Kalamazoo and KROKUS, too!

The security man in the red jacket was adamant about it.

“No, ya can’t go back to see Crockus,” he said, shaking his head.

“It’s Croak-us,” I corrected, “and I’m supposed to do an interview with ’em.”

“Crock-us, Croak-us, whatever, ya ain’t gettin’ back cuz yer not laminated,” he informed me, fingering the plastic-coated pass on his jacket.

No, I thought, and I’m not lubricated, either, unlike about 88 percent of these headknockers out there. I’d just come from a harrowing foray in the men’s room at Kalamazoo’s Wings Stadium— normally a mild-mannered hocky rink— where a groggy horde of tanked-up guys were using as receptacles the sinks, trash cans, ash trays and just about anything sitting still that wouldn’t spit back. I remembered ruefully the way I’d sidestepped over a minefield of empty beer cans and bottles en route to this SQld-out show, pondering with distaste at what consequences might be brought that evening. Had I known, I’d have pissed in the bushes.