After a spell with contemplation, I up and abandoned the northern country this weekend. Although apprehension did course over me for briefs, a greater fear still was that I might remain here and then as panic grabbed me by the legs, you know it, pulled me in.

So downward I trekked in one sporty red mobile driven by the only Particle tour kid I call friend, and after a couple bouts with Jersey, I was in NYC to see Widespread Panic. The boys played Madison Square Garden on Halloween and, in attendance, I was surely the happiest Freudian Slip-clad keeid for miles around. The concert was particularly zany because everyone else, too, was decked out in finery that made them appear to be topless male nuns, blue balls and the more traditional lobsters. I won’t lie, folks-I’m certain that such care in dress would better each and every day, but I will settle for one glorious day a year provided that it be accompanied by the skillful melodies of hefty southern rockers. My wish, though, cannot be; ladies and gentlemen, Widespread Panic is taking an indefinitely long vacation from the road after a final New Year’s show.

Now, I’m not alone in my Panicked frenzy; I am strong in this conviction because I talked to many people at the Hallows’ Eve extravaganza who had come due to the fact that they knew about the bands’ plans. These sirs and ma’ams, getting in their last yayas, made the journey to NYC from far-off lands where cockroaches are myths and money is held in the open palm. These nomads truly ran the gamut and I had the distinction of conversing with quite a few.

I especially relished in the delight one derives from mincing words with one man who didn’t so much talk with me as he did yell at me. To be fair, he only did so after I elucidated to him his age versus, well, mine, but my intentions were pure. A fellow with whom I was sharing visually amazing section 333 mistook the older gentleman’s 13-year-old son for his mouth, you see, when he poured an entire glass of beer over the lad’s youthful dome, and I was compelled to apologize on behalf of my generation.

“For the record,” I whispered to the boy’s Paw, “This isn’t the best representation of a Panic concert.” Directly after I delivered my feeble attempt at an omniscient sorry, the man swooped over to me and wondered aloud, “Why did you deem me not to be a Panic aficionado? Is it because I have my son with me?”

He let me stumble aimlessly around a couple of hurt-up words before he resumed with the rigid rebuttal, “I am an old Deadhead. I thrive on the scene. It’s about time my boy did, too.” I was in that instant greatly humbled by my wise elder who only wished to break in his little kin years before th’ wee babe ever entered into his freshman year of drinking, er, college.

The preceding interaction is but a sample of the Widespread dialogues in which I engaged; most participants were much drunker. But everyone was equally happy, temporarily transported from their native lands and permanently rung with pleasure from what is the best modern rock n’ roll band, a corn-fed party sorely to be missed, Widespread Panic.