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 No Restroom For The WickedPosted 01.11.2006 by Bunga Din (1239)
It was 1981, I was sixteen, and Ozzy was coming to town. My friend Marty and I bagged school to spend a drunk and stoned night outside a local record store to get the best tickets we could. We watched cops file by as joints and booze were passed surreptitiously. We had some pukers and we had a bust, but my friend and a hundred or so others made it through the night to score third row seats.
We went to school to show our friends our genius in camping out. We were The Man, man. When I got home my parents took one look at their long-haired denim-, leather-, and steel-toed boot-wearing son and said, "You're grounded!" I didn't care. A man's got to do what a man's got to do. The day of the show rolled around late July. Problem: we had no pot. We called around to various sources and were finally able to locate some. So over to this person's house we went. We got to talking about the evening's show and bragged we had third row. The guy with the weed said, "Fuck, all I got are balcony, you wanna trade, man?" Marty said no but our friend with the weed convinced us to trade: his and his old lady's balcony seats and an ounce of weed for our third row. Deal -- we left and his heavy metal slut was draped all over him. That afternoon we deseeded the weed and drank and smoked our faces off in preparation for the show. Eight of us piled into a beat-up Cutlass and off we went. The venue was a brand new civic pride project, a glorious concert hall located right next door to the police station. My thinking is that the city fathers felt the presence of the police so close would keep the crowd in check. But they were wrong -- so very, very wrong. We arrived a good half-hour before the show and joined a hundred-person pack emitting more smoke than Bob Marley's island. The police looked on, but they were more worried about two rival bike gangs ready to clash. There were fights, blood was spilled, arrests were made, and the paddywagons were filling up fast... and all this was before the show even began. As we lined up to get in, it was slow -- the police were checking everyone, huge quantities of liquor, drugs, fireworks, and metal-studded bracelets were confiscated, and arrests were made. And then each group of ticket holders was ushered -- yes, ushered -- to their seats. When we got to ours, I asked Marty, "What the fuck was that?" to which he replied, "I'm so fucking stoned." The lights went down, the crowd roared, and hundreds of lighters went to work on joints of all sizes. The ushers, going crazy because it was a nonsmoking venue, were shining their lights on the offenders. This went on for a couple of songs by the opening band until the police got involved dragging out the offenders while the crowd was fighting them off. Things continued this way until the set finished. The lights went up and one look at Marty convinced me all was not well. Marty asked me to go with him to the can. Exiting our seats, the hallway was trashed, pictures were torn from walls, and there were puddles of puke everywhere. Disgusting. I was a metal head but I also had respect for property. We got to the can and the destruction here was worse -- the stall walls down, a urinal ripped from the wall, an inch of urine on the floor, some dude pissing in the middle of the room, shit on the floor. Gross. Marty added the contents of his stomach right then and there. I went into the hall and watched four police officers with their batons out chase somebody. Ozzy had yet to go on. When Ozzy did come on, the place went even more nuts. The pounding bass was like an earthquake, rumbling your gut. I lit joints and Marty declined; I watched them go down the row, never to return. The opening song I Don't Know summed up our mental state -- heads moving front to back while Ozzy screeched and the band wailed. By the end of the show the hall was twenty degrees warmer, reeking sweat, smoke, puke, piss, and even shit. I looked a Marty and he was passed out -- the dreaded Billy Burnout of the concert scene. If you were at a show in the 70's or 80's, you've seen one. I shook him awake and got him up. His jacket had puke on it, and when he turned I saw that he'd shit himself -- and not just on the ass, either; his faded blue denims were stained green down both legs. I waited until most of the crowd had left before attempting to guide him out. He was fucked. By this time we'd missed our ride. We tried to hail a cab, but one look at Marty and the guy said no. We were too far to walk home -- Marty needed to get cleaned up if we were gonna get a cab. We went into a sub shop to do so and they told us to leave. A block later I left him outside a pizza joint while I went to the washroom and stole two rolls of asswipe so he could get clean. A block after that we went around to the back of a church. He was still wavering, so I held his shoulder to keep him upright as he dropped his drawers and started cleaning while I stood gagging. It was rank -- a puddle of shit in his ginch, shit on his legs, shit on his pants, and him swaying, trying to clean it up, getting his hands filthy while doing so. We finally got a cab. I dropped him off on his porch to sleep it off and made the long walk home. His mom called my mom the next morning asking if I'd gotten home okay. She said yes and asked why. Marty's mom mentioned that Marty was a mess when he got home, but she didn't go into details. My mom asked me what went on. I told her I thought Marty ate a bad sub. She gave me the raised eyebrow look but left it at that. I didn't see Marty for a week -- he was grounded. A mom's got to do what a mom's got to do. When I did finally see him, he thanked me for getting him home. He admitted he'd puked but denied he'd shit himself -- he didn't remember much, except that he was in fine form. We then went to a friend's place to smoke some weed and listen to Ozzy cranked to 11. The whole time Marty was regaling everyone about how the concert was fucking awesome, all the while yelling, "Ozzy! Ozzy!" A man's got to do what a man's got to do.
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