We screamed into the side entrance of Blossom - the car wasn't screaming, we were - at 2pm on the nose. (The development of the phrase "on the nose" to denote "exactly" is curious. The sense receptors of the body are concentrated within the face, of which the nose is the most prominent and central feature: rather prominent on me, really prominent upon my friend Bilbo, for whom the nose makes up a notable portion of his body weight. Unless a man is in a state of amorous agitation, when he walks into a wall his nose strikes first. He strikes the wall "on the nose." This is all just etymological speculation, however.)

The line to enter the hallowed grounds snaked back youthfully to the bridge - the bridge that symbolically and literally linked the mundane real world with the encompassing otherness of the Lollapalooza: a "Festival of Arts and Music," conceived, delivered and diapered by Perry Farrell, leader of Jane's Addiction, and another fellow with a prominent proboscis. Is there a link?

The "art" that most of the people in line were preoccupied with, was the art of smuggling as much contraband through the gates as possible. Contraband in this case included bottles, cans, and fruit smelling of alcohol. Yuppies can wheel in portable bars past the smiling sentries for Cleveland Orchestra performances at Blossom, because yuppies rarely stage dive or slam dance in the pit. Those with the most freedom least know what to do with it. There are enough problems at a show like Lollapalooza without thousands of underage drunks whipping bottles at each other and at the performers.

We casually slipped into line next to a friend of my brother's, cutting off 80% of the wait time. As we passed through the portals of pleasure, we realized that a band was already playing. My brother wandered off with his friends to establish a grassy beachhead, upon which they could replenish themselves against the sterility and elitism of our choice pavillion seats.

I followed my journalistic impulses to the source of it all: the stage. It wasn't until I actually penetrated the pavillion proper that I realized what an unholy ruckus the Rollins Band was making. Henry Rollins, the South Bay Poet of Pain, whom I had met ten years before when he was a nobody just signed on to sing for Black Flag, was the first of the Lotza Palookas.