Judy and I recently attended our first concert at the lovely Temple Buell Theatere in downtown Denver. We had the pleasure of attending the Jethro Tull concert there on October 10 th. The ever-energetic Ian Anderson hopped about laying down sizzling flute riffs and worked the crowd with effortless charm and humor. The band sounded great, their musicianship excellent. They played an eclectic mix of music spanning their nearly forty years in the music business. Even the seats impressed me, well cushioned and reasonably accommodating.

Judging from the aforementioned title, however, one would surmise something went amiss at some point during this pleasant evening out. One would be stunningly correct. Now being the get-my-money's-worth, anal-retentive guy I am, I arrive early enough for a concert to purchase an over-priced beverage, avoid making eye contact at a men's room urinal, fill out the financing paperwork on a t-shirt and still have time to get to my seat and complain about the concert not starting on time. Unfortunately, not everyone shares this concert going philosophy; at least not the three drunken party girls that arrived nearly two hours late.

The word "girls" as it's used here is something more than generous as subsequent carbon dating would render their ages somewhere between forty and sixty. Somewhere, some double wide trailers were missing their queens. The concert had a scheduled start time of 7:30 and kicked off at about 7:45. Tull took an intermission from 8:45 until 9:10 and then played again until about 10:20. These women strolled in at about 9:20. I only know the name of one of them: Lori. I know this because the gentleman that they were meeting in the row behind us needed to yell it at her several times to penetrate the liquid fog she was in and get her into her seat. I believe at one point he yelled it so loud, even Ian looked up at her.

Now I'm not one to pick nits about showing up for an event late. You know the saying; sh.... er.., stuff happens. However, when the offending parties also feel the need to have extended, animated conversation while the performance is going on, well, that's something completely different. We're not talking reverential whispers here, either. We are talking about drunken, the-part-of-my-brain-that-regulates-volume is pickled and/or missing, loud, near-shouting talking. Interestingly enough, they would stop after the songs to cheer and then start right back up talking again during the next song. Although, I actually couldn't make out the conversations, they proved terrifically annoying.

As a public service, though, I will attempt to divine some of their riveting repartee.

Lori: "Geez. What a ball busta, today."

Hussy 2: "What happened, Lori?"

Lori: "Rememba? I told ya yestaday. I got my back waxed today."

Hussy 3: "Is that why ya wah so late to the baw?"

Lori: "Yea. We even stawted early. They stawted at 3:00."

Hussy 2: "It took five owahs to wax your back?"

Lori: "Yea. That little bawbie doll at the salon calls me Chewebacca."

Hussy 3: "Screw ha. I hear she's a ho, anyway. I hoid she did half of tha Nuggets."

Lori: "So, do ya know which ona dose guys is Jethro?"

Hussy 3: "I tink he's da guy playin' da flute."

Lori: "What's up with da flute, anyway? Whoeva hoid of a rock band with a flute?"

Disgruntled patron in our row: "Would you please shut up so I can enjoy the concert? How long are you planning on talking?"

Lori: "As long as it takes (burp). Geez, it's a concert. Ya supposed to have fun. Isn't hearing about my yeast infection fun?"

Hussy 2: "Yea, geez. Sit down ya joik.

Lori: "Can you believe dat guy?"

Hussy 3: "Ya, what a butthead."

Or words to that effect.