by "Buck"

August 26, 2005

When I was in college I was poor. Not that I'm living like a member
of the Rolling Stones these days, but back then I was lucky to have
piss….let alone a pot to put it in. Therefore, I was up for just about any kind of a job that would allow more money to buy beer…provided it didn't involve me disrobing. I cannot—and frankly would not want—to undress for a living…..I mean come on…look at me for God's sake.

I was working my way through college as a manager for the University
of Tennessee baseball team. I was paid the cost of tuition to make
sure uniforms were handed out, bats were properly assembled, and the field was properly prepared for practice. It was a fairly easy job
and the perks were nice. I got the chance to run through the "T"
with the Tennessee football team a couple of times. We'd often help
out the football managers with game preparations—and that was the
payoff. I have a couple of stories about that, but they'll keep for
another time.

One day, I learned that Poison was going to be playing at Stokley
Athletic Center in Knoxville. Since they were playing Stokely, and not Thompson-Boling Arena, it was clear they had already peaked in popularity, but I had flirted with the head banging and was hip to some of their most popular music, so I had an interest in going.
Affording tickets was going to take at least three trips to the Plasma
bank. Selling plasma was quick beer money in those days.

However, one day the show's promoter came walking through the athletic facilities. He was looking for ass-kickers, mostly Tennessee football players, but anybody big would do. I quickly learned he was amassing a security force of thugs and punks to work the concert. I'm 6'5" 300 lbs. He had no idea I WASN'T a football player. He came to me, introduced himself and said. "I'll give you a free t-shirt, $50 cash, you can see the show for free, and you'll get to kick the shit out of anybody who deserves it." Let me tell you, I'd love to have that offer around the office here today. …I'd forgo the t-shirt, money, and tix. I thought about it for half-a second and said. "Hell Yes!!!!"

I was posted between the stage and the crowd and ordered not to allow anyone on stage. This proved to be a bigger problem because the band kept inviting people to come up and join them. However, there was no need for shitkicking, since most of the problems were from young high school and college coeds, many of them without tops. It looked like a Victoria Secret commercial at the Heffner Estate. Our job was to drag their sweet asses back to their seats, and gently and politely tell them to behave. If it was some drugged out wanna be rock star guy, we usually kicked him in the balls, punched him in the mouth, and dragged him into the street in a full Nelson. I didn't get the chance….THIS CONCERT.

My performance for Poison earned me a rep with the promoters. They
started actually calling me for more work. By semesters end I had a
full-on wardrobe of blue, green, and red T-shirts that read "Crowd
Control", "Even Staff", "Security", and for one particularly odd show
of an obscure band called Vandal it read "Blood Collection Services."
I got to see lots of shows, sometimes got to meet the group or
performer—sometimes not—but it was always interesting. I recall getting a contact buzz from pot smoke at a John Cougar Mellencamp concert. I actually had to help him get off stage. He ran off stage at the end of an act—and literally collapsed. We carried him, like a wounded football player, to the dressing room then were immediately told to get the fuck out. I was hoping to get a little paparazzi press out of that, but saw no camera's flashing. I dozed off during a Kenny G. performance—along with half the crowd. One of the wildest concerts I ever worked was Hank Williams Junior. This was back in the day when he was "Whiskey Bent and Hell Bound." It was no-holds barred with him.

It was during the Hank Jr. show that a rowdy redneck decided he could whip everybody in the arena…and decided he would start with me. Out of nowhere I was slugged in the head with a massive fist. I was dazed, but almost as a reflex returned the blow and caught the guy with a lucky punch between the mouth and chin. I managed to drive his lower lip into his upper row of teeth (not a complete row I might add). The force of the blow also carried into his nose, which was shoved up into his nasal cavity. It looked as if I had performed some comedy gag of hitting him in the face with a tomato…blood splattered all over this face—even spattering onto his receding hairline and onto the white tee-shirt of his drunk whore of a girlfriend standing next to him. He was collapsing backward when this nag decided she would defend his honor and came at me in a cat-like pounce. She never touched me; a fellow "heavy" caught her mid-lunge in the mouth with the back of his fist. He literally back handed her face like a hammer and she never saw it coming. She enjoyed a matching tomato face like her mate…..I dragged Hillbilly Rocky out by the collar of his filthy flannel shirt. Two other security guys, including the one that punched the woman dragged her out BY THE FEET. She was flailing and cussing like a tuna on the deck of a fishing boat. As all of this was happening, the crowd was going insane and throwing shit all over the place….a full cup of tobacco spit landed on the woman's stomach somewhere in all of this madness. Fights were breaking out everywhere and the cops were being called in as reinforcements. All the while Hank remains on stage going crazy as ever—at one point ripping off his shirt to show a healthy hairy beer gut and shaking his oversized ass at the crowd. I never really understood that part of the show…. It was however, one of the craziest things of which I've ever been involved….well that is until I met Jeff Kay.

Buck Out

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