It's 2:51

It's almost three and I have just arrived home. I stink of Jack Daniels, yet have imbibed none of it.

The best three concerts I've seen this year are, in ascending order, Bruce Springsteen, Brandi Carilile and tonight's appearance at the Bowery Ballroom of a Guns 'n' Roses cover band called, maybe, Mr. Brownstone.

Let me repeat: a Guns 'n' Roses cover band.

For the record, I don't really give a shit about Guns 'n' Roses. But it might have been the most fun I've ever had at a concert. Ever. The bass player fell off the stage, more or less on top of me, twice. The lead guitarist once. The guy wearing the kilt took a long swig of Jack Daniels and then spit it right on me. Really. A long, wet stream. I had to clean my glasses. Women were throwing bras on stage. And at least a hundred plastic glasses of beer were tossed up as well. Everyone was sopping wet.

They started at about midnight and ended at about 2:30 am. It was, simply, unbelievable. More later. Right now I have to decide how committed I am to the notion of putting the just laundered sheets back on my bed or just collapsing.