One quick note before embarking on this trip down memory lane: I was going to do a review on the Michael Schenker Group, but after writing it up, Ken and I decided that it really wasn't up to my usual standards of craziness. Also, since Ken was born in 1974, he thinks MSG is something they put in Chinese food. I am sorry if anyone is disappointed.

Anyway, flash back to 1984. Sure, Reagan was in the White House, The Vapors' "Turning Japanese" was on the radio, and people were dressing in stupid acid-washed jeans, but things were going pretty well for me personally about that time, at least so far as procuring tickets went. An old friend of mine, John N., was the assistant manager at Rose Records. He would get the first "pull" of tickets for me as long as I gave him an eighth of weed on top of the box-office price. The hard-working people of America would wait all night in line trying to get the best seats possible, and I would just saunter up at about 1 o'clock in the afternoon and get mine. For Jethro Tull, for instance, John got me two tickets in the fifth row, dead center. Just say "no," my ass.

I ended up asking my good old friend Bob Thomsen to come along with me to the show. All he had to do was drive me to and from the U.I.C. Pavillion and pay for parking, which made him plenty happy, let me tell you. Bob as a guy I really respected—he had his own apartment when he was 18, and he took care of himself. We were such good friends that I even trusted him to hang onto the drugs I was selling—about 5 pounds of weed, 100 hits of acid, and an ounce of cocaine a week, on average. I was doing pretty well at the drug-dealing biz and making a lot of money. Crime does pay, motherfuckers!

Anyway, I showed up at Bob's the night before the show ready to set up shop with a couple of pounds of weed, over 50 hits of acid, and an ounce of cocaine. Bob had bought a keg of beer (it was Beck's) and we sat around all night getting stoned with our girlfriends and taking care of business. Bob was going out with Tina Krysa, an incredible, beautiful girl, and I was dating some chick named Julie Whatshername. (Sure, Bob had the hotter girlfriend. BUT I HAD THE DRUGS!)

Anyway, business was good. In between taking Julie into the bathroom to snort cocaine off her tits, I sold out everything except for 4 hits of acid, an 8-ball of cocaine, and an ounce of weed. The rest was what we needed for the Bears game and the concert later that day. Bob and Tina went to bed around 3 AM, and I passed out with Julie on the couch (after thoroughly fucking her, of course).

I was awoken by Bob and Tina at about eleven in the morning. We ate a quick breakfast and then bid farewell to Julie and Tina, for we had men's work to do. Bob and I sat around watching Da Bears, getting baked, and priming ourselves for the concert later. About 5 o'clock, after washing dinner down with a few hits of acid, we were on our way. Bob had an old VW van that we called "The Magic Carpet Ride" because it just had the two front seats in it, so he had put an Indian carpet and a real long couch that could fit three people on it in the back—truly a fuckmobile if there ever was one. Looking back on it, we were lucky we didn't get busted, since we brought the keg along (it still had a lot of beer in it), as well as a bunch of drugs. I even broke out the bag of coke en route, but since had I forgotten to bring something to snort it off of, Bob said to just lay out lines on his dashboard. It was pretty crazy, driving in Chicago while we were drinking, snorting, and smoking. If we had gotten pulled over, we would have been screwed.

Bob decided that he didn't want to park in the U.I.C.'s lot and instead we left the van a couple of blocks away, which gave us the chance to get even more loaded before going in. As we walked to the arena, we must have crossed paths with at least twenty bums looking for handouts, which got me worrying about the neighborhood. I distinctly remember thinking about Bob's van and wondering whether it was really OK to park there. (Note to the stupid: This is called "foreshadowing.")

Our seats were incredible. Jethro Tull was touring for their "Under Wraps" release, and I remember, the roadies in white jumpsuits bringing things out all wrapped up in paper, like gifts or something, until there were these wrapped-up things strewn about on the stage. The next thing I know, the "roadies" grabbed the instruments on stage and started jamming. The "roadies" were Jethro Tull!!! Let me tell you, this sort of shit is REALLY IMPRESSIVE when you're drugged out of your mind—we were like Dorothy when she landed in Oz and all of a sudden, everything's in Technicolor. We were like, "HOLY SHIT! THAT GUY'S FLUTE IS FUCKING HUGE!"

It was a crazy show that would soon get crazier. Both Bob and I were starting to get off BIG TIME from the acid when, all of a sudden, during one of the songs, a totally naked woman popped out of one of the paper masses and walked across the stage. I started screaming lewd things at her, and some guy a row ahead of us pulled out a camera and started snapping away madly. Ian Anderson stopped midway through the song, jumped off the stage into the crowd, grabbed the guy's camera, demolished it by throwing it onto the ground, screamed at the security to get rid of the guy, and then, right before he jumped back on the stage, pointed his finger at me and shouted, "Shut the fuck up!" I look at Bob and we both started laughing hysterically. Then, some idiot grabbed me from behind and started telling me to "Show Jethro Tull some respect!" Luckily security saw what happened and ended up throwing his and his girlfriend's asses out before Bob and I dragged him into out into the aisle and started kicking the shit out of him.

All through the show, all these people popped out of the paper wrapping dressed in costumes—an astronaut, a minstrel, and a perverted old man, to name a few. They played a lot of songs off of "Under Wraps," as well as classics such as "Cross-eyed Mary," "Aqualung," "Teacher," "Living in the Past," and others too numerous to remember. Bob and I were really flying high and had a great time. I didn't even mind Ian Anderson telling me to shut the fuck up.

So, after we left the arena, get back to the van and started to drive home as best as we were able. Then, all of a sudden, we heard the van's back door open. Some bum has gotten in and decided to go to sleep on the couch. When we started driving, he had freaked out and jumped out—taking the keg with him! I looked back and saw this guy and OUR FUCKING KEG bouncing off the ground. Bob slammed on the brakes, and I jumped out of the van in hot pursuit of our beer. I tackled the guy, punched him in the head, and grabbed the keg. Being a hard-core wino, he got up and tried taking the keg back, so I kicked him in his ribs. He went down again and I shouted at him, "Dude, lay off!"

Then, all of a sudden, Bob screamed, "Jimmy, look out!" Too late: The bum stabbed me in the neck. THAT really hurt, as well as pissed me off. Before he could stab me again, I knocked him down with a kick to one of his knees, took his knife away, and then bonked him on the head at least five times with the keg until Bob dragged me away. Thank God Bob pulled me away, because I might have killed the guy. As it stood, he was out cold and there was blood everywhere, but he still was moving around.

Anyway, we went, got some rubbing alcohol, which I poured into the wound, and proceeded to go back to Bob's to party the night away. We sure as hell has enough anesthetic to tide me over, and I was feeling no pain.

Overall, though, other than Ian Anderson yelling at me, and then getting stabbed in the neck, it had been a good evening.

Keep on Rockin' in teh Free World. Send us e-mail at editor@corporatemofo.com
(By the way, yes, we're spelling it "teh" intentionally)