Concert Tickets

This is an incredibly busy concert season. In fact, it's the busiest season I've ever seen. So many great tours that it's a matter of selecting which we can and can't go to.

I have tickets for Generation Axe and am going with a raft of metalhead guitar players and one wife.
Life would not be complete without Jeff Beck and Buddy Guy.
And next on the stage is the last time on the stage for Black Sabbath.

I have no real feelings about Black Sabbath. Tony Iommi, their guitar player, is a lefty, which is always nice. Wife, however, is NUTS about Ozzy and grew up with Sabbath. All I remember about that time is hanging around with my dirtball, pot-smoking friends and listening to music. I don't remember a lot and it had nothing to do with pot. Or anything else.

So we 'needed' Black Sabbath tickets.
I have a sneaky technique when I don't want to do something: tell Wife she's responsible for researching and procuring it. She'll generally forget and I'm off the hook. Wife keeps asking ME to do it. I remind Wife, frequently, that it's HER job. Wife, who generally forgets, manages to forget it's her job. And eventually I get stuck with it. Wife is much smarter than me (although her taste in men is suspicious).

So she seeks to relive teenhood, as if she could remember much of it anyway (dissociative disorders can leave large memory holes). And again, it's my job. It's funny... she never thinks the internet is going to bite her except when it involves purchasing tickets. She nas NO PROBLEM WHATSOEVER with Amazon. In fact, Amazon calls her to see if she's alright if she hasn't ordered something in two days. The upshot (where did that word come from?) is that I have to go online and purchase something(s) *by which I mean that I have absolutely NO memory of the last time I tried to go online and purchase something(s)*.

Things are a little different in my house, which is akin to saying that things are a little different in Syria. I always forget that ordering online involves four browsers, much patience (which I lack in the extreme) and much yelling (which I am most proficient at). The first thing these heartless bastards require is the nightmare known as Internet Explorer. The evil beauty of this is that they neglect to TELL you this, so you're forced to find it out the hard way. This task is made more difficult because there's no Internet Explorer on linux (thankfully).

I have no less than four browsers (maybe more) in various stages of lockdown for this very event. And no matter which of the four I use (sometimes all four), something goes wrong. Generally browsing occurs with Firefox, which is locked down so well that even web pages can't get through. When I know there is going to be a purchase, I open Browser #2. When Browser #2 fails, which it always does, I use Browser #3, which has no restrictions whatsoever (PLEASE HACK ME!!). Even this does not satisfy the site fully, although it sometimes allows me to purchase something.

Finding tickets is always an interesting process. Generally the site won't let me see the venue or seating until I tell the bastards to just go ahead and find me some seats. After the seats come up, I always allow for a loud exclamation and several moments' loss of consciousness after I've seen the prices. This is not the Final Tour, this is the Final Cash-In. Why am I complaining - I'm seeing the final Sabbath tour! It's only one hundred fifty dollars per seat - a bargain at half the price.

This was only a prelude: the real fun comes when it's time to pay. Having selected the seats (after a quick remortgage), I am given a 9 minute timer in which to complete my transaction before the tickets are released for sale. No problem - I type quickly and I have a Stubmonger account (but still  pressure). Go ahead - try to sign in. I have a password vault so I never forget passwords. Plug them in and BZZT - wrong password. It's not the wrong password, stupid, it's the one I always use. No matter, his the FORGOT PASSWORD link, which takes me to a page that says SOMETHING HAPPENED and nothing else. Ah, progress (in that there is nowhere to go).

It does tell me that I can use my Ticketmonger account, which somehow lets me in, like a magic mushroom of sorts. I fill out all the necessary information (including mortgage account) and SUBMIT. Oops - it didn't like something. Unfortunately I did not have a Need To Know what it didn't like, so I had to guess. Ah, no place for my MasterVisa - only branded cards. Fantastic! Yelling! The little clock says six minutes. Pressure!

The card type was incorrect because I had no indication it scrolled. Way to make your page readable in any browser, kids. After yelling some more and cursing the thieving bastards for their very existence, I filled out the rest of the information. Three hundred dollars. Wife had better be EXTRA NICE to me for the rest of the year, at very least.

But wait! If you buy now, you have seven delivery options, from printing your own (a $3 surcharge) to two day delivery ($49.95) all the way down to Send Me The F-ing Tickets In The Mail (only $5 each). More screaming. I am not sure how this happened, perhaps New Math, but the total was $350. Somebody is making Big Bucks because they're forcing us to PAY Big Bucks.

Apparently Wife's fear of purchasing tickets is way worse than thirty minutes of listening to me scream, curse, and make several things airborne.

And it ain't over yet, because there's still Joe Walsh/Bad Co and Peter Frampton/Skynyrd.
Oops, yes, it IS over... Walsh is $150 per seat and Frampton is $125 per seat.

One way or the other, you'll probably hear me from your house.

Occam's Razor Needs Sharpening

President Obama tells his French counterpart that the US is no longer spying on France after the latest Wikileaks revelations.  Sure we aren't. We continue, however, to spy on our own citizens.

• Newly discovered Australian mammal mates itself to death.  Kinda like most American males would, given the chance.

So the other day, we're out driving and what do we pass but a Jehovahs Witness center.  I've never seen one before in my life.  I decided it would only be fitting to knock on their door and ask them to have a conversation about the Flying Spaghetti Monster.  Don't you hate it when your wife won't let you out of the car? [which reminds me... I have to go shopping for just the right colander for my drivers license picture]

I collect interesting phrases that I have heard. Here are the latest:

• You steal one car and all of the sudden, you're a car thief.
• You've got to slide up and down on the hard thing,
• Let me show you my jetpack.
• Uh oh, the electric company is here - the power is going to go out.
• Please bring ant spray.
• I  love algebra.
• I have used algebra in real life.

Usually I come upon Stuff. Stupid Stuff that's so obvious that there's no way I could have thought of it. Today's example is headphones. I have to use headphones at work because I wouldn't want the wonderful music I listen to to grace the ears of my coworkers (pearls before swine and all that).  Guys - put on your headphones... you will gain greater perspective on your music - particularly the musicians. It's also easier to figure out how to play music by checking out what's in which ear.  leftystrat - Super Genius<TM Acme>. One song that will make your headphone-ensconced ears spin is Jeff Beck's Cause We've Ended as Lovers, with Max Middleton's stereo-panned Fender Rhodes electric piano.

• Remember how the USA Freedom Act was going to rein in the NSA? That act authorized a six month transition. When the title is Freedom, you're not getting Freedom.

This morning I heard about a big storm last night. The National Weather Service has been called in to figure out if there was a tornado.  Does this strike you as strange?  The weather is over; why do we need an organization to step in and potentially make it worse?  This reminds me of the Heat Index: it's 94 out today but with the Heat Index, it's 104. Do we really need to be more miserable?

• The country's first gay divorce law firm opened in... guess where.... Philadelphia!

WINDOWS 10 ALERT

Microsoft's latest piece of malware, Windows 10, has introduced at least ONE security problem, in addition to the usual backdoors.  Enabled by default is a feature called WiFi Sense, which shares your WiFi password/credentials with friends. As if this weren't enough, the credentials sit in an encrypted file on a Microsoft server. Gee, no chance of MS or other letter agencies accessing this, is there? Your contacts from Outlook.com, Skype, and/or Faceyspaces can be shared.

Allegedly, the service will only allow sharing of the internet connection, not your hard drive, internal network or anything connected to it. Here's another Gates-ian solution: in order to opt out, you need to RENAME YOUR WIRELESS NETWORK by appending _optout. Opt Out may not be instant and it is recommended to change your password in the meantime.

This is yet another hijack from our friends in Redmond. When they start affecting the name of your wireless network, it's time to take them to task. The Redmond Menace must be stopped.

Remember - this nonsense is enabled by default. DISable it if you must downgrade to Windows 10. Just because it's the latest and a free downgrade from Windows 7 does not mean you need to install it. Better yet, defect to linux (free) or the piece of fruit operating system ($$).

What Great Music Do You Have This Week, lefty?

Funny you should ask... I decided to go with a more mainstream artist, yet to retain that certain something for musicians. Yes, it's perennial favorite Peter Frampton. I have mentioned before that my first concert ever was Peter Frampton, fresh from one of the greatest selling live albums of all time, Frampton Comes Alive. It was at Philthydelphia Humongo Stadium, in the midst of about 100,000 other sweaty, polite bodies. Down on the field, there were no assigned seats, so we were free to worm our way up front to see Peter and various other acts, like Lynyrd Skynrd and maybe Fleetwood Mac (with Stevie Nicks, when she was every guy's wet dream and every girl's fashion plate).

Philthydelphia Humongo Stadium was eventually razed, so the state's taxpayers could provide Corporate Welfare to fabulously wealthy sports team owners. This largesse provided for three stadiums in the state of PA.

Peter had some great albums (the black spinny things that you scratched up with a needle that required the hands of a skilled surgeon to manipulate), namely the ones that produced the songs that made up Frampton Comes Alive. My favorite album is called [wait for it....] Frampton and contains the studio versions of Baby I Love Your Way, Penny for Your Thoughts, (I'll Give You) Money, Nassau and Show Me The Way. Give it a listen - there's some great stuff there, which might be a pleasant surprise.

Mr. Frampton made the Talkbox popular (Show Me the Way, Do You Feel Like I Do?) and I had to get one. Incidentally, the golden-haired idol of millions has turned into a Bald Old Dude (like me) who continues to get better at the guitar and entertaining crowds (unlike me). Try to see him when he's touring, which he does frequently.

Whats All This I Hear About Moose Limbs?

I just got an email from my good friends at Live Nation Concerts. I got an email because I spent way too much money on a pair of their tickets at some point in my life. Things sure have changed while I've been going to concerts.

It was about 1974. You could not turn on a radio without hearing something from Frampton Comes Alive.  This worked out well because he was quickly becoming a hero to me.  I even got a talkbox (talking guitar effect) because of him.  All of the sudden a huge concert was announced with Frampton as the headliner. It took place at Kennedy Stadium in Philthydelphia (since demolished to make way for more taxpayer bailouts of very rich sports teams).  My mind wanders so the rest of the folks on the bill escape me, except perhaps for Steve Miller and J Geils. A whole bunch of my friends went and the tickets were about twelve dollars.  Let me say that again: twelve dollars for an all day concert featuring the hottest artist with the best-selling live album of all time and three other hit groups.

So what does Live Nation want to tell me?  They want me to know about some upcoming concerts:

• Brit Floyd: a Pink Floyd cover band. I distinctly remember specialty cover bands playing in shitty little bars. There are also Led Zeppelin and Genesis cover acts playing medium sized theaters for Big Buck ticket prices. If I'm not there by showtime, hold your breath.
• Marilyn Manson: looks a little like a cross-dressing Hitler.
• Lisa Lampanelli: Lisa is one of the funniest women I have ever performed with. We played at some little dive bar in Cover Your Ass, PA. We were in hysterics. Unfortunately she doesn't do that routine anymore and isn't near as funny.
• Nickelback:  Give 'em back.
• Foreigner: on tour without Lou Gramm, the singer on all of their hits. This actually worked out well for Judas Priest and Journey. No idea about Foreigner.
• Artie Lange: a funny guy. Catch him before he OD's.

Nowhere on the list is there a single ticket price or city in which the venue is located.  That's ok - I don't need another mortgage to see subpar acts.

In other news, I work in a pretty cool place. When I say cool, I mean it in its figurative sense. In fact, it's so hot in there, it serves as a Germ Incubator. I'm terrified of getting typhoid due to the temperature and the seven people around me hacking up a lung.

I fear they got me, though. Between screaming at recent events and a new cough (that makes my underarms itch), I sound like a cross between Clint Eastwood and a toad.

Do ya feel lucky, punk?

Old Dreams Do Not Die

At no point in my life did infomercials play a big part.  In fact, infomercials exist largely as punch lines.  Yet here I sit, only half embarrassed, watching an infomercial.  And of course, sharing my shame with you.

It was about 1973 when I started playing the guitar.  I don't remember what made me pick it up; just that it felt meant to be.  I used to win Best Student awards from my guitar teacher.  This fun lasted for a few years until money and interest in lessons ran out.

In about 1974/5, Frampton Comes Alive rocketed to the top of the charts.  It was the number one album (no album jokes today, thank you) that year and in the top twenty the next year.  Peter Frampton is a Certified Guitar God<tm>, albeit an underappreciated one.  He became one of my heroes in middle school.  As it turned out, I had a black Les Paul (copy) and convinced my parents to get me a talkbox, so I could do `Show Me the Way' and `Do You Feel Like We Do'.  I even had the guitar routed for a third pickup, which set me off on a wiring and modifying spree that has not stopped to this day.

Depending on your age (and interests), you will remember Peter Frampton as a rock icon with long, flowing hair or a short, bald British dude.  Either Frampton is a treat for the ears.   Like Jeff Beck, he has only improved with age.  He's a consummate showman, still recording and touring.  Now you can see him up close, as opposed to humongous stadiums where you'll get deaf and sunburned.

In school I got to perform here and there.  Sometimes people would call me Peter to razz me.  No one had ever seen a talkbox before.  Of course they had other interesting names for me, but I shan't repeat them here.

But dammit, there was only one path for me:  rock stardom.

I still have my Frampton vinyl, as well as the results of an unhealthy obsession with Bachman Turner Overdrive.  Then it was off to Hendrix, who I chose to listen to for a very deep, spiritual reason: he was left-handed too.  Ok, plus people told me he was really great.

Thirty-some years later, I'm still listening to my favorites.  I have a decent job in network security, a wife, and a dog called Marshall, just like the name on the wall of white or black amps Frampton and most others still use.  Life has changed.

And I still wanna be a rock star.

Last weekend I played at a large neighborhood pig roast, with over three hundred fifty people in attendance.  At times I kinda felt rock star-ish.  Still working for the dream, even for three people in a stinky, dingy little bar.

WELL?

Yeah, so what about that stupid infomercial?

I needed something from the universe today.  Things haven't been especially good lately but perhaps the universe threw me one.  I must have channel surfed in the wrong direction and found myself watching the end jam of Lynyrd Skynyrd doing Freebird.  And it was the very popular version of Skynyrd, placing this concert footage around 1977(!)

And faster than you can say DEBT LIMIT, the footage is over and the two alleged hosts are talking about the newly released footage from the Day on the Green 1977 Concert, featuring Lynyrd Skynyrd and Peter Frampton.  It came out of Wolfgang's Vault and was only being sold with a donation to public television.

Wolfgang's Vault was property of Bill Graham, legendary concert promoter.  Head on over to sample the endless catalog of music Bill collected over the years.

I saw that very tour when it stopped in Philthydelphia.  It was at the now extinct Veteran's Stadium, our incredibly large outdoor venue  [I truly admire Kurt Vonnegut and feel this would be a great spot for his time-hopping antics] .  Shortly after the tour stopped in Philly, Lynyrd Skynyrd stopped, period, in a tragic plane crash.  They went through guitarists like Spinal Tap went through drummers.

I saw Frampton on most tours during that era.  I even took my mom, who declared that Peter Frampton could sing for her any time he wanted.  I shall relate this to him, should we ever meet.

The near nostalgia caused by the clips I saw from this concert was wild.  I remember being in the extremely large sea of people, jogging my way toward the stage, still smelling of sun tan lotion (and sweat).

Frampton is a master showman.  The way he stood up in that stadium and Directed Traffic was a sight to behold.  It was apparent he was at the peak of stardom and really jazzed about it.  The interaction with the audience was stellar.  He jumped all over the place, changed lyrics to suit the situation, played drums for a bit (he does play drums), and used the talkbox to great effect (bad pun, lefty).  On keys was Bob Mayo, who went on to play with Robert Plant, among others, and died way too early.  ["Bob Mayo on keyboards, Bob Mayo"]

Looking out over the audience was also an experience.  I saw myself back in the audience, with all those wild 70's fashions.  And more importantly, women with bouncing boobies and halter tops.

And way down inside, I still see myself onstage, in front of tens of thousands of people.

I have heard it said that you only fail when you stop trying.