Thursday, December 13, 2012

Paradise City: An evening with Guns N' Roses

One minute I am in bed, and the next I am under attack. Judging by the two sets of feet that are now crushing me, I know there are two people on top of me, and they’re females... I can tell that from the high-pitched screams that are slowly but surely filling the room where I’m trying to rest after having stayed up all night. “What is going on?”, I think to myself, “and why am I liking it?”
My, my, my... if only this were true.
Turns out I'd been sleeping and Rocco, my ShihTzu dog, decided to wake me up. His four-legged nature would explain the “two sets of legs” I had felt trampling on me, and his annoying, yet charming barking would also explain the “high pitched screams” that only seconds ago had seemed so provocative. I know my dog well enough to recognize there could only be one extraordinary situation which would compel him to wake me up: he has to take a piss. I can't blame him for doing it, really. If whether or not I'd be able to urinate depended on an individual bent on sleeping most of the day, an individual that had stayed up all night because he doesn't know any better – if whether or not I'd be able to take a piss, a necessary and pleasurable task, depended on this fool, then you could rest assured, dear reader, that I'd also begin to bark.
I get dressed and head out to buy some beer at the local CVS. Tonight is the Guns N' Roses concert (aka Axl & Co). For the umpteenth time, I will be witnessing a world-class rock & roll event in the company of a friend we will, for safety reasons, call "Negro". Negro and I have been fortunate enough to have seen many concerts together. Black Sabbath, Van Halen, Metallica, Paul McCartney... we've seen some of the best. After arriving at Negro's house, we have a few beers and a quick smoke and exit his building with the kind of purpose and swagger that only two morons like us could feel in anticipation of a big rock show.
On the way over to the coliseum we play some good tunes in the car. For some reason, every six months or so we always have the same conversation. This conversation is of the “Remember when we used to?” variety. After laughing in a way more akin to children than grown men, I wipe the tears from my face and realize that we're getting old. Not necessarily old, but old-er.
We park in Plaza Las Americas and quickly cross the avenue into the coliseum's area. Suddenly, I’m faced with the realization that I have to relieve my bladder. This is a problem because it’s the Roberto Clemente Coliseum, a facility that does not have bathrooms outside. The tables have turned; Rocco would be pleased. However, luck is on my side. I find some bushes to the side of the building and do what needs to be done as I pretend to be on the phone. I feel like such a dog.

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