A Green Day Birthday!
Supreme joy and a multitude of bruises are mine!
Green Day currently has a little side project/band called Foxboro Hot Tubs. It's a bit of a mixture of '60s and punk. And just this week, they added tour dates, including venues (somewhat) near yours truly. So last evening, Nicole and I hopped in the car and made a venture to the town of Crockett. Crockett, if you've never been so fortunate to visit, is a tiny podunk East Bay town which sits directly below the Carquinez Bridge. It boasts a seafood restaurant called the Nantucket (which one must walk across train tracks to get to). And it also boasts the venue of the night, a bar called Toot's Tavern. No, really. That's what it's called. Though a few degrees cooler than Sacramento, Crockett was nonetheless broiling, and Nicole and I stood in line in the blistering heat for more than three hours (to be fair, it cooled down after eight, but we were still standing there). While waiting, a van pulled up, and lo and behold, the drummer, Tre Cool, was sitting and smiling happily in the front passenger seat. He waved to us. When some fellow decided to snap a picture, Tre whipped out his own camera, rolled down the window, and took a picture of his photographing fan.
Finally, at nearly ten o'clock at night, we were at the front of the line, waiting to get in the door (the show was supposed to start at eight, mind you). But, alas, that was temporarily thwarted by the hordes of folk on the "guest list." My fellow fans and I, who had been waiting patiently for hours and intended on paying to get in, glowered at this steady stream of mostly older folk, few of which looked as though they were planning to "rock out," as it were. But at last, we were allowed in. Toot's Tavern is divided into a bar area, and a separate room with the stage (as well as some other random room off to the side that people had to constantly filter in and out of for no apparent reason, even though there was very little room to move). Nicole and I pushed our way towards the front (not all the way in front, mind you--we had to be contended with being off to the side and a few feet back) as the second opening act began to play. And as they sang, here comes Tre Cool again, deciding to mosh with everyone. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I moshed with Green Day's drummer (literally--I kept getting shoved into him).
And then, after a painfully long set-up of all the instruments and equipment by the self-important roadies--be still my beating heart!--Green Day (as Foxboro Hot Tubs, that is) took the stage. I was no more than five feet away from my beloved Billie Joe Armstrong (who was sporting a crazy mess of blond/black hair, which, because he's freaking hot, works for him). My jaw was on the ground. Had it not been for the people in front me, I could have thrown myself at him and landed on him (not that I would have done such a thing, because that would be both strange and uncalled for). But my reverie did not last long, for as they started playing, the moshing reaching apocalyptic proportions. You see, it appears that all my fellow concert attendees were six or seven feet tall (no joke--I've never seen such a collection of tall people in my life). I am just under 5'4". Monsieur Armstrong is about 5'7". My ability to see him was, clearly, somewhat obscured. And on top of that, crazy drunk boys began throwing themselves against other people, creating some sort of insane mosh wave, painfully crushing me amidst the sea of bodies. I am currently covered in bruises, including tracks across my forearm from where my bracelet was forcibly dug into my skin. I got smacked hard enough on my nose that I was checking for blood (there was none, though my nose stud got twisted askew). And then, to my horror, Nicole went down, as I struggled to pull her up by one arm before she got trampled. Following this, we managed to move towards the back, where it was slightly less crazy. Seriously, I did have a few moments where I was more or less convinced I was about to die (which, I reminded myself, at least would be during a Green Day performance). We could see less than before, but at least we were no longer being murdered by the psycho giants.
On that note--now, I understand that everyone wants to be in the front. But unless they had only let ten people in, it is physically impossible to do so. So therefore, if you are a billion feet tall, can you maybe not stand directly before the stage? You block everything for miles and I keenly resent you for it. Billie Joe, a fellow short-statured kindred spirit, tried at one point to get some of the tall people to either stoop a little or move back so that more people could see, but you try reasoning with those sweaty gorillas. As they continued through their set, Nicole and I cautiously moved forward again (though staying away from those troglodytes). They "finished" (I say this in quotes, as they obviously played an encore), and we made our way over to the side where they walked in and out from. And as they came back for said encore, (please forgive the fact that I am about to sound like a crazed groupie), Billie passing no more than foot away, I reached out past the security guards and touched his arm. Yes, I'm an idiot, but the moment was still utterly glorious. I was then again favored with this lovely physical contact, for as they played, Billie took to body surfing through the crowd.
Fabulous. Absolutely fabulous. He is just...orgasmically pretty. No joke.
Afterwards, Nicole and I waited outside to see if we could say hello, but as it was growing quite late, the cops ushered us away. Bastards. Though Billie Joe's wife, Adrienne, was standing right by me, and I said something random like, "I just love your husband's band!" to which she smiled brightly and replied, "Oh, thank you!" (I went with that just because saying, "I think your husband is a sex god," would have been awkward). She seemed very nice.
My body hurts. But I don't care. I was nearly squished to death, but no matter. Because, ladies and gentleman, I got to watch Green Day perform live (up close and personal) for my birthday, and that is just fantastic.
Green Day currently has a little side project/band called Foxboro Hot Tubs. It's a bit of a mixture of '60s and punk. And just this week, they added tour dates, including venues (somewhat) near yours truly. So last evening, Nicole and I hopped in the car and made a venture to the town of Crockett. Crockett, if you've never been so fortunate to visit, is a tiny podunk East Bay town which sits directly below the Carquinez Bridge. It boasts a seafood restaurant called the Nantucket (which one must walk across train tracks to get to). And it also boasts the venue of the night, a bar called Toot's Tavern. No, really. That's what it's called. Though a few degrees cooler than Sacramento, Crockett was nonetheless broiling, and Nicole and I stood in line in the blistering heat for more than three hours (to be fair, it cooled down after eight, but we were still standing there). While waiting, a van pulled up, and lo and behold, the drummer, Tre Cool, was sitting and smiling happily in the front passenger seat. He waved to us. When some fellow decided to snap a picture, Tre whipped out his own camera, rolled down the window, and took a picture of his photographing fan.
Finally, at nearly ten o'clock at night, we were at the front of the line, waiting to get in the door (the show was supposed to start at eight, mind you). But, alas, that was temporarily thwarted by the hordes of folk on the "guest list." My fellow fans and I, who had been waiting patiently for hours and intended on paying to get in, glowered at this steady stream of mostly older folk, few of which looked as though they were planning to "rock out," as it were. But at last, we were allowed in. Toot's Tavern is divided into a bar area, and a separate room with the stage (as well as some other random room off to the side that people had to constantly filter in and out of for no apparent reason, even though there was very little room to move). Nicole and I pushed our way towards the front (not all the way in front, mind you--we had to be contended with being off to the side and a few feet back) as the second opening act began to play. And as they sang, here comes Tre Cool again, deciding to mosh with everyone. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I moshed with Green Day's drummer (literally--I kept getting shoved into him).
And then, after a painfully long set-up of all the instruments and equipment by the self-important roadies--be still my beating heart!--Green Day (as Foxboro Hot Tubs, that is) took the stage. I was no more than five feet away from my beloved Billie Joe Armstrong (who was sporting a crazy mess of blond/black hair, which, because he's freaking hot, works for him). My jaw was on the ground. Had it not been for the people in front me, I could have thrown myself at him and landed on him (not that I would have done such a thing, because that would be both strange and uncalled for). But my reverie did not last long, for as they started playing, the moshing reaching apocalyptic proportions. You see, it appears that all my fellow concert attendees were six or seven feet tall (no joke--I've never seen such a collection of tall people in my life). I am just under 5'4". Monsieur Armstrong is about 5'7". My ability to see him was, clearly, somewhat obscured. And on top of that, crazy drunk boys began throwing themselves against other people, creating some sort of insane mosh wave, painfully crushing me amidst the sea of bodies. I am currently covered in bruises, including tracks across my forearm from where my bracelet was forcibly dug into my skin. I got smacked hard enough on my nose that I was checking for blood (there was none, though my nose stud got twisted askew). And then, to my horror, Nicole went down, as I struggled to pull her up by one arm before she got trampled. Following this, we managed to move towards the back, where it was slightly less crazy. Seriously, I did have a few moments where I was more or less convinced I was about to die (which, I reminded myself, at least would be during a Green Day performance). We could see less than before, but at least we were no longer being murdered by the psycho giants.
On that note--now, I understand that everyone wants to be in the front. But unless they had only let ten people in, it is physically impossible to do so. So therefore, if you are a billion feet tall, can you maybe not stand directly before the stage? You block everything for miles and I keenly resent you for it. Billie Joe, a fellow short-statured kindred spirit, tried at one point to get some of the tall people to either stoop a little or move back so that more people could see, but you try reasoning with those sweaty gorillas. As they continued through their set, Nicole and I cautiously moved forward again (though staying away from those troglodytes). They "finished" (I say this in quotes, as they obviously played an encore), and we made our way over to the side where they walked in and out from. And as they came back for said encore, (please forgive the fact that I am about to sound like a crazed groupie), Billie passing no more than foot away, I reached out past the security guards and touched his arm. Yes, I'm an idiot, but the moment was still utterly glorious. I was then again favored with this lovely physical contact, for as they played, Billie took to body surfing through the crowd.
Fabulous. Absolutely fabulous. He is just...orgasmically pretty. No joke.
Afterwards, Nicole and I waited outside to see if we could say hello, but as it was growing quite late, the cops ushered us away. Bastards. Though Billie Joe's wife, Adrienne, was standing right by me, and I said something random like, "I just love your husband's band!" to which she smiled brightly and replied, "Oh, thank you!" (I went with that just because saying, "I think your husband is a sex god," would have been awkward). She seemed very nice.
My body hurts. But I don't care. I was nearly squished to death, but no matter. Because, ladies and gentleman, I got to watch Green Day perform live (up close and personal) for my birthday, and that is just fantastic.