About a week back, I thought to look at Ministry’s homepage, wondering if the group’s tour was still going; and, for that matter, was still skipping St. Louis. Turns out the answers were “yes” and “yes,” with a pair of shows added at Chicago’s House of Blues this weekend, a four-night stint including what’s reputed to be the group’s final (ever!) show tomorrow night. Gripped with the fear of missing my fifth-favorite band’s last gig, I tossed out a note to potential interested parties, getting a tepid response, for the most part. Though my main man, Jim Utz, did set me up with not only ticket-buying tips, but also an itinerary to get to get to Chicago-and-back for $42 via Megabus, with an 8:30 departure on Sunday morning and a 5:25 a.m. arrival on Monday.
For days, I debated this 20-odd-hour, turnaround trip, turning it into not only a matter of whether, or not, to see/hear a band I really wanted to see/hear. Instead, the decision became some type of strange, existential journey. I mean: I’m too old for floor-sleeping, too aged for six-in-a-Tercel jaunts to see bands, too poor to simply fling a C-note at a musical whim, etc., etc., etc. How easy it is to turn the easy into the difficult!
Woke up today, though, with a debit card ready, clicking away for the show ticket first. Turns out that sometime between last night and this morning, the gig sold-out. Oh.
Since I’m plunging for meaning here, two options seem likely.
* I didn’t really want to go, using the multiple days of hand-wringing to allow the final tickets to be snapped up by closer-to-the-show (and I dare say, lesser) fans. In this scenario, my actual fandom comes into great question, as well as my willingness to do things that are vaguely uncomfortable, things like sitting in a bus for 11-hours.
* The gods of fate were actually looking out for me. Had I bought the ticket and walked the .9-miles from the bus to the venue, I’d have plunked down my ticket, gone in, watched the two heavy metal openers, eventually dipping into Ministry’s pit, where I’d be sucker-punched by a roided-out, 22-year-old gym attendant in a Mushroomhead t-shirt, which would set off a melee, end-resulting in my chipping six teeth, which would amount to about $560 in resentful dental work. I like to think this is the more likely, if somewhat ethereal scenario.
Ugh. Guess I’ll just watch the videos, while I sort all that out.