For the younger Enthusiasts, this is the old Boston Garden; they tore it down 20 years ago or so and the new building, I’m sure, is pleasant and all the views are sterling and no one has to piss in a trough, whereas in the old Garden (pronounced Gahd’n) there were pillars and beams in the middle of sections and both men’s and women’s bathrooms featured a communal trough.
(It should be noted that there was a small but not insignificant chance of getting stabbed before you ever made it to the bathroom, which would mean you didn’t have to use the trough. Personally, TotD would prefer the stabbing.)
Like most of the surrounding city, the Garden was completely drenched in the vomit of the Irish, which is made up of equal parts half-digested potatoes and patricidal rage. On any given night, once could start a mezzanine-encompassing brawl by shouting “Fuck you, Sully.”
The showpiece of the Boston Garden was the parquet floor. Another Boston sports icon is a wall. If someone painted a Bruins logo on a door, idiots from Boston would worship that, too.
(For those Enthusiasts from Boston currently steaming and screaming, I offer this in my defense: Pesky’s Pole. A fucking pole.)
It was tiny, though, with all the seats right bang on top of each other and almost straight up-and-down: it was built for boxing, so the sections swamped over the floor like a vulture’s hunched neck and once the show started, there was just fuck-all for security, so you could go wherever you wanted and, hey: the Dead’s playing.
Stop complaining; it’ll be over soon.