Four intrepid travelers ventured thumbward to Detroit on Sunday. The jovial mood soured as I parked the Accord while Lori, Laurel & Stacey tried to check in to the hotel. I returned from the lot across the street to be smothered in tension.
Our nemesis was a front desk clerk named Jamie. Her acerbic response to my question about room types coming available caused mass seething among us. I thought for a moment that one my friends might file an open-handed customer grievance against the woman's mandible.
Dinner in Greektown and four hours of Bruce/REM/Fogerty and countless 22-oz Molson's went a long way toward mitgating the rage. There was surprisingly little Falwellian activity outside the Cobo. Just the mandatory Ralph Reed-knockoff abortion protesters with their graphic poster (and probably handing out props, like bloodly fetus Beanie Babies). I had a really brief encounter with them. No harm, no foul.
Inside, Mickey Stipe , still thin and chrome-domed was dressed in a stark white suit, so he looked like a 70's-era Spiderman villain. It seemed like Springsteen might be training with Barry Bonds and Marion Jones. I'm pretty sure that Fogerty's orangeade mullet was a clip-on.
While in the bathroom line, I mixed with a couple of folks that had seen the show the night before in Ohio. They said that Springsteen was going to come out with a "...rockin' version of the 'Star Spangled Banner'" and that I should make everybody around me stand up and take off their hats because "...well...it's the Boss."
What? I should stand for the Boss?
Countless people in a lot of wars fought so that we can all choose whether we want to stand or sit for the national anthem. Screw Springsteen. I stand for my father.
Posted by scott at October 6, 2004 02:50 PM