One thing I dislike is people who discuss the weather, which means that since I live in Minnesota, I dislike everyone. I have lived here my whole life and there are a few things that I know. Winter means anywhere between six and sixty inches of snow. I know that the temperature range over a twelve month period is easily one hundred degrees. Sub-zero (Fahrenheit) temperatures in January, while in July it is ninety degrees and so humid you feel like you are breathing through a pan of gelatin dessert. Unless it is raining Mr. Pibb, the weather won't surprise me.
So I wish people would quit discussing the weather, complaining about the weather, and talking about allowing for extra time on the morning commute around me. Because they are just using me as an outlet, not as a participant in a two-way conversation. If they were allowing me to participate, they would hear me say, "There is always a warm snap the first week in February." (This statement usually comes after a week straight of below zero weather.)
No one ever listens to me and that bums me out, because then I don't get a chance to gloat. I strongly suspect that no one listens to me because they want to complain, and they aren't actually looking for a ray of hope. Either that or I am just not phrasing it correctly. Maybe next year I will try, "When thirty-six hours have passed and the moon in the sky is waning gibbous, the temperature of the very air you breathe will be thrice that of its present state."
Not only would people listen to that, they would never talk to me about weather again. And, with a line like that, I would be right in line for Iron Maiden to write a song about me. I would just need some sort of snappy title. The February Warm Snap Prophet? The Fifty Degrees In February Seeress? Well, I know I can count on Steve Harris to think of something. I happen to be the once-a-year weather discusser that no one listens to thanks to Iron Maiden, and I think it would be only fitting if I got worked into a tune.
You see, many years ago, I came home from school on a Friday, and as was my practice, I called The Connection to see if they had any new concert listings. Did they ever! The friendly operator told me that Iron Maiden was coming to town. What? Iron Maiden! I probably need to go to that. "Who is the opening act?" I asked. "Anthrax," was her reply. Oh. No. No. It. Can't. Be. True. Greatest concert bill ever!
Anthrax and Iron Maiden! I had to go. At some point, I changed into my after school outfit of a t-shirt and shorts and went outside to get the mail, giddy as you please about Anthrax and Iron Maiden. But what was I doing getting the mail in a t-shirt and shorts? It was February 1st! It was really freaking warm out for February. The snow was melting so fast it was rushing down the street, it smelled great, and suddenly, I had to go camp out for concert tickets, because they were going on sale the following day.
This was 1991, when you could still do something that resembled camping out for concert tickets. When I had purchased my a-ha tickets, they were hard copy tickets at a record store. The authentic way to buy tickets. By the time Iron Maiden came around almost five years later, you could still line up like a crazed freak at the record store, but once inside, you were at the mercy of the computer system to decide what the best available seats were.
But the camping out aspect was still very much alive, so a friend and I decided to go to Great American Music and wait. I think we drove by on Friday night to see if anyone was there yet, but I'm not positive. I do know that the wake up time we decided on was four o'clock in the morning. Tickets went on sale at nine-thirty. Did she come pick me up? Did I go to her house? I don't remember, but it was four in the morning twelve years ago, so give me a break.
I do know that eventually we ended up in the parking lot of Great American Music in her mom's car at about four-thirty in the morning, with half a submarine sandwich, a boom box, and two cassettes. I brought Never Mind The Bollocks, Here's The Sex Pistols, and she brought Cowboys From Hell by Pantera. Because we thought we only needed two cassettes. Let me tell you, five hours is a long, long time when you only have two albums, and that Sex Pistols album is only about thirty minutes total, so we had to listen to a lot of Pantera.
In the meantime, we were parked a couple of spaces down from a Dodge Omni that looked empty. There was no one in it. Of course, neither of us got out of the car to check, warm snap in February or not, it's still pretty freaking cold at five in the morning. So, we killed time, periodically turning on the car when we got too cold, warming up for awhile, then huddling back down in our seats while God Save The Queen played for the fourth time.
And then, somewhere between six and eight in the morning, both seats in the front seat of the nearby Omni popped up, and the passengers were revealed. Dude! The Omni wasn't empty, and the guys in the car had slept there all night, as near as we could tell. We were still the only two cars. The sun was starting to come up, and finally other cars began arriving. We got bored and started opening and closing the convertible roof.
At, say, a quarter to nine, the record store employees arrived, and we all started getting out of our cars to form a line outside the building. What counts is, we formed the line in the order we had arrived. We were a crowd of honest metal fans. The Omni sleepers obviously were first, we were next, and a guy we had dubbed Klondike Mike due to his knee-high furry boots was after us. Then a bunch of regular metal guys. I think all told there were only about five or six cars, with a total of maybe ten people. But we were going to get good seats due to persistence. Oh, and the computer system that would scientifically determine which seats were the best for us.
They let us into the store, they punched in our request, and we ended up with seats in the fourteenth row. Pret-ty sweet, Milhouse. I'm gonna see Anthrax! I'm gonna see Anthrax! And it was warm out! Life doesn't get any better than that. It was the first and only time I camped for tickets. Sure, I showed up at six in the morning for Queensrÿche tickets, but it was April, so I stood in a line for three hours. That's standing, not camping.
And very soon after that, the rules changed. A lottery system was put into place. No longer did it matter what time you showed up, they handed out wristbands that determined your place in line. So if you showed up at midnight, and someone else showed up at nine in the morning, you both had equal chances. What? Why? That's not rock and roll. That's some sort of creepy system designed to level the playing field. Why? I could just cry that is so wrong. An essential part of the rock and roll experience is sitting huddled in your car or on a sidewalk, because you love a band. You suffer for their art! Your reward is being that really happy fan in the front row. The lottery system allows for no human elements to come into play.
A few years ago, they put ticket outlets into some of our local supermarkets. Handsome Jeff was very distraught about that. "I should not be able to buy a gallon of milk and a Black Sabbath ticket in the same store!" That was the final straw for me too. I no longer bother with tickets the day they go on sale. I just wander up to the box office about half an hour before showtime on the day of the concert, and take whatever seat they have for me. That also cuts down on the mysterious ticket fees. Every time I am forced to do that, I get all sad remembering the days when you could camp out and be properly rewarded for your gumption as a fan, although I don't really go to that many arena shows any more, I just like to complain.
But you won't catch me complaining about the weather, because thanks to a fond memory from a Friday in 1991, I know that warm weather is coming. I also know that soon after, the song Tailgunner will be going through my head, because I wouldn't even know about the February warm snap if it wasn't for Iron Maiden.