I'm not a big concert-goer. I caught James Brown a few years back, in his first show out of prison--the one where he virtually tonguekissed Reverend Al Sharpton on stage, and also hawked Davidoff cologne. Other than that, I can't think of any time I've listened to live music in a venue that didn't have a two-drink minimum. Which is not to say that I listen to all that much live music in places with two-drink minimums either. Let's face it, I'm no music critic (although I can sing the Philistine Anthem: "I Know What I Like"), but I'm going to try to describe for you my experience of attending Billy Joel's Night of Two Thousand Years at Madison Square Garden, New Year's Eve 2000.

The decision of what to do on New Year's Eve 2000 had been weighing on me for months--it was a once-in-a-millennium event, and I had to make the most of it. I had an invite from a buddy to attend what would no doubt be a fun party in Baltimore . . . but when my grandchildren ask me 50 years from now where I was for Y2K, do I really want to say "Baltimore"? No, I wanted to be where shit was happening: New York City, the center of the universe. Not Times Square, obviously (I'm no tourist), but something. And then I became aware of Billy Joel, and it all came together.

First off, Madison Square Garden is about as close to the center of the universe as I could comfortably get that night. Secondly, I'm a huge fan. Eight years in the city and I still make a habit of calling up "New York State of Mind" on the jukebox now and then to get in a certain kind of urban mood. And I once got drunk with Hoffman and rhapsodized about how "She's Always a Woman" is the perfect song from a rhetorical perspective because it states a thesis and then provides background information to support that thesis. Plus, my date for the evening really digs Billy Joel. So it was a natural. Obscenely expensive, but a natural.

The only concern was the obvious fact that Madison Square Garden would be a prime target for terrorist attacks. If I were a pious Muslim looking to slaughter decadent infidels, a room full of people who had paid $400 apiece to listen to music for a few hours would be my primary target. And even if the Garden itself didn't get hit, we were still close enough to Times Square that a poison gas attack could drift our way if the winds were right. Or if the Empire State Building got blown up, it might fall over on us (I had actually meant to spend some time with a calculator figuring out if that was mathematically possible, but I had never gotten around to it).

But the point is, mode of dress was key. The question was, should we dress for evading gunmen, in which case we'd wear dark clothing, or should we dress for getting pulled out of rubble, in which case we'd wear bright, colorful clothing? I figured the rubble scenario was more likely, but unfortunately my date had selected as her outfit a blouse speckled with ellipses of various shades of gray--basically, camouflage for rubble. A poor choice, but she looked fantastic in it, so we agreed that if any buildings starting falling on her she would quickly remove the blouse, the theory being that any rescue worker spotting her in only her bra would almost certainly pull her out before saving anyone else.

I, naturally, looked fabulous (I selected a killer jeans-and-shirt ensemble), and we were ready to party the end of the world away (Editors note: the world did not, in fact, end that night). On the way to the Garden, I bounced up and down like a 4-year-old on the way to the zoo, telling my date about all the songs I wanted to hear: I wanna hear "Pressure", and I wanna hear "Piano Man", and I wanna hear "My Life" . . . and I bet Billy's gonna do an updated version of "We Didn't Start the Fire". Don't you think he will?? Don't you think he has to???

Security was tight at the Garden, so there was a long line getting in. My date and I had some trouble finding our seats, accustomed, as we are, to the much smaller auditoriums of Broadway theatres. But finally we found them, and they were pretty dern good ones. On the floor, in the first section in the front, and not too far off to the side. None too shabby.

The concert was about a half-hour late getting started, so I figured I'd go out and try to get my date a T-shirt. I waited on line impatiently for 20 minutes while the cashier joked and flirted with other customers instead of ringing up the freaking merchandise. Virtually the entire line was smiling and laughing and keeping the cashier slow and distracted while I stood there grim-faced and gritting my teeth . . . it was bizarre--was I the only one with any sense of urgency?? Then I noted the accents, and I realized: out-of-towners. Urgency doesn't exist in Jersey and Long Island. Then suddenly the auditorium roared with applause, and I rushed back to my seat without a T-shirt, thinking Billy Joel had appeared. But nope, he hadn't. To this day I have no idea what those damn people were applauding.

Finally, he did appear, and the applause was, indeed, thunderous. He opened with "Big Shot" and the concert began in earnest. Addressing the audience for the first time, he thanked us for paying the ridiculous ticket prices, and credited us with not being too "chickenshit" to be out at the center of things on such a dangerous night. But we were all in it together, he said. Very classy.

The man played plenty of favorites of mine, including "Pressure", "My Life", "Allentown", "Uptown Girl", "Just the Way You Are", "Only the Good Die Young" . . . There were a surprising number of songs pertinent to the historical occasion, such as "I've Loved These Days", "This is the Time", and "Two-Thousand Years".

He also mentioned the rumor that he was giving up his old style for classical. Yeah, he said, he had been writing some classical, but he wasn't going to lay it on us tonight. Then, actually, he did lay some on us. Dude played a little Beethoven, as well as some of his own compositions, and frankly, it all sounded great. Brief, granted, but no one in the audience could be heard complaining.

Then he announced that we were going live on ABC, and he launched into "We Didn't Start the Fire". Woo hoo! I thought . . . finally an updated verse to commemorate the new millennium! Unbelievably, no. The song still ended with the Reagan years. Well Billy may think that the capping event of the second millennium was the cola wars, but I just can't agree. Therefore, I have provided the following final verse to cover everything post-Reagan up to the year 2000. It's not in perfect chronological order, but neither is the original song: