I lose part of a fingernail in the process and remind myself to buy gloves as soon as possible. Each night, about 500 pounds of mild explosives are detonated, creating the constellation of flash pots and fireworks that threaten to immolate the arena. I try to forget Bast's statement as I begin wiring the six charges that will ignite behind drummer Criss' kit. Imagine hooking up your home stereo, but with the unsettling feeling that it could blow with the slightest misstep. Besides, if my blast doesn't ignite on schedule, the band may disinvite me to all those backstage orgies.
Some people fantasize about winning the lottery.
As a rock fan, I have dreamed of working a fog machine at a concert. I find myself crouching in an industrial swampland, surrounded by metal braces and wires, the ceiling inches from my head. Smoke gushes out of the bins and envelops me, and I start gagging as stage bombs explode all around. The song ends, but the machines need to be reloaded. Nordvold and I run backstage, fill two metal tins with 70 pounds of dry ice, and race back beneath the stage.