Glorious Results of a Misspent Youth
Each year Naperville, IL holds a week-long Independence Day festival called Rib Fest, featuring lots of smoky barbeque and musical performances by legends (or their ghosts and third cousins).
Kate and I, years and years ago, had a cushy gig doing grip work for the cameramen during the shows, thanks to the fact her stepdad equivalent, Scott Barenbrugge, provided the audio/video logistics for the festival.
This year Joan Jett and the Blackhearts were on the bill, and Kate, her boyfriend Anthony and I negotiated our way backstage.
I ran into Chuck, the cameraman I used to work with, who now works in the command center, calling the shots to be displayed on the jumbotron. He got me an honorary grip position for the show, which consisted of standing stationary in front of the stage (the cameraman was stationed on a box, static). "Joan's pretty tiny; you might not see her otherwise," he reasoned.
From my poseur's vantage point, I was not only able to see Joan Jett, I was close enough that when she knelt for a fiery solo, sweat from her hair flew into my face. What a show!
There are two kinds of people in the world: those whom Joan Jett has sweat on; and everyone else.