So long and thanks for all the bricks

Anyone who doubted the destructive power of belligerent townsfolk or Corona beer need only look to the riots at the Vets Hall over the weekend to realize that neither is a force to be trifled with. For those that missed it, veteran Spanish-language rock group El Tri missed a Watsonville gig Sunday night after being caught in a blizzard on Donner Pass between Reno and Sacramento. In true rock promoter fashion, organizers did not tell some 700 attendees that there might be a problem until the place was packed and all of the openers had played, which caused an indeterminate number of rockers to, as they say, bust the place up. Amps were trashed, windows were smashed, bricks were heaved and, in a display of impotent rage that gives me the giggles even now, a group of guys tried but failed to turn over a parked truck, then tried but failed to set it on fire. (Note to self: If you're planning on sticking it to The Man, don't skip workouts.)

This might sound stupid to some of you in the over-40 set, but let me say this: Altamont. And for the younger readers: Woodstock 1999. Both of those shows led to death, destruction and rape based on the same principles that sent the El Tri show off the rails: A beer-guzzling meathead is a beer-guzzling meathead in any language. I know from personal experience on both sides of the security line that there are always guys at rock shows who are there to get loaded and hurt people, not to have fun. They're trouble as soon as they come through the door and letting them stand around drinking for three hours before telling them they bought $60 tickets for no reason is a bad move. I've hated these romper-stomper types since I started going to shows in high school and would love to see every single one of them put on trial, but you've got to wonder about a security team that was this ludicrously unprepared for an issue that has emerged, in one form or another, at nearly every concert since "Porgy and Bess" was touring.

If you're both a fan of El Tri and a frequent reader of this column (and I'm sure the crossover there is just enormous), I regret to inform you that you're having a lousy week: March 8 will be my last day with the Register-Pajaronian. Over the past decade or so, newspapering, as Herb Caen would have called it, has become a business where a young reporter must always strive to go where the action is rather than wait for the action to appear in his own coverage area, and so I'll be moving on after almost two years at the R-P. I've been assured by a variety of journalists I respect that I'm making a smart career move. But damn, am I ever going to miss the beach.

I'm still negotiating with the powers that be about the fate of Forced Perspective. I'd love to keep writing as long as somebody's reading, but there's a reasonable doubt that leaving the area might make me irrelevant to the average Watsonvillian. If you'd like to see the column continue, or if you'd like to remind me that you never thought I was funny anyway and are glad to see the back of me, by all means shoot me an e-mail. Better yet, hit up my boss, Jon Chown, at 761-7327 or jchown@register-pajaronian.com. It looks like this might come down to a popularity contest, so whatever you decide, vote early and often.

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With my big black boots and an old suitcase, I do believe I'll find mfarley@register-pajaronian.com a new place. I don't want to be the bad guy. I don't want to do your sleepwalk dance anymore. I just want to see some palm trees. Go and try and shake away this disease. We can live beside the ocean and leave the fire behind. Swim out past the breakers and watch the world die.