Gwyn tells me her rear tire has split. I go to check, and there's no way it can be driven home. We ask Zimra if she can help schlep us back to Akron, and call Gwyn's husband to tow her car. Ugh. There's a break in traffic around 5, I go for dinner. Shanon and I have passes to the catered meal for band crews and members, that requires getting through 3 layers of security. Past the last security level is prime rib, ice cream, salads, braised veggies, fruit, cakes, and scruffy young men dressed in black. Their long hair, tattooes, piercings, conspicuous leather, massive dangerous jewelery and elegantly vulgar demeanor identify them as boys in the band. They look tired. Marilyn Manson, whom I'd met years before, is identifiable by his height, is trying to balance all his dinner on a paper plate, and find a place to sit. I recognize most of the band members from the program magazines that have been left around, but they're not a generation of musicians I know much about. I've gotten fond of the music over the last week, in the way you get fond of jets taking off if you live under an airport. |