Today I decided to listen to some Black Crowes on my run, and it brought to mind memories of my retarded 18-year-old self, so vivid that I actually laughed out loud at my past idiocy. I was a rebellious, liquor-loving, skimpily-dressed naive free spirit, who didn't hesitate to venture into unfamiliar situations alone. I probably wouldn't have noticed if someone had taped a sign to my back that said "date rape me." I made a brilliant freshman coed.

My freshman year in college, I managed to score front row tickets to a Black Crowes concert, which, at the time, was one of my favorite bands. On the afternoon before the show, not content to later ogle Chris Robinson from behind the stage barricades, I acted on some info I'd read in a stupid magazine and walked into the (unlocked) Coliseum (by myself) to see if the band would be having a sound check. I was shortly spotted by a roadie (shifty-eyed men who have an uncanny ability to sniff out young women in 50,000-square-foot spaces) who offered me a personal tour of the backstage areas. I was pretty much like, duh, let's go.

At this point, the roadie's inner monologue and mine were likely quite similar:

Me: This is too easy! He's falling right into my trap. I'll be escorted promptly to Chris's dressing chambers, where he and I will make out on his woven rug, surrounded by burning incense and candles. And if Kate Hudson is there, well, OK, she's pretty hot too. I could handle a little fake-lesbian kissy action, especially with a celebrity.

Roadie: This is too easy! She's falling right into my trap. I'll promptly escort her to a loading area, where she'll give me a blowjob, surrounded by road cases and extra cords. And if the tour manager is there, well, OK, he can watch. And take pictures.

 Not long after my tour began, Roadie sprung phase one of what I can only imagine was a well-rehearsed action plan on me. "Do you want to go to the tour bus and get high?" he asked. To be perfectly honest, my "yes" came before he even finished the sentence--I mean, he could have asked, "Do you want to go to the tour bus and help me change the oil, we almost burned up the engine on the way here?" or "Do you want to go to the tour bus and let me eat a hoagie from between your butt cheeks?" or "Do you want to go to the tour bus and help me dismember a body?" and my answer would have been the same. Unpossessing of any common sense, I was pretty sure that a visit to the tour bus would cement my place in the Rock n Roll Muse Hall of Fame.

Once we had made our way to the back room of the tour bus, which (ding-ding-ding-ding, red flag) was plastered with pornographic images, and settled ourselves on the plush, velvet-upholstered couch-bed cushions with three other guys (ding-ding-ding-ding, red flag, little alone girl!) the biggest bong (in fact, the only bong) I had ever seen was pulled off of an altar beside the television.

Now I had smoked my fair share of marijuana by age 18, having had the short-lived luxury of a high-school small-time drug dealer boyfriend who I (somewhat inexplicably) dumped for his excessive pot use. But as water pipes are somewhat hard to conceal in the cavities of a human body, rolling a joint was the preferred (in fact, only) method of partaking for those still living in their parents' homes.

And so, for all the cards I had already played into Roadie's hands, it wasn't his creepy vibe, the fact that none of my friends knew where I was or what I was doing or my isolation with a group of venereal-disease-ridden dudes that sent me running. It was my ignorance of how to use the bong.

I muttered something about having a Spanish test I had to get to. And for my part, I realized that a front-row seat is about as close as I want to get to the Black Crowes.