Terribly excited, a friend called to relay the news that The Eagles were scheduled, this November, to play in Charlotte, and would I be going?

“Are you kidding?” I replied, “I’m still recovering from the U2 concert.”

Four years ago.

Ah, youth. Was it so many years ago (why, yes it was, Pam) that I ditched Algebra (I was failing, anyway) to go stand in line to buy tickets to see The Eagles – my first concert, ever – with a couple of other high school friends?

Their legendary album, “Hotel California,” had just been released and well I remember being the sole member of our screaming group who found Joe Walsh attractive (probably because we looked somewhat alike) as we all held our Bic lighters aloft, stomping our feet on the concrete floor of The Omni, demanding an encore.

And you’d better believe that, even now, I would give anything to see The Eagles once again.

If they drove over to my place.

And played a couple of sets in front of the barn.

Because it’s the time and the energy required to go to a concert that prevents me, these days. Traveling to Charlotte is a three hour round trip and then, annoyingly, one can only imbibe in a single, lousy, $6 beer with that much driving (not just because of the DUI factor, but because one would also have to stop every 20 minutes to pee) and I’d be bound to get home very late indeed with a barnful of manure facing me a few hours later.

When Paul and I, having not been to a concert since Rod Stewart, in the late 1990s, decided to see the great Irish band, U2, and make that excursion, we truly felt like Ma and Pa Kettle going to the Big City. We had tickets right on the floor, smack in front of the stage, and for once, I was delighted to be as tall as Bull, from ‘Night Court,’ as I could easily see my hero, Bono, wailing “With or Without You’ into the mic, over the sea of heads surrounding us. And that was the problem.