T-hee Town, Jokelahona, UEssay So after six months of breathless anticipation, Sassette and I finally prepared for the Daft Panthurr concert at the world-famous Big Ole Krushed Kann (BOKK) Centaer here in T-hee Town, Jokelahoma yesterday.
Having had the foresight to visit our local Ache-Adam-and-Eve Sports Authority previously, we were well equipped with hiking boots, rock climbing shoes, climbing ropes, carabiners, climbing holds, rope, quick draws, climbing harnesses, slings and slacklines, as we joyfully embarked on our adventure at 5:30 a.m.
Our initial problem presented itself when we realized, much to our mutual chagrin, that rather than the anticipated four mile trek from the parking lot to the BOKK Center, we actually faced a grueling, mainly uphill six mile hike, because the other ticket holders had the foresight to park their cars last week in the closer lot in anticipation of the concert.
Upon arriving at the gate a bit before lunch time, we were devastated to discover that we had left our crampons in the trunk from a previous excursion and were forced to march double time back to our vehicle, retrieve the missing equipment, and return, exhausted, to the gates. Due to our accelerated pace and the fact that our return trip to the lot had been down hill, we arrived at the gates soon after 5 p.m., with still plenty of time to claim our seats, we reasoned, before the scheduled 7 p.m. start of the concert.
So we confidently strapped into our climbing gear and began our advance on the nearly vertical face of the BOKK Center.
We were ecstatic to finally arrive at Section 306 just a few minutes after 7 p.m., but soon found that seats 23 and 24, row a, were occupied by fearsome looking squatters.
Suffering from exhaustion and dehydration from the hike and subsequent climb as we were, we decided it most prudent to seek help in solving our seating dilemma.
Help was hard to come by, however, as the BOKK Center box office had sold over 50,000 tickets to the 19,199 seat venue in order to maximize revenue. Each ticket was cleverly stamped "No exchange or refund" in anticipation of the numerous complaints which were certain to be lodged.
By 7:45 p.m., we had at long last located an usher willing to evict the interlopers and we were finally seated in our spacious 12 inch wide seats in line with center stage, directly behind the plexi-glass shield of the top tier of seats, presumably placed there to prevent us from sliding off the sheer face into the seats below. We were, after all, precariously perched a mere 30 feet above the v.i.p. suites, and important people do not enjoy human projectiles from the "cheap seats" landing on their heads.
We had entirely missed the opening act, Cheap Whore, but remained undaunted, as we had very little interest in that particular group anyway.
Sassette squirmed in gleeful anticipation as her favorite group, I've Been Poisoned, took the stage and was soon enrapt with the vision of her personal guitar hero, Si Si De Villain, shredding away.
Within moments, however, our musical experience of a lifetime was interrupted when not one, but two massive behemoths lumbered between us and the stage, the second of which attempted to squeeze its extensive bulk into the seat next to poor little Sassette.
The blubber spilled over to such an extent that our girl nearly suffocated. After cleverly shoving her spiked hiking boot deeply into the offending tissue, Sassette beat a quick retreat, as did I.
We rapidly made our ascent down the face of the BOKK Center and were most rudely informed that no alternate seats were available.
So we innocently stood inside section 118 and were thrilled to discover that we were in line with the stage approximately the length of our living room away from none other than Sassette's beloved Si Si. She stood there, in rapt amazement, joy engulfing her face.
Then an usher noticed us standing there, and ordered us to either take a seat or leave.
Enraged, I decided to complain mightily.
I discovered a black shirted staffer and requested to speak to a member of management. Instead, she donned her own climbing gear and led us back up to the upper level, promising to locate seats for us.
Once we had retraced the treacherous climb, however, she cleverly abandoned us, as I've Been Poisoned left the stage and we were mobbed by the other 49,998 concert goers as they each sought to be first in line to use the facilities.
We once again slid down our ropes to the main level, vowing never to venture to the upper levels again.
As we waded through the sea of humanity, I suddenly remembered spotting sofas incongruously placed outside of a few of the pricier sections; I later came to realize the thought must have escaped me previously due to the extreme oxygen deprivation we had suffered repeatedly in the upper level.
As Daft Panthurr began warming up, we located the black pleather oasis and at long last collapsed in a degree of civilized comfort.
We soon began to hear muffled strains of familiar tunes and realized that, even though we were relegated basically to the same fate as street urchins pressing their ears up against the outside walls of concert halls of yesteryear, we were, in fact, within the confines of the building where our beloved Daft Panthurr was performing.
Perhaps our auditory experience was affected by the lack of visual stimulation to match, or that fact that we were hearing the music strained through thick walls and curtains, or maybe exhaustion and disillusionment had finally set in and we were forced to face the reality that we had been royally ripped off by the BOKK Center.
Whatever the cause, the sounds that Sassette and I heard emanating from the stage as it was occupied by Daft Panthurr sounded far less like the power house ballads we had long associated with our favorite 80's group and more like the lethargic bleating of starving sheep.
Joe Helliott, in particular, had completely lost not only his edge, but his voice totally.
If his vocal chords were a six string guitar, he sounded as if he had broken at least four of them and the amps were crackling and sputtering, too.
By this time, I had endured entirely enough. I finally spotted an obviously important looking employee wearing a red polyester sports coat.
I stormed over to her and spewed forth my story of anger and woe and demanded to immediately speak to a member of management.
A supervisor miraculously appeared within five minutes and apologized profusely. He even offered to personally escort us in positions directly in front of the stage for the final moments, a full ten seconds before the concert ended.
I believe I would prefer to become a kamikaze pilot than attend another concert at the BOKK.
I would most likely derive much more enjoyment from the experience and have a better chance of survival to boot.