I knew I was in for a treat when a courier delivered my airplane ticket and prizewinner information. Enclosed was a letter advising me to "pack [my] bag, put on [my] dancing shoes and get ready for an evening of music, mystery and stars!" Stapled to the letter was a useful list of "Do's and Don'ts of Travel" and "Rules of the Show," which included such tips as "Dress moderately--not too flashy or revealing"; "Drugs are illegal everywhere"; "Excessive drinking will not be tolerated. PACE YOURSELF!"; and my favorite, "Avoid groups advancing toward you--especially children."
Upon arrival at the L.A. hotel, I was instructed to run--while hysterically screaming about Miller--past a video camera toward the "secret" venue: the House of Blues conveniently located right across the street! We were herded into the big, Disney-like auditorium and set loose on a strange-smelling buffet and an overwhelmed, under-tipped bar staff. Someone rubbing his belly advised me to "stay away from the egg rolls."
Each guest was supplied a neon-yellow wristband with seven small, removable tabs, which could be exchanged for a Miller Genuine Draft or a Miller Lite. I labored my way through four beers, spitefully placing the unfinished last one in a precarious spot where it was sure to make a mess. It turned out to be two hours before the "surprise" band played, so I just hung around, watching people. A drunken guy with a T-shirt that said "Goddamn Dumbshit Motherfucker" was temporarily distracted by a woman's fun bags, and walked into a post. Another guy, struggling to remove one of his plastic beer tabs, turned to me and said, "I sure wish this was a tab of acid," then fell over. A DJ from a local radio station (KROQ) chastised us for not drinking our beer fast enough. And I noticed what should be Miller's new ad campaign: Guy One was enthusiastically rubbing Guy Two's back; Guy Two was bent over a railing kissing Girl One. "Get drunk and fuck your buddy and some skanky chick you just met."
Finally, the time had come; the crazy-quilt curtain lifted and out walked our "blind date": Metallica. Things could certainly have been worse, I suppose (it could have been Creed), but the entire event began to feel like a big disappointment, like a bad birthday, or a sucky New Year's Eve. Worst of all, Metallica have become such a self-important, stoic band that they're hard even to mock, and I didn't believe Lars Ulrich when he said, "Thanks, we had a lot of fun."
No authentic rock-and-roll experience is complete without a tragic and stupid waste of human life. At 1:30 a.m., a drunken Miller employee fell off the eighth-floor balcony of the hotel and landed in the parking lot. I was passed out, but I guess a lot of people saw the guy splat on the pavement, seeing as 1:30 a.m. is prime "stumbling back from the bars" time. During our complimentary breakfast the next morning, people with "Crisis Team Response" written in big white letters on their dark-blue windbreakers (just like the FBI!) milled about to provide counseling, and quell the rumors that the guy had been thrown off the balcony for drinking Budweiser.
Miller Genuine Draft Blind Date concerts are not arranged for fans of the beer--there were a lot of nearly full wristbands in the aftermath--and they are obviously not arranged for fans of the band, cuz you never know who your "date" will be. It seems the concerts exist solely to get people to say "Miller" thousands of times. They succeeded with me. I'm sure I've uttered that word more times in the past couple of weeks than the rest of my life combined. Just like Metallica, I have become a tool in a multimillion-dollar ad campaign.
But you know, I guess I'm grateful that Miller spent some of their advertising budget on me instead of buying out some other brewery or getting a Miller girl a boob job. For all the complaining I've done, let me tell you, baby, I'm ready to go back. As a matter of fact, hours after I returned from the debauchery, I entered a ticket giveaway to see Britney Spears at the Gorge. If I win, I'll be goddamn sure to complain about commercialism, share the torrid details of bodies falling from the sky, and grab every free thing I can get my greedy paws on.
*I previously won the coveted "Grand Moustache of the World" championship by supplying corrupting gifts of cans of Miller High Life to the jury.
