Thread: Terry
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Old 03-14-2011, 07:07 PM   #119
Join Date: Jan 2006
Location: Upstate NY
Posts: 33
Default Re: Terry. a little Quid Pro Quo

I'll skip Terry's fav. author, for now, Dear Reader, and give you chance to guess who it was.

Instead, a little humour:

It was a lovely summers' morn, when my good friend, George and I headed from Toronto toward Peterborough, a mid-sized city in Ontario, just over 100 miles away to the east-north-east.

This was to be a good day. You could feel it in your bones.... a day of Carp Fishing at Little Lake- right in the heart of Peteborough, a dinner and a Lightfoot show. Good fishing, good food, good music and good company. What more else could anyone want?

The fishing was fantastic: 30 to 40 pound Carp- an ignored fish in Peterborough, it seemed-filled our coolers, by four o'clock, that afternoon. (Great tasting- IF you know the trick to preparing them.)

A fine dinner a local eatery. My dining companion made it a memorable experience.

Afterward, a short walk found us at the Peterborough Arena. We were lucky to get tickets. SRO! Gord and his band had not been here for years and the place was packed with an eager- almost rowdy, audience (It was a Hockey Arena. Almost no medium-to-large sized "proper" Music venues exist outside of Canadian big cities, but you could always find a Hockey Arena, even in the smallest of towns.). The concert was lively, the whole band was super-relaxed and in fine form. This was a fun stuffiness or snotty critics to impress, here.
The acoustics, as could be anticipated in a Hockey Arena- were lousy. Plain awful with long reverbarations. But, it seemed the audience didn't mind. The audience were even laughing loudly at the corniest of jokes.

Afterward, it was time for my friend and I to go backstage and say hello/deliver Pythonesque taunts, as applicable.

At the back of the Arena, the back door was guarded by a "Commisssioner" (a retired Military Veteran. Usually a nice old fellow, but serious, nonetheless.) Goerge and I were not on the backstage list as we just did the day, on a whim, much like Ferris Bueller would have. I knew that if I could catch the attention of one of the band members or Barry Harvey, we'd be in the door.
TC walked by and we shouted out. "Hey, get us past this guy!", or words, similar.
Terry smiled and said "Sure!" and pointed to my friend, George. Terry passed him a beer and gave him a big ole hug. Then, he pointed to me: "No, not him. I don't know him.". My "friends" walked away, barely containing their laughter until well out of view. I was most steamed at George, who had only met TC, a few times before- and, through my introduction. The door slamed in my face.
Stunned, I quickly recovered my composure and decided there was another way back there.
I was more than irritated. I marched back into the arena. Jumped onto the stage, where the roadies were as busy as bees. No one payed me mind. I just sauntered by like I owned the joint. (Kids: Don't try this technique in the post-911, paranoid, hyper-sensitive world. You will be rebuffed, kicked out- or worse.)
I entered the back-room to many guffaws and hyena-like chortles..."Good one, Clem! HardeeHar-Har!" and from me: "YOU - George!! You %$*^ traitor!" Even more laughter ensued. Oh, well. One beer later, another topic to discuss and all was forgotten. Or so, TC would believe...(nyuck,nyuck,nyuck).
I knew of Clem's prediliction for a nice,fat cigar, after a show. It was now the era where smoking was becomming verboten at most venues, backstages included.
So, out the door, went Terry. My friend and I made the rounds, kibbitzing an generally making merry.
About 15 minutes or so, Terry tried to get back in- the Commissioner didn't want to let him in. "But, I'm with the Band!" could be heard...The Commissioner opened the door and asked "Do you know this man?" I was purposefully positioned at the exact angle where I could see the backstage door. I responed: "Never seen him before." Clem protested "He's just pulling your leg. I am with the band." Just then, another member of the orchestra (who shall remain unnamed) walked by, saw the disruption. He looked at me, then at the commotion at the door and then back at me, right in my eyes. I trusted he would read my expression, correctly. He did. I asked this individual: "Do you know this guy?" He played it pertctly straight: "I don't know who he is. He can't come in here."
This was the only time I had every seen Terry angry. I'd seen him in every which mood, but never angry.
Another fifteen minutes passed and the room was starting to clear. Everyone was going home. Clems' two guitar cases were sitting in the corner. I asked George to watch them, as I went out to the stage to see where Clem was. The stage was empty and the road crew, gone. Terry was in a restrained discussion with one of Perborough's finest. A Cop. (i.e.; Not a Commisssioner.) I told the nice officer that the guy he was talking to really was with the band. I told him there was a little buffoonery going on. Everything copasetic. Terry grabbed his bag, I took an axe case and George, the other and we escorted TC to his car.
"Touche. You (&*(^ *(*(*). You know I'm gonna get you for that one, don't ya?"
Hearty laughs, all around.
The end of a fully perfect day.
Everyone should be lucky enough to have a few such days, in their lives.
You may ask yourself: Did TC ever even the score?
Yes, he did. But, that's another story.
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