Sweet Emotion: A Tribute To Aerosmith

It was to be my first official "skid" concert. As we approached the stadium, some unruly fans began throwing full beer cans onto the road, cheering and hooting every time a car ran over one, exploding the fizzy contents.

When we got to the entrance line up, we were surrounded by red eyes and rednecks, guys with big bellies and girls with small skirts, and I began to feel afraid.

I remembered what happened last time when glam metal giants Guns and Roses passed through town. Riots, broken glass, bloody brawls, heavily intoxicated fans getting their teeth bashed in by the cops, and later, accusations of uncalled-for police brutality. But tonight, I was happy to see the black and blue uniforms, grateful for some semblance of law and order.

The cop at the gate told me I couldn't bring my water bottle in. I gladly handed it over without a fight. He wouldn't get any trouble from me. I voluntarily spread my arms and legs for the frisk, but all I got was a pat on the shoulder and a "Have a good time."

When we entered the stadium, it was just like being at a hockey game, except most of the fans seemingly had already partaken in a couple keggers to avoid having to pay the $7.50 house price for a tiny cup of brew. Young girls hung off each other's shoulders, performing their rites of passage in I'm-more-wasted-than-you fashion.

Cleavage? You bet, in all shapes and sizes, some of them discarding their shirts altogether to maximize breast shadow action. The men? Let's just say they'd be right at home at a monster truck show.