Dennis, Please -- Sail Away. Far Away

"Dennis F--king DeYoung?" I shouted to my empty car. "Are you kidding me?"

Not hearing an answer, I continued searching for a parking spot. Twenty minutes later, I found one, and I had to walk four blocks in the freezing cold. All because of Dennis DeYoung.

I was driving to my friends' coffee shop/meeting place, The Commonspace, so that I might appear on television. It seems that Smash, a former VJ turned local DJ turned local reporter does a weekly broadcast from a hotspot. Usually, he goes to MP O'Reiley's or some such pit of Hell, where's he's surrounded by slurring frat boys and near-comatose girls, and tonight, he chose The Commonspace's Thursday night "Board Game Night" -- which, I might add, unofficially ended a few months ago. So much for having your finger on the pulse of today's youth, I guess.

So I was driving up Grand, looking for a place to park, praying that nothing was appearing at the Fox, or I was up a creek. No such luck. By the time I made it there, I was three miles downstream with a leaky raft and broken paddles.

Normally, this wouldn't bother me. I like the Fox. I like that it's an ornate, majestic theater that plays a lot of great shows. Only tonight, as the sign boldly announced, the headliner was Dennis DeYoung.

I'm not sure what appalls me more - that Dennis DeYoung still performs his brand of pompous, overproduced whiny rock, or that several thousand of my fellow citizens actually shelled out $50 to hear him wheeze through "Mr. Roboto", "Don't Let it End" or "Renegade".

As a result, I had to walk several blocks to my destination. Ordinarily, I wouldn't mind this, except that it was so cold my testicles crawled back up inside, and I don't blame them. Oh, and I was walking because people actually paid to see Dennis DeYoung.

I could understand this if they still played his music on the radio, so that people would become susceptible to the subliminal messages telling them to buy his albums or see his concerts. But KSHE, the local classic rock station, wants nothing to do with him -- they're too busy playing Little Feat, which is a whole other post subject.

So it's two hours later, and I can finally feel my feet again. And my nose. And I'm still appalled that my fellow citizens, who live in the greatest country on the earth, would pay money to see Dennis DeYoung.

I'm going to lock myself in my house if (-shudder-) Sammy Hagar ever forces himself on us again.