Reid About It

I ate last week in a popular Mexican chain restaurant, and was surprised to see that I had a little emo waiter.

I’m sure there’s a better term for it now, and emo has turned to Goth, which turned to screamo, which is now called something completely different. Define it however you’d like, it just seemed a bit odd to me that someone who depends on the kindness and generousness of the public would try and set themselves apart.

I mean, come on. This isn’t the Hot Topic, Iggy. This is the Jalapeno Tree. This is Lubys, with tortillas. This place is full of people who haven’t worn black eyeshadow since the Smiths broke up. Your target audience doesn’t want to see your gaping earring holes and plastered down hair. They’re going to spend all of the meal wondering why you look sort of like Liza Minelli with more accessories, and completely forget to leave extra money on the table so you can pay your rent.

Some of you who’ve known me might be crying foul at me taking offense to someone else’s appearance, since for much of my life I’ve appeared to be auditioning for a role as a background criminal on some Scottish cop show. Guilty, but I wasn’t working with the public and counting on them to pay me.

I’ll put it this way. Yes, at several points in my life I had long hair in my career in the workplace. When I had a ponytail, I worked in the basement of KLTV. They kept me locked down in the darkness below ground level, like the retarded mutant kid in horror movies.

When I cut the hair, they stopped treating me like Sloth and let me come out and play with others, and be on television. Whether that was a good choice or not is still debatable I guess.

– Reid Kerr’s last haircut came at the intersection of “The Big Lebowski” and Eric Stolz’ character in “Pulp Fiction.”

Because of a recent traffic infraction, I had to go down to my local court. And by “traffic infraction,” I mean “airborne collision with a truck.”

Anyway, I strolled on down to the courtroom to speak to the judge, and wound up waiting in court for about an hour and a half before I was called.

Court is a…different place, let’s say.

To begin with, no one seems to dress for court any more. And I don’t mean, “dress nice.” I mean, “dress at all.” There were several guys who were all decked out for a pickup basketball game. A couple of mid-twenties women were dressed for work, as long as they were employed as either prostitutes, strippers, or undercover cops posing as stripping prostitutes.

Another interesting observation, of the roughly thirty people who saw the judge before me, I’d say half of them were there because they had some community service assigned to them and they had failed to complete it.

Let that sink in for a minute. These people committed crimes and offenses ranging from drunk driving to grand theft meth, and all they had to do to not go to jail or pay their fines was to show up and do something for charity. And they didn’t. They took the mercy of our court system, and decided to just take a zero instead.

I’ve heard an old Southern expression about laziness being a crime. Well, apparently that’s actually true if you push it far enough.

The judge read one guy his community service log. He worked for part of a week, asked to be let off early on Friday, and then never showed up there again. You know, like a three-day-weekend, except it lasts forever, and it’s illegal.

Most of these people got extra time to do their community service. One of them had gone so far they were handcuffed and taken to jail, everybody else got a warning, a scolding, and more time.

Except me.

I asked for community service because I have a surplus of time and a certain lack of cash, and I figured the public good might be better served by spending a week at a food bank, or bathing the homeless, or whatever the judge would like.

Nope. The judge turned me down flat, said I could have a payment plan, and I was whisked out of the court. I spent less time in front of the judge than I would have spent ordering a hamburger.

The guy who was dressed like an extra in Breaking Bad? He got off easier than me, partially because his wife was one of the people the judge had already sent away in handcuffs earlier for ignoring her community service.

The eighteen-year-old white kid busted for his first bong? He got off easier than me. As he was waiting outside the courtroom, he had a friend go bring him a pack of Newports. What are the odds of an 18-year-old kid with a bong in one pocket and a pack of menthols in the other growing up to be anything further than either a drain on society, or a part of a hilariously bad rap video? Not very good, I’d wager.

Perhaps wearing a shirt and tie to show proper respect gave the judge the wrong impression of me. Maybe I should have followed the lead of the other guys in the courtroom, and dressed like I was on my way to an Arkansas date-rape. Perhaps that would have tipped him towards leniency.

– Reid Kerr paid off the ticket, and is now a productive member of society again.

Little things bother me. They cause me to question why they exist, and that can get troublesome.

Here’s an example from a local Mexican restaurant bathroom. The sign reads…

“EMPLOYEE HAND WASH…All employees must wash their hands before leaving this bathroom. All handwash methods require using soap with vigorous motions and water to later and rinse.”

See? That’s something terrifying I had never considered before. All these years I thought “Employees Must Wash Hands” said it all. It never dawned on me that our educational system might be falling down on the job in teaching people to clean themselves.

The circumstances that led to this restaurant putting up this sign are a bit stomach-churning, too. Did the manager see Dingo the waiter go into the bathroom and drop a deuce, then just wave his hands under the faucet, wipe his hands on his pants, and get right back to slinging nachos? And was I eating there that day? I’ll tell you, if I was there the day they put that sign up, I might just go home and check into the toilet with a couple of months’ worth of Sports Illustrated, assuming I was going to be there for a while.

And why the sign? Why go public with your scatological failings? To me, that indicates a clear communication problem in management. Just sit the guy down and tell him to scrub up. There’s no need for a sign. And really, if the kid can’t get washing his hands together, I’m not sure posting a sign is going to help.

You shouldn’t have to call an employee training session just to get somebody to fathom the concept of lathering up.

“Hey, Jimbo? Yeah, I need you to come in early this Saturday. Employee training day, and all that. I need you here at eight a-m sharp, I’m going to send you into that bathroom with a bar of Lava. Don’t come out until you’ve got it right, son. And don’t be afraid to ask someone to double-check your work. There’s no room for error there.”

“What? Drying your hands off? Slow down, boy. One thing at a time. Don’t bite off more than you can chew. Concentrate on zipping up and washing off first…we’ll handle the rest in the advanced class.”

Perhaps you should just show him nature videos of a raccoon washing his paws in a river, and he might get the hint.

– Reid Kerr hates the electric eye faucets at Walmart that require you to pretty much rub your hands on the sink.

Last night, a long-standing part of my life ended.

For the last twenty years, I’ve spent fall Friday nights at football stadiums all over East Texas doing play-by-play for various radio stations. I’ve been a part of more than three hundred broadcasts over that time. Our team, Jacksonville, was down 34-2 to the #2 team in the state, and in the fourth quarter it started to sink in that this was it. There was no comeback left, and their playoff run was over.

That meant mine was, too.

Last night was my last game in East Texas, as I probably won’t be here when next season comes around. I know I have a lot of friends who aren’t from here and have heard a lot about this region’s love of football. Let me tell you, it’s all true. It’s virtually impossible to overstate it.

If you’ve seen the TV show Friday Night Lights, you don’t get it. Go watch the movie. You still won’t get it, so then go read the book. The book is still only half of it, but it’s a start. There are stories so powerful and true, no Hollywood writer would ever dream of trying to tell them.

How big is it? My home town of 6000 people has a new stadium that seats more than that, and a video replay board that’s as big as my house. True story. As part of one of my writing gigs, I set up an interview with Dallas’ Alex Stein, a contestant on ABC’s reality show “The Glass House.” I called him and when he saw my area code, he knew I was in East Texas, so we spent the first ten minutes of the interview talking about high school football.

In that twenty years on radio and TV I’ve seen guys who went on to play major college football, and some all the way to the NFL. I’ve been in Adrian Peterson’s house when he was a teenager. I’ve seen supremely talented athletes who moved on, and hard-working kids who grew up to be good men and fathers of athletes I’d wind up seeing on the field, too. I watched my home town win a state championship at the last high school game ever at Texas Stadium, and I saw them win another at Cowboys Stadium. It’s been a Hell of a ride, and there wasn’t a single Friday night that ever felt like work.

Is it too much at times? Of course, but that’s what makes it fun. Friday nights, the whole town is at the stadium. Everybody in the school is on the team, or in the band, the cheerleaders, drill team, or any of the other groups. It’s an incredible atmosphere that has to be seen to be believed.

And last night, I got choked up at the end of the game. No shame there, either. I realized it was my last moment to do something I had loved, and had been proud to be a part of.

Once upon a time I was a punk kid of twenty-three, and breaking into the business. I would do any game, any where, for anyone. I did high school games Friday night, then college games on Saturday, and drove hundreds of miles to get any experience I could, and loved every minute of it. It’s been a part of my life for twenty years since then through good times and bad.

And so last night, for the first time in 306 games, I did something I’ve never done before. I got choked up. Emotion finally got the best of me.

Thank you. For everyone whose games I called, for every mom and dad and grandmother who thanked me, for every booster club member who tossed me a burger fresh off the grill, and for every coach who took the time to work with me. For every press box I ever worked in (and on top of, on occasion), for every broadcast partner I’ve ever worked with, and for every radio station owner who trusted me with a bag of equipment guaranteed to work at least half of the time.

Thank you for letting me be a part of Friday nights. It’s truly been an honor to get to share those experiences with you.

PS: Just to complete the experience, I ate a crappy meal at a gas station around midnight last night on the way home. It’s a part of the magic, kids.

I appreciate your optimism, Target, but I just don’t think we need a whole aisle of snow shovels in Texas.

Especially since I’m still wearing shorts.

– Reid Kerr hopes this is one of those “every four years” when Texas actually gets snow, but he ain’t betting on it. 

I love it when people say the government makes too much money, and should all be working for minimum wage.

I’m not a big fan of politicians in general, but this idea that the people we elect to represent us should be paid what the average fast-food table-wiper makes is a bit silly.

Don’t we want our leadership positions to be desirable ones? I doubt the Presidency should be an entry-level position, and just a stepping stone to a better paying gig as an assistant manager at Appleby’s.  Besides, if you want your government to be paid minimum wage, aren’t you just pretty much saying “I only want to be ruled by rich white guys who already have the cash and don’t need a paycheck.”

If someone brings it to you, it’s food. If someone hands it to you, it’s crap.

At a public urinal, I looked down to see a Butterfinger wrapper.

I’m confused. Does that mean that a guy came in to throw his trash away in the urinal specifically, since the garbage can was about four feet away? Or does that mean some guy came in and opened and ate a candy bar while standing at the urinal?

I’m not sure which is worse.

– Reid Kerr should probably stop pondering at the urinal, lest he get funny looks.

Experts say that whenever you move, you should throw out anything you haven’t unpacked from the previous move.

This is probably a good place to point out that anyone who would refer to themselves as an “expert” in the field of moving is probably full of crap. Come on, there’s no college major in relocation. No trade school is going to teach you to pack a box. The NRA cannot and will not show you how to use a tape gun.

Rather than just refer to myself as an “expert,” I’ll present my qualifications.

I was conceived in one location and born in another, thus making my first move while still in the womb. On the ultrasound, you can see I’m holding a tiny roll of packing tape.

I was the son of a minister, which gives me the kind of home stability that only people who grew up in either a military family or a carnival can imagine. We moved every couple of years, whether we needed to or not. It was like we were in some kind of holy witness protection program.

I went to four high schools, one of them twice. I’m pretty sure I never got everything out of my locker before I left, either.

After finishing college, I proceeded to live in twelve different places in the next ten years. One time, I moved everything I owned a grand total of a hundred yards. Just to raise the difficulty level of the move, I went from one upstairs apartment to another. It was good for the calves, at least.

Even in adulthood I can’t escape it. I bought a house, then got divorced within two years and had to move into another apartment. After that, I bought a house again and was convinced that this was where I’d spend the rest of my days, which has turned out to be less than a single Presidential administration before I’m champing at the bit to move again.

I have what I like to refer to as an “in-depth knowledge of spatial geometry.” What this means is that I can pack a U-Haul like a son-of-a-bitch. Here’s my ten tips for getting there with stuff and sanity still intact.

1) Pack the Hell out of that U-Haul. The U-Haul goes all the way up, doesn’t it? So should your boxes. Build it in waves and layers.

2) Boxes with handles are worth it. Boxes with handles that’ll last a whole move without tearing are even more valuable.

3) Label your boxes as you are filling them. Even if just random stuff, label it as such. Remember when you’re done, you’ll have what seems like a thousand boxes that all look exactly the same. Any clue you can leave will help solve a future mystery.

4) You will have the best intentions of going through everything and sorting it all before packing. Don’t worry, later on, this concept will seem humorous to you and you’ll get a good laugh out of it while opening boxes full of old Family Circle magazines and used dog toys.

5) You can get boxes anywhere. However, you don’t want to keep your stuff in them forever. Milk boxes make great short term crates, but about every other one has a small stain in it that will quickly make your books smell like rancid feet. Unless they already do, that’s not a good thing.

6) Resign yourself to packing some random boxes. Where do you put the pushpins? What about the set of eyeglass screwdrivers? Any idea where you planted your spare set of keys, old mail, and the notice for your next doctor’s appointment? If you took my advice, it’s all in that big box marked “Crap Off The Kitchen Counter.” It’s not eloquent, but it is effective.

7) Some things won’t fit, no matter what. Every house has some weird shaped stuff like lamps, end tables, and ceramic animals of questionable taste. Do your best on these, but that’s what the interior of the car is for. Put that hideously ornate ceramic elephant in the passenger seat and strap it in with the seat belt. Or better yet, put it underneath the back tire, wait for the crunching sound, and apologize to Aunt Dorothy for ruining her wedding gift later.

8) Don’t be a hero. Yeah, you can lift that TV by yourself, but do you want to bet the $500 purchase price on it, Mr. Stallone? Furthermore, everybody hurts. By the time you finish, everyone will be sore, so shut up about your own problems. Whoever is getting their stuff moved for free should be the most effervescent SOB in the house at all times.

9) Don’t feel bad about being sentimental. Everybody has their memories, and sometimes a movie ticket or a handwritten note can be a reminder of a sweeter time. However, you don’t need every single memory you’ve ever had, do you? As a quick rule of thumb, if rediscovering it for the first time doesn’t immediately make you smile, toss it. Ladies, do you really need to hang on to the ticket stub from that time you and that guy from work went to see “Weekend At Bernie’s 2″ and wound up at Marble Slab, where he made that incredibly inappropriate comment and you dumped a frozen yogurt in his lap, then had to walk home in your new shoes? On second thought, maybe so.

10) Old media has to go. No old magazines, no old software, nothing that could be easily replaced by a quick Google search. Yes, old magazines are cool because of the nostalgia factor, but do you really want to be that guy from “Seinfeld” who had collected every issue of “TV Guide”?

Finally, if you learn nothing else from me, please remember this one rule. The person moving is responsible for buying the meals, and beer afterwards if appropriate. If you want help the next time you move, honor this Golden Rule.

– Reid Kerr keeps making his last move, ever.

Hello, Dexter Morgan.

Yes, America’s favorite serial killer returned last night, in an episode I thought was both good, and pretty stupid. You can check out my full write-up on Examiner.com.

My new podcast is also up on the season opener of Showtime’s “Dexter,” you can listen to it below or download the “Dexter” podcast here.

– Reid Kerr would like to see Masuka get a spin-off.

Podcast: Play in new window | Download

It’s gone too far. I saw a guy at my grocery store cleaning the glass doors in the frozen foods section while wearing one of those BlueTooth Ear Phones. You know, in case somebody needed to urgently reach him while he was squeegeing the front of the lasagna case. Remember back when everybody in the world wasn’t always available, and we were just able to make do without being in constant contact with everyone from the President right down to grocery store support staff?

I tend to let things get kind of messy at my house. The other day I tried to throw something on the floor and missed.

When I see “Coach Season I On DVD: Limited Edition”, I agree. It’s limited for a good, common-sense reason.

I like going to PetSmart, because I can pee anywhere I like and nobody notices.

Why don’t they make a video game where you’re delivering foreign aid? That might make international peace and prosperity a little bit sexier.

If women really want to wear a fragrance that attracts men, they should make a perfume that smells like the laundry aisle. Or perhaps the first whiff from a freshly opened bag of potato chips.

Lesson: Never try and make witty small talk with a girl whose earrings are bigger than her head.

If a medication is referred to as “Maximum Strength,” why would you ever need to take more than one of them at a time?

I just got Eddie Money’s Greatest Hits album, and I can remember clearly two of his songs that were released as singles with videos that are not included on the album. I’m not sure what that says about his management team, nor am I certain what that says about me.

Idle Thought: I caught part of “To Die For” on cable the other night. Is that the best movie Nicole Kidman has ever made that takes place in the present day? You know, disqualify any role she’s had where she was wearing a hoop skirt and doing a Merchant Ivory flick.

Owens sausage has a flavor designated “Extra Mild.” What the Hell is that? Is it super-average? Is it extra-medium? Does it have that certain lack of taste that mild foods have, except an exciting amount of it?

I heard a Dallas sportstalk radio station ran the promo “Breaking Sports News First…Guaranteed!” Guaranteed? Or what? Or my money back?

They now sell something called “Black Cherry Vanilla Diet Coke”. I can see the soda executives sitting around the table, discussing the new product, and wondering if they could get “just ONE more chemical in there somewhere. Hey, let’s make it Diet! And turn it black! And then, we’ll have to put a warning label on it that says ‘Do not drink if pregnant, may cause mutation.’”

People always seem to get excited when one of those free standing fairs comes to town. The carnies set up on a parking lot, and bolt the rides into the concrete and take off. You know, I just don’t trust portable roller coasters being run by an elementary school dropout with six teeth, two noses, and rickets.

– Reid Kerr once watched a defensive driving video hosted by Craig T. Nelson, and considers it one of his finest performances.

Joe Elliott has man-boobs.

I know, as far as opening lines go, it’s not exactly “Frank Sinatra has a cold.” It’s important to the story later, though, and not even in a negative way.

An old friend of mine, Matt Pool, called me last week and wanted me to come with him to see Def Leppard, Poison, and Lita Ford in Dallas. Since it had been about two decades since I had seen any of those bands, I agreed and headed off to the Metroplex.

We got to the American Airlines Center, where I noticed something that stands true at almost every show I’ve ever been to. Women dress for concerts like they’re going to the after-party, while men dress like they’re going to a bar fight.

For starters, Lita Ford looked really good for whatever her age would be now. I refuse to look it up, by the way. I feel like if I really know what she looks like and how old she is now, it will somehow invalidate all my teenage masturbation, and I just can’t have that.

We got there as she was playing “Close My Eyes Forever,” which is one of the two Lita songs I knew. She followed with “Kiss Me Deadly,” which was the other, so that led me to believe we had arrived at exactly the right time.

So Lita was good but brief, and led to Poison’s set. I know Bret Michaels has been reborn with his work on “Rock Of Love” and “Celebrity Apprentice,” so I figured he’d be a big hit.

I was right. Bret Michaels looks like one million crisp one dollar bills. He’s in great shape, and other than the insistence on wearing a bandana, cowboy hat, or both, he looks a lot like he did twenty years ago, just with less makeup and more muscle tone.

The rest of his band, however, looked freshly embalmed. Standing next to Bret Michaels, they looked even dead-er. In a band, everyone should have the common decency to age at the same rate. Bassist Bobby Dall appeared to be coming to the stage directly from his day job on “The Walking Dead,” while Bret seemed to be midway through his Benjamin-Button-like existence.

Poison was the big opening act, so they got about eight songs to play the hits. If you remember it, they played it. The show only slowed down long enough for Bret Michaels to hit us with with a steady stream of rock star chatter.

“Hey you guys are great tonight, I tell you Dallas has always known how to rock, we filmed a video here back in the day and it’s great to be back here on Labor Day because we’re huge supporters of the troops and we always want to show them love wherever we go because it’s all about the troops and you guys look great tonight and this section over here is special to me because of my diabetes and they’re in my charity and I love them and Donald Trump has asked me back to do the All-Star Edition of Celebrity Apprentice and I told him I would…”

It seemed both sincere and incredibly well-practiced at the same time. Bret’s been a frontman for almost thirty years, he certainly knows how to hit the lights.

In Poison’s set, CC Deville got a guitar solo. I think CC is a very funny guy, witty, friendly, and seems like someone who would be a lot of fun to drive cross country knocking over liquor stores with. However, he’s just not any good. That hasn’t changed from the 80′s, CC has always played like he’s falling down a flight of steps. It sounded at times like he was trying to play Van Halen’s “Eruption,” but he just wasn’t really that close. It would have made more sense if CC had just taken a moment to announce he was doing his solo as a tribute to teenage boys trying to learn “Eruption” back in 1982, because that’s really what it sounded like.

A few songs later, drummer Rikki Rockett (probably not his real name) took a drum solo, which actually wasn’t that bad. I have to ask though, who goes to see Poison for the instrumental solos? They had songs like “Nothin’ But a Good Time” and “Talk Dirty To Me,” they weren’t exactly a jazz fusion quartet.

Poison got an energetic half hour, played most of the songs the crowd wanted to hear, and cleared out to make way for Def Leppard.

Lep was the unquestioned headliner, complete with video boards, better lighting, equipment changes, and everything else that comes with having about fifty million album sales at some point in the past.

And Lep sounded great. No complaints at all there, especially considering they’re all in their fifties.

With Lep, the crowd was fully up and dancing. And let me tell you, it is a beautiful thing to see forty year-old moms dancing about in seductive ways that would completely embarrass their children.

That’s why I don’t care about Girls Gone Wild at all. Getting girls to go wild isn’t that difficult, it seems. But Women Gone  Wild? Now there’s a market. Seeing some twenty-one year-old drunk and dancing isn’t out of the ordinary, it happens every Friday night in Austin by the thousands. Seeing a forty year-old woman having a good time and dancing on a chair really means something, especially when you know she’s got to go home, sleep it off, get up and get the kids to school tomorrow, all without vomiting in front of the children. God bless them, and God bless rock and roll.

I’m Reid Kerr, and I approve this message.

Where was I?

Oh yeah, Def Leppard. Lep was sort of stretched across the decades. Guitarist Phil Collen, who’s a vegetarian, wandered the stage shirtless and ripped looking like a junior version of the Rock, if the Rock were British, with utterly-British-colored skin. On the other hand, singer Joe Elliott…well…

Joe Elliott has moobs.

Yep. He’s got man-boobs. And in his defense, he’s fifty-three and can still hit most of the notes he wrote thirty years ago. He puts on a Hell of a show. However, when he came to the stage, he was wearing a loose black t-shirt untucked over black jeans, with some kind of jacket over it. The jeans working their way up into the loose folds of the shirt made it look like he was wearing maternity pants.

The band played pretty well, though. They had a big catalog, and played almost everything you’d think of. They had a great sound and stage show, and a big crowd on hand.

It was a bit odd to consider, in fact. They were a band full of fifty year-olds performing to a full crowd who all came to hear songs they wrote when they were 21 years old.

You remember when you were 21? Did you do anything worth remembering, much less putting it down on CD for the rest of time? Probably not. No one goes to see Tom Hanks in a movie and compares it to “Splash.” I go back and look at some of my old notebooks from time to time, and when I was 21 I couldn’t write a convincing shopping list, much less a million-selling single.

It was a two-way nostalgia, as all three bands mentioned their previous runs through Dallas. They remembered the good times, and so did we.

Lep saved the two biggest hits from “Pyromania” for close to the end of the show for good reason, as Joe Elliott just can’t scream like a 21-year-old anymore, and no one should expect him to. But as the band played “Photograph,” the five video screens at the back of stage came to life flashing old pictures of the band from the early eighties.

And then it hit me, the reason we were all there, the reason all these “nostalgia” tours work so well.

In those pictures, everyone in the arena was suddenly twenty-five years younger again. Seeing Def Leppard in old pictures reminded everyone not only what the band used to look like, but also what we were like at that point in time.

When I got my first copy of Pyromania, I was thirteen years old, and had just moved to a new school. I started playing guitar, and the first book of guitar music I ever bought was a “Pyromania/High And Dry” book, with both of their albums in it. I can still play every lick on that album, too. I wore out the tracks on it. I remember playing along with that album on every musical instrument I owned, and watching  ”Foolin’” on Friday Night Videos.

Seeing them in 1983′s pictures, I was right there again.

Hysteria came out my senior year of high school, and again, at a turbulent time in my life. Hysteria was everywhere, and actually stayed on the radio into my first year of college.

Kids, if you don’t know what “radio” is, it’s something that used to be important, like telegrams or guys who shovel coal on trains. No need to learn about it now.

Hysteria was the soundtrack to a pretty crazy time in my life, and anything you survive eventually becomes a quaint memory. We realized later that this concert was very close to the twenty-five year anniversary of seeing Def Leppard for the first time back in 1987.

The show meant a lot more than just a concert, or just a chance to go out and have a good time. It was a memory reborn, a chance to let music open up a brief window to earlier, probably-happier times.

So it doesn’t matter if Joe Elliott was a little bit off, or if he needs spanks. He’s in his fifties, that’s the rule, rather than the exception. He’s still putting on a Hell of a show. We’re certainly not in the same shape we were back twenty-five years ago, either.

Joe Elliott probably didn’t celebrate this concert with a monumental amounts of sex and drugs afterwards like he did in 1987. Hell, none of us drank a bottle of Boone’s Farm before the show and threw up in someone’s mom’s suburban, either.

We’ve all matured. That concert was a chance to remember, enjoy the memories, and realize how far we’ve all come.

– Reid Kerr always thought the British Flag made a great logo.