The Black Sabbath Incident
So back in the Dark Ages, aka the Seventies. I was around 15 and went to my very first rock concert. Black Sabbath. I was going with my boyfriend of the time and his friend, who had stood in line all night to buy tickets. (Aisle seats, thirteenth rows back from the stage.)
Needless to say said friend, who I will call John from now on, was a huge fan of Black Sabbath. He was also a huge guy, about 6'3" and though only 16 he had a full beard and was covered with more body hair then any man I have seen before or since.
John was determined to film part of the concert. A thing forbidden by the concert people. You weren't even allowed to take pictures. Now remember, there are no cell phones, no digital cameras and the smallest still camera was still too big to hide in your pocket. You had to open your coat or jacket and do a 360 turn as the security people checked you out, before they let you in. Any cameras found were confiscated. However John also like to build model rockets and launch them up into the atmosphere. He'd bought a motion picture camera just for the purpose of filming in flight.
This bad boy. About two inches in diameter and 8 inches long without the nose cone. True it could only take 20 seconds of slightly out of focus film, but it was better then nothing. He had this beast in his coat pocket as we entered the lobby, but on seeing the security people going though coats and jackets he slips it into the front of his whitey-tighties.
The boyfriend and I go through the quick visual search, and turn around to see if John is going to make it past the security woman or get hauled out of line.
Now remember this was the nineteen seventies and tight jeans were de rigueur for teens. John spreads open his coat to get the looking over. The previously bored woman looks down and is confronted with this massive bulge in the front of this huge bearded teenage boy's pants. As if that wasn't bad enough, the camera suddenly turns on and it starts shifting in his underwear making whirring-clicking noises like a steam punk prosthetic penis getting ready for action. She stares frozen in horror at this apparition as it wags back and forth taking what would be A very bad, 20 second X-Rated movie, if there had been any light to expose the film. John is also frozen, wearing the frantic manic grin of man whose pubic hair has been caught in very small machinery and is slowly, but inexorably being pulled out. The camera, having run its full twenty seconds shuts down. The cessation of movement and sound breaks the security woman out of her shock. "Go! Get out of here!" she squeaks, waving John through.
He hobbles painfully past and into the brightly arena arena while the boyfriend and I stagger after him, weaving down the aisle and laughing like a pair of drunken hyenas. Thirtyseven rows later we arrive at our choice seats. John valiantly attempts to fit his 6'3" frame into the narrow seat without bending at the hips, with limited success. He stays stretched out stiff legged, protected on either side by his evil compatriots who take this opportunity to congratulate him on his cinematic masterpiece, while coming up with reviews and advertising blurbs for its eminent debut.
Too shy and embarrassed to reach down his pants and free his pubes, John sits with a grimace of pain on his face until the lights finally go down for the opening band. Under the cover of his coat, it takes him two songs before he is able to extract the camera with a minimum of hair loss and shove it back in his pocket. His grandkids have been told the story by some vile and treacherous person who I will refrain from naming, and I have hopes they will pass "The Black Sabbath Incident" on to their children and grandchildren until it becomes a family legend, possibly outlasting the fame of the band itself. Ozzy Osbourne would be proud.
