Totally Tweaked-Out Tuesday, Part 2

OK, so where were we? Oh yeah: Wonder Woman and I had just reached what should have been the finish line of yet another marathon Tuesday, but instead of putting the kids to bed, collapsing in a heap on the couch and slipping into a low-grade coma, we had to shift it into high gear and morph into Rock-’n’-Roll Mommy and Daddy.

Remember my friend Kevin Dugan who works with Sammy Hagar and Michael Anthony? Well, as mentioned in a recent Photo of the Day, Sammy and Michael have teamed up with Red Hot Chili Peppers drummer Chad Smith and legendary guitarist Joe Satriani to form a new group that goes by the name of Chickenfoot (which, as I understand it, was some kind of inside joke that originally was meant to be a temporary band name but instead became a permanent band name).

Chickenfoot’s (unbelievably awesome) first album doesn’t come out until next Friday, but the guys decided to do a little pre-release club tour. Shows were booked in nine cities throughout the country, one of which took place in Boston last Tuesday … and, despite the fact that Tuesday had fairly well bludgeoned us into delirium by the time we had to head into the city, there was no way we were missing this show.

So here’s the thing about cramming 575 people into a very poorly ventilated basement to watch a kick-ass rock-’n’-roll show on an already-warm night in late May: the room? It gets hot. Not just hot, but HOT. So, before the band even hit the stage, we were pretty well drenched in sweat.

But here’s the other thing: I was out with my beautiful wife, and we were about to see a kick-ass rock show while drinking a couple of Cabo Wabo margaritas, and she looked hot. Not just hot, but HOT. Even better: our kids were at home, which made it perfectly acceptable for us to drink and make out in the middle of a crowded club. So I was OK with the sweating.

And now we’ve reached the part of the tale where much ass gets kicked, because Sammy and Michael and Chad and Joe? They know how to play the rock-’n’-roll. Like, wow.

Wonder Woman and I had set up shop adjacent to a cordoned-off ramp that led to the stage, and when the band began to play, several photographers with photo passes were allowed to stand on the ramp and shoot the group. Upon seeing this, Wonder Woman told me I should grab the camera and try to do the same using one of the “Guest” passes Kevin had hooked us up with, but I am far too neurotic about playing by the rules, so I dismissed the notion as sheer madness, because, look: a “Guest” pass isn’t a “Photo” pass—and, hey, did I mention that Zan also is way too concerned about adhering to the rules in any given situation? I wonder where he gets that from?

Every now and then, though, I get all wild and crazy. Like that time we were taking the escalator and I let go of the handrail. Threw my arms up in the air like I was on a rollercoaster. That’s just how I roll sometimes, baby. I’m a nut. Nutty. Kukukachoo.

So, in a moment of brazen, tequila-fueled non-conformity, I grabbed the camera, stepped up to the rope at the bottom of the ramp, and showed the security guard my “Guest” pass … and I’ll be damned if the dude didn’t unhook the rope and let me cruise on by.

The first shot I snapped came out like this:

Fortunately, things got better from that point on.

Wanna know the secret to getting some decent concert photos when you’re using a basic, consumer-level camera and lens? Take an assload of shots. I took about 200, and whittled them down to a group of 14 keepers. (Hallelujah, digital media.)

After shooting the first couple of songs, I stashed the camera and enjoyed the show—and, in a new twist that was never part of the program back when we first started hanging at shows with Kevin over a decade ago, I was able to text-message him during the performance.

Turns out it’s fun to make a guy on stage start chuckling in the middle of a concert.

When the show ended, we were drenched in sweat and fairly well spent, and it was time for Kevin to spring into action and start loading everything onto the semi, so we bade him farewell and headed home.

“What time is it?” I asked Wonder Woman as we got on the highway.

“Midnight.”

And, much like Cinderella, the magical spell that had allowed us to temporarily become Rock-’n’-Roll Mommy and Daddy wore off, and we turned back into two spectacularly exhausted parents with two little children who we knew would be waking us up way, way too soon after we went to bed. But that’s the price you gotta pay if you wanna rock, baby. Word. Or something like that.

So that was Tuesday.