The night Dickie Barrett didn't steal my shoe.

I have been into the Bosstones, dating to the "Taang" days. That was way after most people were fans of the white high-top shoe. I was not like a regular fan who listened to the "Knock on Wood" a whole bunch of times in a row but the kind of guy who heard any ska-core in the late nineties song and went into a relentless rant about how Dickie Barrett was awesome.

I'm proud to say I have been to the "Hometown Throwdown" multiple times and enjoyed every chance I had to interact with anyone who has ever interacted with a member of the band, and I have even watched television shows just because Dickie Barrett was somehow involved. I have (accidentally) driven past Queensbury, at # 8 Hell Hotel Punk Rock Estate, I have worked with a person who was a tenant of the Bosstone's bassist's tuner (or something like that). In short, I have kept tabs on how close I have almost come with the band.

One night, my giant white high=top would intersect dangerously close with Dickie Barrett's famous throat. Now, I have heard that Dickie Barrett is a egocentric SOB but, if I were the lead singer of the Bosstones, or even the back-up soundcheck guy for the Bosstones, I would be an egocentric SOB myself. He's always showed up at the Middle East Club for shows, and even climbing ceiling after being warned by security in front of a packed crowed of 3,000 well into his peak years of stardom.

When I was a senior in high school, PIL lead man and former Sex Pistols icon Johnny Rotten came out with an album. He was trying to break out the considerable shadow of Sid Vicious and released "Rise." Maybe it was as awesome as I remember and maybe it wasn't, but remember I was really into Thriller, The Boss, The Beastie Boys, Nina, Tone Loc, and other #### that would blow your mind.

Johnny Rotten played a set in Boston where he bailed mid-show. A bunch of fans got mad, and some threw their shoes on stage in protest as he screams at the crowd. Johnny Rotten, the EZE of his era, kicks their shoes behind stage and yells, " You mutha ######'s can walk home barefoot." At the time I thought he was bad###.

Fast forward two years: I went to a Bosstones show at Pearl Street, near UMass. Figs got all of us tickets show, I think even Brian Drink came up for the weekend. I had been listening to and deifying the band through much of my adolescent life and they were playing Pearl Street, which, like the Middle East, is tiny. The unbelievable thing about small clubs is everyone in the crowd eventually gets to share the stage with the headliner. I once went to a hardcore show with Figs, and I was the one of five people who didn't take the stage with the band (no lie) the lead singer sang the famous refrain, the crowd sang along, I stood alone, in front of a stage of a few hundred, and lead singer pushed the mic forward. I screamed incoherently. but that tells more about the size of Pearl Street than it does about the night I lost my shoe.

So I was (nine-year-old in-candy-store)x(thirteen-year-old-in-a-toy-store)x(fifteen-year-old-discovering-back-room-of-local-video;store) kinds of excited about this Bosstone's show.

Here's what I remember:

I was crowd surfing in my over-sized white puffy high-tops and someone reached out grabbed my shoe. I think it hit the ground after that and quickly changed hands. Soon, it was flung hard toward the middle of the stage. Someone threw it right in Dickie's face. My stinky size elevens.

He deftly ducked, like the god he was before he sold out. The missile just missed and he didn't miss a beat in the song.
Then someone grabbed my sock. No kidding. My knee high white tube-sock was pulled halfway off. I thought this was an isolated incident, so I jumped over the crowed later in the set. Same result. Five people trying to steal my sock.

The fact that we were watching the Bosstones while a blizzard raged outside made the adventure even more exciting, until I realized I would have to walk the next seven and a half blocks to the car in six inches of snow, with no shoe.

Not only did I lose a white high-top, but it was one of two sneakers that I owned at the time, and I didn't have much use for a left shoe. As I braced myself for the walk home, a husky voice yelled from the the stage "who is the ###hole who lost his shoe?" Maybe it was a bouncer maybe it was my hero, but I tell everyone it was Dickie Barrett. My shoe was thrown like a bouquet and I scrambled as the desperate suitor. Other shoes were stolen from crowd surfers and were thrown toward the stage. My Reeboks again were reunited.

That night, as I walked through the snow with two warm feet, I thanked God that Dickie Barrett was everything I hoped he was, namely, not a shoe stealing SOB.