I WAS A ROCK CRITIC FOR THE ORANGE COUNTY REGISTER
Probably the worst time I had reviewing for the Register was in October 1993, just days after the Register Jazz & Blues Festival debacle. They sent me to Oingo Boingo's annual Halloween show at Irvine Meadows. I've always hated Oingo Boingo-basically the KROQ crowd's version of the Grateful Dead, but with beer instead of acid.
I was just coming down with a bad case of the flu, which didn't bother me so much. What did was the extremely drunk girl in the next seat. She had apparently filled her tank in the parking lot and was out of it before the first song.
As Boingo's set droned on-and on-this slovenly wench started getting really nosy with me, which is what happens when you're the most sober person in a crowd of 15,000 and you're taking notes. She peppered me with questions: Could she read my notes? What was it like writing for the Reg? What did I think of Boingo? Where did I go to school? What beer did I drink? I ignored her, which, of course, made her more belligerent. She tried to grab my notebook. She tried to grab my pen. She tried to grab the pink pen I keep securely inside my pants.
I began to wonder if this was worth the 50 bucks.
And then, the inevitable: "BLaaaAAARRRFFF!!!!"-and she passed out.