In my late teens and early twenties, I went to a ton of concerts.

My parents got us interested in music and shows at a young age, when my dad got us tickets to Starship (We Built this City tour!), David Lee Roth (yes, we left early due to foul language) and the Bangles.

The teen years ushered in New Kids on the Block, as well as some classics, including Billy Joel and Eric Clapton. Add in Tina Turner, Cher, Metallica, Motley Crue, Elton John and Jon Secada.

Jon Se-Who? Secada. My best buddy Lynn and I went to Summerfest one year and weaseled our way to the front row of a free Secada concert. We had a lot of fun and tested our limits by not-so-casually climbing over the fence into the VIP area, where we got to high-five him and ultimately got into a brawl for the sweaty towel he tossed into his rabid audience. Ahem – guess who walked away with that towel? Oh yeah, baby!

By March of 1995, Jon Secada was charging people to come see his show, and Lynn and I decided that as rightful owners of his sweaty discard, we really should go. So we got seats in the 12th row of the Riverside Theater.

Before the show started, a bouncer guy walked by and mentioned that at some point in the concert, Secada would pick someone from the audience to bring on stage. That was all we needed to hear! (Did I mention I was 20 years old at the time? Footloose and fancy-free?)

The rest is history. At some point, he tortured the crowd by pointing at one person, then switching his pick to another. The spotlight settled on me.

Before I knew it, I was grabbed by a security person and dragged up onto the stage. He thrust a microphone into my hand and said “Good luck!”

About thirty seconds later, Jon Secada came out. We had a brief dialog (see the article), and he serenaded me. I remember thinking “Man, he’s really sweaty!”

Could this really be happening?

Throughout the experience, people were screaming insults at me. (The reporter called it “wailing with jealousy,” and my recollection is that people screeched things like “YOU’RE A SLUUUUUUUT!” and “I HATE YOU!”) I really couldn’t have cared less.

I never got to meet him after the show, but I did encounter some nice people who were seated in third row and took several pictures. We exchanged numbers, and I was able to see my crazy experience through the eyes of the audience.

Time for a bow!

The next morning, I emerged from my bedroom at my parents house. They simply shrugged, shook their heads (while smirking) and pointed at the paper.

I was mentioned in the review. Here it is! And at the end of the day, we can’t all be Courtney Cox.

Milwaukee Journal, March 5, 1995

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