Rolling Stones: New York City

After having perhaps the weirdest and probably the worst Thanksgiving dinner I’ll ever have, I found myself on the “F” train headed towards midtown Manhattan to see the biggest thing since the Beatles at Shea — the Stones at the Garden. The night before I had gotten a ticket through a broker for ten dollars above cost. (Either you knew someone who knew someone, or you were on line in the first four hours of sales a month before, or you paid through the ass for it. A lot of people are walking around with bulging pockets and smiles on their faces because of that concert, and it isn’t down on paper.)

You walk out of the subway and the Garden looms in front of you a block away^. Your stomach begins churning as you join the small pilgrimage of heads walking towards the huge lit up bowl. A slight echo of Woodstock . and Washington. We were gathering again — gathering to welcome back one of the few things we have lived with and by in the last five years. They were going to be there, live, on that stage — reaffirming their presence in the flesh. That fact alone was very important. I was beginning to see from another angle v)hy bullshit like the McCartney thing could happen so easily.