I queued up at the Antiques Roadshow Saturday at the Convention Center, carrying an old one-inch-square drawing of Bugs Bunny and a Boston newspaper from 1862. All of us in the snake-like line waited to be granted an audience with stars of AR, such as those cutesy Keno twins and the guy who appraises dolls with an earring in his right ear bigger Michael Jordan’s. Never have I been around a cattier group of people in my life. I got the sensation of standing in line with a bunch of folks holding lottery tickets, everyone hoping they’d get picked to stammer about the unbelievable worth of their item on television. The first appraiser I saw swept some Roadshow tickets off her table onto my shoes, and explained that my newspaper wasn’t worth much, and may even be fake. I shrugged, cursed her under my breath, and moved on to the Collectibles table, making sure to continually walk around where they were shooting for TV. At the table, I stood behind a woman with notebook after notebook of antique postcards, which the appraiser said were worth about 50 cents apiece. Another notebook — 50 cents apiece. And another. And another. The appraiser started looking at me and apologizing with her eyes, which I returned with a stern “tell me I’m rich and everything will be alright” look. Finally, the postcard woman conceded, and got the hell out of my way. The appraiser explained that my Bugs sketch was from the 1950s, and was actually something called a “pre-cel” drawing from a Looney Tunes cartoon. She asked the set-up question that sets collector hearts aflutter: “and how much did you pay for it?” “Oh, about $20,” I said. Looking like a preacher about to convert the unwashed, she said “I think you’re looking at about three to five hundred dollars.” I was about to gloat when I took a step backwards and was admonished by some flunky for being in the TV shot. Sighing, I left, and saw Mr. Big Earring Doll Expert smoking with the commoners out on the street. After hours of waiting in line and dreams both dashed and realized, tobacco, it seems, is the great equalizer. — Tim C. DavisSunday night at Tonic, I was asked to judge an “Iron Bartender” competition, in which area barkeeps had a short period of time to concoct a drink using anything behind the bar and the “secret ingredient,” in this case a new caffeine-enhanced malt beverage called Vinergy (why anyone would want to put caffeine in alcohol is beyond me, but hey, I was drinking for free). Drinks were brought, and judge Tara Servatius and myself, along with two others, took sips. Unless, of course, it was good, in which case we guzzled. We also judged on presentation (kind of useless, as all were in a martini glass with an orange slice), and name. These ran the gamut from a multi-colored drink called Red Light Blues, a White Russian-type concoction called Muddy Waters, and something called an Al Qaeda Ass-kicker, to which I gave extra points just out of patriotism, although I imagine they were looking for Tara’s vote. By midnight, I felt like I could have entered an Iron Liver competition and done rather well. Someone came up and thanked me for my hard work, and I wondered how a person is supposed to unwind after such intensive labor. Perhaps the caffeine’s not such a bad idea after all. — Tim C. DavisAt the Sammy Hagar/David Lee Roth show at Verizon Amphitheatre, it was a little unsettling to see so many people who were, well, my age, to whom Father Time had not been kind. Countless 30 and 40-somethings had raided their closets and broken out the old Van Halen T-shirts, short shorts, and ripped, acid-washed jeans — although I suspect some of the mullet-sporting fans hadn’t updated their wardrobes since 1984. After grabbing a $7 beer (the bastards!), we made our way up front among the really hardcore rockers, beer guzzlers and hoochie mamas. Roth opened the show, and amid the bumping and grinding and martial arts showboating, he drenched one of the hoochies with a full bottle of Jack Daniels while performing an ejaculatory dance. As the show progressed, so did the drinking, both on and off-stage. By the time Hagar hit his third round of drinks, there were more than a few folks in the crowd staggering and bellowing incoherently. This included the dancing fool next to me, who didn’t let his lack of rhythm or vocal talent stop him from performing every tune. Both singers were surprisingly good, with Hagar putting on a frat-party kind of show, while Roth did a stripped down, aging rock icon thing. But after standing close to a massive wall of ear-splitting speakers for four hours, I was more in the mood to down some aspirin and hit the hay than to jump or run with any devils. — Sam Boykin
This article appears in Aug 14-20, 2002.
