What has more Cheesehogs than a Walmart on the first of the month? An epic metal show in the scorching summer sun.
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We’ve done a couple of blogs visiting different things like ghetto fairs and stuff but I think this might be the first concert-style bone ride. I don’t smoke the Devil’s Lettuce but I’ll be walking you through my experience of Iron Maiden and Ghost at (artist formerly known as) Great Woods on Wednesday night. It’s a long one because it was a never-ending night.
I’d like to apologize for being a dayish late on posting this. When I tell you that this show damn-near had me dead all day Thursday and Friday – I mean I was so sick I couldn’t write while laying on my bathroom floor, chugging 78 Smartwaters, and wishing I was taking a dirt nap. I’ve never honked so hard in my life.
Now hold on! It wasn’t a “yeeeeeah got drunk at Maiden” kind of hangover. All the pain and none of the fun. I landed myself with a dose of heat stroke. I was actually sick because there wasn’t a fucking breeze to be found in a 900 degree humid sea of 80 gazillion people in all varieties of dress.
I’m sure you’re saying “But SSTG! It was Iron Fucking Maiden! One of your bucket list bands! How could you not be still all a fluster?” Well my dears, because my skin is burned, my soul has zero hydration, I tried to gouge my own eyes out after seeing some of the cheesiest of hogs, and I’m still trying to figure out how Bruce Dickenson managed to play for two hours in a hoodie, jumping around on stage like he was Peter Pan, next to pyrotechnics, and I was just about ready to puke in Capri pants and a tank top.
I am not cool anymore. I know this now.
I know I was tearing apart the Xfinity Center on the ride home (your comments gave me the will to survive. Even you buttholes calling me a pussy for leaving a smidge early) but I’ll do this as a chronologically fabulous shit show blog and that comes at the end.
It all started when I pulled in to the black top parking lot. I was ready to kill a bitch and almost gauntlet-style killed Mr. Turtlegirl in the race to the trunk. The trunk had the beer. The air was soupy and there were a bunch of yuppie fucks creeping too close to our tailgate zone. I was already scowling. Being opressed by heat and no air movement is enough to make anyone cunty. Soooo, when the 50 year-old guy in the Camry next to us opened his door, bumping ours, and put on his pointed alligator-skinned shoes, fluffed what little skull hair he had in his mirror, flashed his weird dentures at me, and then took his shirt off to reveal his werewolf-esque back fluff, it was all I could do to not hurl on my shoes when he flexed his floppy muscles in the reflection of his car. He looked like a throbbing leather scrotum. I couldn’t snap a pic of him. Too obvious.
As soon as OG Bruce Jenner (that’s honestly who he looked like) heel-clicked his fancy shoes to the venue, my unicorn came by so fast I almost missed it.
Faded teal hair, shaved under a weird pony tail, 250 bills, half shirt, I just about missed the picture. I tried so hard to find her again and missed my chance. This is all that remains.
There was so much of that at this show. People having no business not wearing clothes. I’m surprised that the med tent wasn’t specializing in chub rub salve because the amount of booty shorts on biggin girls was an epidemic.
Don’t give me shit for fat shaming. Decorum used to be alive and well in the world. It’s clearly dead. Even the skinny chicks there were SO extra. Stop fucking trying too hard people. A shoelace is not a shirt. A thong is not pants. You’re not proving anything by having your long, greasy, multi-colored hair stick to your back. That’s why jebus made hair elastics.
Once we had all managed to choke back about three Jack’s Abby IPLs a piece, it was time to head in to the venue. I was thrilled to just not be standing in the hot parking lot anymore. I was using a Dunks napkin to keep the sweat out of my eyes and my best friend waited like ten minutes before telling me I had a chunk of it stuck to my forehead. Slag.
Security line was super easy. Beer lines were pretty accessible. Then, as I’m walking up to my crappy as fuck lawn seats, because I waited too long to get good seats trying to figure out if we could find a sitter, and I spot this New Bedford gem finger-fucking her boyfriend’s ass walking in front of me. I didn’t get her while she was in his swampy butt cavern but I low-key tried to just get a picture of her so you all can know to never shake her hand.
Again. Decorum. It’s a thing.
Ghost, this amazing Swedish metal band that you should all totally listen to, was on first. I huffed my ass up the huge stairs to the lawn, and by then I was dumping sweat. I thought there would be some kind of breeze once we hit the open air. Nope. Not even a small bit of reprieve from the horrid must.
You know what’s even more fun than being stuck next to smelly metal kids and their no chill naked girlfriends? Having every last one of them sticky, sweating, and touching you. I know, you’re all going to tell me that I’m getting to old for this shit. You’re totally right. However, I was extra salty on this fine evening because it was just too damn much.
I would have blown a hobo (Clyde?) to have this place set up those big industrial fans in a few key places. It would have made a world of difference to pretty much everyone last night.
This kid was one of the many humans unphased by the heat. At least he has a cool flag to keep him extra warm! I envied him.
One of the things that really surprised me was the amount of children at this show. They were frigging everywhere. Every time I turned around there was another mom and dad dragging their kid though the sea of drunk people. I saw a family of six walking by me at one point. My oldest is eight, and like her father, loves the hard tunes. I couldn’t rationalize bringing my little girl to this free-for-all. I’m not ragging on the parents that did. I just think my mom senses would have been on high alert all night because you never know who you’re going to encounter at these things. It’s cool that parents want to give this experience to their kids. Personally, I will wait a few years.
Ghost’s performance was amazing. They have this awesome stage show but Xfinity didn’t turn on the giant screens so we really couldn’t see it. The sun was going down so we would have been able to view the projectors without glare. I was pretty bummed. That was short-lived because I found myself giggling at these two kids in front of me.
They were having so much fun and really enjoying themselves. I don’t know, maybe I’m just being silly, but seeing people genuinely having the time of their lives really makes me smile. I needed something to lighten my mood and they succeeded in that. Thanks bros.
Once the set was finished there was the usual mass exodus to get more drinks and taking a much needed bathroom break. I had found myself sharing a really sickly tasting daiquiri with the husband that was more cough medicine than margarita. I managed to locate a prime spot for people watching. As as soon as I got comfortable my friend gave me an elbow to the side. There was this dude standing there eating ketchup packets. One after another.
That’s when Princess Fupa Sparkles started galavanting around me like she had eaten a bunch of Molly. She looked like what I would imagine a Pegasus labia would resemble of they were real animals and not just a decoration on a Lisa Frank Trapper Keeper.
It was at this moment the cough syrup smoothie kicked in and I had to pee. I waited in line thinking I was hopping to a real bathroom and it turns out it was none other than a bunch of sticky port-a-potties. I walked in and stepped my flip flop in to about three inches of human piss.
It splashed all over my foot and my leg. Ever have a total fit in a closet where you couldn’t touch the walls? It’s not fun. I did the only thing I could do and take the anti-bacterial hand sanitizer and dumped it on my foot. I walked out, sticking to the mulch and ready to barf, ran to the lower actual bathroom and stuck my foot and shoes in the sink. I emptied the soap dispenser while totally skeezed out. I mentally made a plan to burn the flops when I got home. Can you get foot syphilis? Is that a thing?
Finally, Maiden started their set. I’ve got to give it to these guys. They are true showmen. They really love what they do. I know I’ve said this earlier in the blog but the fact Dickenson was wearing long pants and a hoodie has left me thinking he might be a member of the undead. The man was ping-ponging all over the stage, never missed a note, and did a really incredible job getting the crowd to forget they were standing in a bonus level of hell.
It didn’t matter that the sun went down. It just kept getting muggier as the sweat from everyone there started to turn in to this heinous fog over the venue. It was unbearable.
Watching Bruce, as a guy who had been recently going through cancer treatments, basically doing insanely energetic moves while in a parka made me really feel like a whiney pussy. I probably am. It’s why I’m a snarky blogger and not a billion dollar franchise based on decades of creativity. Guy is a legend. They all really are.
I tried so hard to make it through the whole show. I really did. (Brett Killoran is going to whack me for this.) I’m always the girl who is the life of the party and last to leave. I was not on my game. My beers were turning instantly warm. It was like we were just sweating the drunk away. I couldn’t even drink this night pretty. People, who are clearly younger than me, started to get really hammered and I watched as security pulled out person after person in cuffs.
I had to go get myself some water and just didn’t go back to my spot. I know I’m going to sound like a total queef here but I really think that if the venue had a couple of water tents and a handful of strategically placed fans the experience would have been better. People would have been less hammered. People could have enjoyed the show. But nah, they got to make that $5 a pop for water. Business is business.
I stayed until they played the second encore song (Number of the Beast) and asked my husband if we could leave. I thought that we would beat the crowds out. That we would make it home in time to thank my in-laws for watching the kids. Nope. What happened next had me so fucking angry that I took to the TB business page to vent. Turns out I was in the same lot as about 300 other Turtleriders who were all just as pissed as me. I love you angry bastards so much.
It didn’t matter that we left early. The way they navigate people out of the SINGLE exit is nothing short of absurd. Perhaps if they had hired people who give a fuck we could have made it home to the kids. Nope, just a bunch of shitty teenagers standing there with their thumbs up their asses.
Looking at phones and congregating together to do nothing. Because we were in one of the further lots – they halted us at the opening of the lot from even trying to leave. Two hours until we moved an inch.
So what do you do when you can’t move? You sit there angry and having to use the unavailable restroom facilities, OR you keep the party going. The idea of people, who have been drinking all day, having another two hours to keep drinking, before driving home, is dangerous. A little wait is understandable. This was unprofessional. I’ve been to a million shows at this venue and I’ve only once had traffic be that bad. That night was Aerosmith and Run DMC way back in the day. It was pouring buckets while we tried to leave. Rain complicates things and jams up traffic. Oh well.
Have you ever had to pee so badly that you’re actually in pain? You’re contemplating just going in your pants and pulling out your Bissell Little Green Machine the next day to shame-clean your accident instead of holding it any longer? That was me after being unable to get out of the parking lot. I was dying.
Mr. Turtlegirl was trying to mansplain to me that I was a big girl and could hold it. He forgets what birthing children does to your lady bit muscles. They ain’t what they used to be. I told him my plan to just wet my pants and that changed his tune. I guess the thought of mopping up wife wizz was too much for him to handle. When FINALLY left the parking lot (two and a half hours later) he pulled in to the gas station near the venue.
I sent my best friend in to the store to see if they had bathrooms. Nope. They were smart and closed them. Then, I spotted it. The most amazing thing I had seen all night and I had just witnessed a near 60 year-old man doing kick flips in a winter jacket next to fire. A random port-a-potty in the parking lot. I walked over, saw that it was closed, I knocked, no answer. I had a flash of terror come over me. I couldn’t even walk back to the car. If this thing was out of order I was going to stand in the middle of the parking lot sobbing out of my eyes and pants. I took all of my anxiety, hate, moistness, discomfort, and traffic rage and ripped the door open like the Hulk.
The poor bastard peeing might have dropped a fear-turd. I felt kind of bad using my new found super powers to interrupt his flow but the dude should have answered. He finished up and scurried past me without making eye contact. Good.
As I sat down (hovered,) I reflected upon my entire experience of the evening, and realized that this was the happiest I’d been since seeing those two kids having a blast listening to their favorite band. Seven minutes later I emerged a new woman. It was finally over. No worries, the kids had me up at six. Just in time for me to realize I was going to pay for my brief hiatus of supposed fun by being sick.
And that was my night, folks. I’ve learned that I’m no longer a bad ass rocker chick. I’m just a delicate flower, who hates being hot, and should probably just stick to cooking dinner.