I went to see Neil Young LIVE tonight at the Mile One Centre. Two of my man friends accompanied me. I took some extraordinarily crappy phone pictures to post, but somehow the damn photos won’t upload. So I’ll post them tomorrow, although it won’t really matter, because all you can see is glaring lights and a rock god in the distance.


ANYWAY, great show. Tons of energy. Lots of new music, not very much old. This is both good and bad: I really enjoyed his new stuff and I am now more inclined to buy his music. On the other hand, I did not leave the concert feeling blissful and fulfilled and satisfied. Only when he played “Old Man” did I feel like I had gotten my money’s worth. Briefly.


I hate to be a complainer, or a poser, or whatever the fuck you wanna call me. But seriously, hit songs are popular for a reason. The crowd went nuts when the popular tunes began, and the atmosphere immediately shifted. It should be like that for the entire performance.


Still, Neil Young knows how to ROCK OUT. My lord can that man play a guitar. He’s like 500 years old and he’s still got it.


Note to self: Never buy General Admission tickets again. EVER. Standing in a mob of people smelling like a mixture of armpit and cologne for three hours is excruciating. It zapped my will to live. Love. Laugh. 80% of the time, my view was blocked by tall assholes. There should be some sort of national concert etiquette: tall assholes in the back, short assholes in the front. At one point a fat guy wearing a leather jacket pushed me out of the way very forcefully. I was so angry that I picked up an empty beer bottle from the floor and hurled it as his head (that didn’t actually happened but I envisioned it for a solid hour). I could see him a few people ahead of me, swirling and flicking his long, curly, greasy hair all over the place. Rocking out. Thanks sweaty beer man, go bob somewhere else. And get a haircut you stupid fuck, maybe then you’ll get laid sometime.


Greener, Jono and I wandered around for a bit afterwards. Georg e Street was packed with drunkards basking in the afterglow of a concert. We dropped into Whalen’s Pub and then headed to a skeety bar located over Trapper John’s, but since my feet hurt and I’m all kinds of lame, I headed home instead. It was a risky endeavour: I didn’t get stabbed, but I did get approached by a man who tried to talk to me and then whistled as I walked away. Now he knows where I live.