane flights, handsy Englishmen and monsoon conditions, I wasn't about to let someone else's disorganization get in between my family and Def Leppard. As it happens, I'd been down there the week before for the Poison/Sebastian Bach show and got flirty with one of the higher-ups at the site. I shot off a text, and secured passes. The guys were onstage, and with one of my friends, we did some fast talking and found ourselves down front yet again. Where I belong.

I turn 31 in a month. That leaves me thirteen months to make sure I've got the 32nd show under my belt to keep the balance. And with any luck, I'll rack up a few extra for good measure.

I Hate Myself for Loving You

Despite my chronological age of thirty, I am suspended in an emotional adolescence. When I discover a new passion, whether a television show or a band, I obsess. And I don't let go, or get over it. While this has made me "charmingly quirky," even I can't dismiss the sickness and oddness of the latest object of my desire: John Rich. Yes, that John Rich. As in the latter half of Big & Rich. It goes against every rational fiber of my being, and bewilders my friends, to fixate on him. But in the last month, I haven't been able to supress the desire/fantasy of him. In a broom closet. For an hour. A few weeks ago, I got word that Sebastian Bach (formerly of Skid Row) was taking part in the second season of "Gone Country." Baz, in my city, for 10 days? All plans on hold, just in case he called. And called [actually, texted] he did: he let me know where they were taping, and I showed up. The first night, I headed to 12th & Porter to see Sebastian and the other contestants in action. The gig was emceed by John Rich, as he's the brainchild and host of the show. He was onstage, cowboy hat and booze in tow, and I was impressed by his cocksure, smooth delivery as he introduced each band. It was strictly a professional admiration, as I like to watch other performers and gauge their interactions and banter with an audience. He was good, but I was focused on Sebastian, who was even better. The finale was housed at the Wildhorse Saloon, my stomping ground. Again, another Sebastian-fueled night, but as John Rich took the stage to warm up the crowd, I began to watch him as a fan, not from a clinical, professional perspective. Suddenly, I liked John Rich. I liked his over-the-top bling, I liked his attitude, I even liked his weird facial hair. I found myself singing "Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy," a song that I'd shunned for the last few years, even as I am now forced to play it twice a night. Where that repitition failed, his swagger and pride succeeded. As fate would have it, I'd be thrown into the range of his tractor beam again much sooner than I would have expected. A friend of mine received a trip to the ACM Awards in Los Vegas and invited me to come with her. I showed up at the airport at 430a, running on fumes since there'd been no time to sleep the Friday night before, singing "Save a Horse" complete with lasso pantomime. On our flight? Big Kenny. One degree of seperation... We were given tickets to the ACM after-party, and while I was skeptical at sticking around, as we felt that the city of Nashville had been transported to Vegas and the show was nothing we couldn't see in any local bar, I changed my tune when it was announced that John Rich was the host. My poor travelmate was doomed - she knew there was no escaping the party until I'd had my fill. Even the stories of friends of hers that had dated him wouldn't deter me. I watched that man until she finally had to feign a headache to get away. She can't understand my obsession, and neither can anyone else. They keep pointing out his flaws and faults, hoping I'll snap out of it. But as I just spent 10 minutes of worktime gazing at a muted television screen because he was performing, I realized this is not going away anytime soon. At first, I thought it was just the proximity - I'd seen him three times in two weeks, and maybe I'd developed a familial view. Then, I delved deeper: it must be psychological. Perhaps I was turning lesbian - I mean, wouldn't John Rich be the last step down that hallway? But as a number of guys have told me: being attracted to a douchebag confirms and affirms my heterosexuality. So what is it? The Alpha-male status? The commanding presence? The attitude? It sure can't be the music... And still, I have just scoured the CMA Fest schedule looking for his appearances. He has one, and it conflicts with my work schedule. I am trying to figure out how to get out of my job for the night, and I'm still not sure why. Its not Joe Elliott, its not Sebastian Bach, its not Gale Harold, heck, its not even a free drink. And yet...I'm looking to saddle up my horse and have myself a [big and] Rich time.

Will the Circle be Unbroken

My paternal roots are deeply twisted around bottles of liquor. I am aware of, and embrace, the alcoholic branch of my family tree. As I was taught by ABC during Saturday morning cartoons, "Knowledge is power!" and since I know the repercussions of carrying on my family tradition, I opt not to imbibe copious amounts on a frequent basis (i.e. I don't get wasted on school nights). However, on random occasions, I do indulge the beer-swilling, shot-pounding party fiend that lives inside me. She's a loud, brash, unbalanced dancing machine, and thinks she's the heart of any good time. In fact, she's at best a silly, adorable mess and at worst, a slobbering, unchecked train wreck. Armed with this information, and annals of history to support it, I have been untethering her leash sparingly in the last year. But given her history, her bad behavior makes for colorful anecdotes that have been recycled in various bars with various individuals. Recently, a few of these people have been complaining that they've never been privy to the actions of my inner booze hound, and I repeatedly explained my concerns about letting her loose. Those concerns were ignored last week, and I have fears that she has done irreparable damage. I hear she was viciously name-dropping, and may have even been crude regarding tender, private acts I'd engaged in earlier that week. Even worse, she may have insulted the object of my desire. Why else would he have gone MIA for the last 10 days? My closest friends that have known my heavy-lidded, wobbly, slurring alter-ego have assured me that while she's an idiot, she's not an "assh*le," and that she could not have inflicted as much devastation as I fear. So, while she's been peacefully snoring through the week, I've been on edge at every vibration of my phone, waiting for the text message to assure me that she was indeed, cute and idiotic, not haggard and vile. Its times like this that I want to let her out of hibernation to drink me into oblivion. And so the cycle begins, again...

Another One Bites The Dust

Driving down 24 the other night, I had two sounds filling my car: Rolling Stones on Sirius and deep, rhythmic snoring from the male in my passenger seat. I had one thought in my head: It seems I am Nytol to men. A few months ago, I was out with a guy and as the night wound down, we decided to head back to his place. After some flirting and post-alcohol scarfing, we went upstairs. After turning off the lights and cuddling up, I was anticipating a little something. Instead, I got a lot of nothing. I heard his breath come and go in controlled pacing and knew my evening was done. Waking up in a strange bed at 730a without a good story to go along with it is just a waste of time. To be fair, he'd been sick and just gotten home from a month on the road. I can give a pass, chalk it up to circumstances beyond my control. However, two months later, I find myself with a different gentleman who also falls asleep on me. This is not an anomaly - its an outbreak, hopefully contained before it reaches epidemic status. The most disturbing factor in the latter occurrence is that I was the one who had been drinking Absinthe. And Jagermeister. And beer. After an evening of such liquors joining forces in my bloodstream, how is it that I was the person awake? I joined him at the bar around 1030p, and we left sometime near three. We had discussed our *ahem* intentions prior to departure, and frankly, falling asleep was not part of the itinerary. So while he sleeps soundly, cozy in the Mighty Shark as it navigates the slick roads of Nashville, my stomach is churning. Not from the aforementioned Absinthe, but from nerves. When we reach our destination, I will have to wake him up. From there, do I expect our plans to take shape? Or do I just watch him turn the truck on and give him a wave? Is he expecting me to make a move? Or will the previous conversation be attributed to drinking and never mentioned again? Thankfully, he woke up. And I had to use the defroster to defog the windows before I could get back on the road... Perhaps I'm not Nytol, just tryptophan. Much like turkey, it seems men need a nap between rounds.

LA Woman

The Sunset Strip. While before Monday I'd only been chauffeured down the legendary boulevard, I felt I knew the cracks in the sidewalk like the scar on my knee (from an unfortunate shaving debacle) thanks to numerous episodes of Behind the Music and the stories spun on countless albums from my favorite bands. After spending Sunday night in Cincinnati with Tesla (which was a slight disappointment because, though I adore Dave Rude, my crush Frank Hannon was too sick to come off the bus), I hopped on a plane to Los Angeles Monday morning. I had been invited to the Rocklahoma 2008 Press Conference, being held at the Whiskey-A-Go-Go Tuesday afternoon. Prior to the junket, I was meeting up with the organizers and some of the bands for fun and debauchery Monday night. I crashed at a musician's apartment that was just off of Hollywood, and was within walking distance of all those famous footprints as well as a birds-eye view of the Hollywood sign. After some shopping and sightseeing, I grabbed a cab to the Rainbow Bar & Grill. The patio was stuffed with rock stars. Some I recognized (Joe LeSte, Chip Z'nuff) and others were just playing the part. Black was the color below the neck, and platinum was the choice for the lid. After grabbing a bit of food and a lot of booze, the crowd migrated to the Key Club for the Metal Skool gig. I have watched Metal Skool on YouTube and was excited to catch it live, and the gig didn't disappoint. They were hysterical, very quick with a quip and great with the crowd. Hal Sparks jammed some cover tunes, as did P!nk and Michael Rappaport. Scott Ian came out to play an original song, "Asian Hooker." While the show was a blast, I have to admit I may have been a bit swayed by the VIP treatment -- we were escorted to a private room to view the show, and then were given balcony access. The favors continued into the next morning, when I hauled back to the Strip to set up for the conference at the Whiskey. The event coordinator showed me to my table and told me to go exploring while they continued the set-up. Taking advantage of the unexpected free time, I hiked back to the Key Club and popped by the Roxy. After checking out the Viper Room, I grabbed a slice at Frankie & Johnnie's and shopped for a rockin' outfit for later that night. Around 1:30p PST, the press conference started and a cavalcade of 80s heroes were in attendance, including Bret Michaels, Black and Blue, Beautiful Creatures (okay, not 80s, but that band rules and Joe LeSte is also in Bang Tango, so consider it an asterisk) and JetBoy. I got the chance to interview a few of the guys from Creatures and talk to other schmoozers for a bit. Before kicking back to the apartment, I hit the Rainbow for lunch, and it seemed everyone else (including Vixen and Armored Saint) had the same idea. Later that night, I headed out to Hollywood VooDoo for the Press Conference after party (in my new rockin' outfit) and mingled with some of the same faces from the last 24 hours, as well as some new additions. United by the passion for the genre, strange faces became fast friends. I have a number of friend requests to get to after that night. Wednesday morning, I stepped back out onto Hollywood Boulevard to catch a few more rays and last glimpses before I had to turn back to Nashville. Last month I was convinced I wanted to live in New Orleans. This month, I think I've switched gears. The scene is alive and well in Los Angeles, and I should be there. At least I've got the right hair color...