It instills a whacky sense of pride that Mötley Crüe partly chiseled their dangerous asshole reputation while blasting through my hometown.

My fascination was totaled to the max in being able to see my boyhood heroes live on stage and imagine that before and after the concert they were actually in my very own town rampaging it up with booze and chicks and more importantly right in front of me then and there blowing up the stage with massive fireworks.

What a bunch of tardaholics, they went through customs at the Edmonton Airport in their costumes. Their homemade demon party clothes were declared as dangerous weapons. Point, Crüe! Did the security agents seize their porno magazines as demoralizing contraband? Then some toob-flute called in a bomb threat for them. Wow you crazy Canuckski, you Ukrainian Bolshevik. Ain’t no pervy California glam band gonna come and stink up my proud ‘n snowy hometown! Let’s blast ’em outta here!

Meanwhile I was crüesing around Riverbend on my red Kuwahara Diamondback, lighting saltpeter and icing sugar smoke bombs in my back yard and jumping off the roof of my parent’s house onto my huge round trampoline all to the soundtrack of Shout! Shout! Shout! Shout at the Devil!