A few weeks ago, some old friends rolled into town, and my friend Colleen and I threw on some black eyeliner, tight jeans and blue eyeshadow and went downtown to see them.

By ‘old friends’, of course, I mean ‘people that I knew when I was 22 because my friend Chris used to play in the band but quit because one of the guitarists was being a dickhead and right after he quit they made it, so bygones, and I haven’t seen in somewhere just over 8 years, since they went and got themselves all famous and shit’.  Still, we hung out and swapped baby pictures back in the day.  It was nice.

10 days ago I got to sit in the middle of GM Place, which is big, yo, and listen to them kick out some jams.  Which is a fairly decent improvement from the last tiny little skank ass hole in the wall dive I saw them play at.  But, admittedly, our seats were muchmuchmuch better back then.  And we totally got backstage.  Which was our cocktail table.  This time, not so much.

So, anyway, they came to town with some other guys they seem to know now.  Maybe you’ve heard of them?  Motley Crue?  You know, with the little dots over the U that I don’t know how to type, but Hubs does, but he won’t teach me?  Yeah, them.  Apparently, there is such a desperate need for getting more Crue in Ue that the sweet, nice boys in that band decided to go on a national tour, giving the people what they so desperately need.  MORE CRUE.  A festival of Crue, if you will.  We’ll call CrueFest.  With the dots.  Whatever.

Buckcherry started their set, the one right before Da Crue went on, and I was *this* little bit anxious, because, well, I haven’t bought one of their albums since their first album, because I suck that’s why, and I didn’t really know what to expect.  Good news?  They sound JUST as good as they did back then.  I was genuinely impressed.  They played a few songs I knew, and then a bunch that I didn’t, and even though I couldn’t understand one single word they were saying except the slightly more (every) than (other) occasional (word) fuck and dick and cock and bitch, it sounded good.  I rocked on.  And got a bit of an education.

They played a little pianoy, guitary sorta diddy towards the end of their show called, I believe, “She a crazy bitch, but I like the way she fuck me,” and everyone’s instruments of shining light at rock concerts came flying out.  Cell phones?  Really?  WUSSIES.  Where’s the danger?  Live on the edge a little, people.

(PS: Babysitters, people.  BABYSITTERS.  I really can’t stress this one enough.  There are just some things children should only learn about on the internet.)

Next up? THE CRUE. Word to your mother. The show started out with a tremendous display of pyrotechnic prowess:

and then Vince Neil opened his mouth and I realized something I’d never have know had I not seen them live; he sings with that evil, unholy nasally voice because after so many hours of rocking out, the only decibels the human ear are capable of hearing are those at the same levels as a dog whistle. It’s GENIUS.

The show continued, and in a clever attempt to amuse the stoned off their ass, acid washed jeans wearing, 50 something really need a haircut and perhaps a direction in their lives adoring throngs of fans, they designed their backdrop to exactly match Space Invaders.

Can’t you just hear it?  Bleep…bleep…BING!  (Oh, wait, is that Pong?  Shit, I’m old.)  In case you need reference:

When I’m right, I’m right, yo.  This was almost enough to distract me from the fact that the Jumbotrons on either side of the stage (not pictured) were playing a constant stream of a shockingly hard core, fisty sort of leather bound dominatrix lesbian porn THE ENTIRE DURATION OF THE SHOW.  Thankfully, it was laced with almost but not quite subliminal anti-Bush propaganda, which was A) totally ironic and B) as close to art as I imagine those guys will ever get.  Mad props.  NO ONE could take their eyes off of it for the whole show, which got their message across nicely and kept anyone from actually having to look at 50 year old men in 18 year old boys jeans attempting to rock.  THANK YOU, MOTLEY CRUE.

They put on an impressive light show, and I found it strange that a whole lot of their lights were the exact colors my two year old has chosen for her winter wardrobe.

But then I took my eyes off for one and only one second remembered the naked ladies doing really awful things to each other on the big screens, and I put that together with all the pink and purple, and I noted the excessive gyration on the stage, and it all became clear.

Motley Crue are FLAMING GAY.

Don’t believe me? How’s THIS for subtle?

Flames.  Loads and loads of FLAMES.  Anyway, the show went on, I squeeled with all the gusto my inner teenager could muster, and I realized by the end of the concert that maybe I wasn’t ever really so much into the Crue.  Well, except for this guy.  You can be as cocky, womanizing, disgusting and just plain yucky-pants as you want to be, but if you can play drums the way Tommy Lee can play drums, I’ll still sing along with all my little heart when you sit down at the piano and bust out a little ballad during your encore.

It’s okay, Tommy; I totally dig gay guys.

See all of Lotus’ Weekly Losers winners right here. I’m totally a winner. Winners go to CrueFest in their mid 30′s even though it’s a work night and traffic’s going to suck on the way home. THEY DO.

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