All Night Long, Questionable Choices, And Still Going Strong 

July 7, 2026, at the Town Ballroom in Buffalo, NY

By I Am Lorelei!.

They say turning “older” is either a milestone or just another number you’re not supposed to sweat. That’s adorable. That’s something people say when it’s not their number. 

I imagined my sisters would mark my milestone birthday using candles that relight themselves as I tried blowing them out—the kind that made us cry when we were kids but would make us laugh ‘til we peed ourselves today. Maybe a surprise party. Maybe a thoughtful gift or two. Instead, mine felt like a typical Tuesday where I scrubbed toilets, mopped floors, and cleaned up presents left by the cat like it was my salaried profession. 

I got two cards – one signed, one blank. Apparently, even the card was emotionally unavailable. 

I received more birthday cards from stores than people who know me. Granted, the stores wanted my money, hoping I’d use the 20% off coupon they tucked inside the envelope, but at least they paid for postage.

I had officially become Charlie Brown checking the mailbox – hopeful on the way out, muttering, “Rats” on the way back in.

Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate all the Facebook messages I received, but I miss the effort of a phone call or a personalized note on a card. I miss the humanity of it.

By then, the message felt pretty clear: if my birthday was going to become an event, I was going to have to produce, direct, fund, and attend it myself. Wonderful. Nothing says “milestone” like appointing yourself chairperson, treasurer, entertainment committee, and only confirmed guest of your own celebration.

So, I did what any under-celebrated woman with a milestone birthday, internet access, and a dangerously open calendar would do: I started looking for a destination with just enough questionable decision-making potential to qualify as a celebration.

I was determined to throw myself the kind of party that did not involve folding chairs in a backyard, leftover store-bought birthday cake, or me pretending a sensible bedtime was the main event. I wanted the five-hour drive, the VIP Experience, the rock-and-roll-sweat-fest version—the kind with loud guitars, stage lights, and dangerous dance moves—with me as the guest of honor.

When I found out Buckcherry was playing in Buffalo on July 7th—my actual birthday, not birthday-adjacent, not birthday-ish, but the actual square on the calendar with my name scribbled all over it—that was it. What happens in Buffalo could stay in Buffalo, provided Buffalo agreed not to post anything incriminating.

Tickets? Bought. VIP? Added to my cart. Nearby parking? Paid for, though I had no idea where the lot was located, even with a street address for reference. Outfit? Packed, unpacked, tried on, rejected, reconsidered, and packed again. It needed to say, “Doesn’t feel 29 with bonus years” without saying, “She has lost all contact with reality.”

I booked a hotel room half an hour from the venue because I refused to pay $400 a night for the privilege of sleeping near Niagara Falls and an outdoor naval museum I had no intention of visiting. This was mistake number one. You see, my sense of direction is worse than a drunken pigeon with a broken GPS, and I was bound to get lost along the way. 

Since the VIP instructions never hit my inbox, I was texting my son for help while trying to apply eyeliner with hands already shaking at the thought of standing close enough to Josh Todd to forget every normal sentence I had ever learned. Nothing says “calm and collected” like smoky eye makeup that took a hard left into raccoon territory, panic, and the sudden inability to act like I had ever been allowed in public before. I got so distracted I forgot I still had a half-hour drive to the venue. I would be late yet again.

Naturally, I couldn’t find the parking lot I paid for even when GPS announced, “You have arrived.” 

Arrived where? Nothing around me resembled “paid parking.” It barely said “parking.” There wasn’t a booth, an attendant, or even a folding chair with someone to take my ticket and point me toward a parking space. So I circled the block like a NASCAR driver auditioning for a spot on the circuit.

Finally, I pulled into a lot that looked like an abandoned post office, and I asked a man walking his dog if I was in the correct lot. 

He didn’t know. 

His dog didn’t know.

The dog at least looked concerned.

So I took my chances. I was running late.

The police station was across the street, so if my car got towed for illegal parking, at least I wouldn’t have far to walk to file the report.

Silver linings.

Then came the VIP entrance mystery. Where were Scooby-Doo and the Mystery Inc. gang when I needed them? I already had the confused wandering part covered.

I walked across the street.

I could hear the soundcheck.

I walked right by the tour buses.

I could feel my panic rising.

But where were all the people like me who had bought the VIP?

Had I missed it?

Was this about to officially become the worst birthday ever?

I stopped three workers hauling pallets of … something … next door to the Town Ballroom if they could direct me to the VIP entrance. One of them began knocking on random doors, trying to get a response from security. I would like to believe my cute outfit inspired this level of customer service. Please do not correct me. 

We were directed around back, through a gate between the buildings, and out to the front entrance. I was escorted like royalty, and once there, I skipped the line and marched right up to a very handsome man – dark curls, the kind of tan that suggests excellent priorities.

He checked my paperwork. I had my VIP confirmation, but I wasn’t on his list.

He went inside to speak with Buckcherry’s management and left me outside to deal with a man built like a WWE wrestler. The human wall I came to think of as the Suburban Slammer began demanding identification like I was clearing customs, not walking into a meet-and-greet.

Ticket. License. Passport. Library card? I was one request away from dental X-rays and a blood sample before Mr. Tall, bronzed, and handsome strolled back to rescue me. I was beginning to think this birthday was cursed.

Once inside, the panic faded.

The members of Buckcherry were gracious and signed several of my original concert photographs. One for each artist. 

Take that, Hallmark!

Stevie D. wrote “Happy Birthday, Lori,” and Kelly Lemieux recognized his photograph as one I had taken at this year’s M3 Festival. 

At that point, my neglected little birthday heart grew three sizes that night. After the signing, we were corralled into another line for our photograph with the band. When it was my turn, I removed my purse, my VIP tote bag, my lanyard, and my phone, basically everything I owned because I wanted the picture to be clean. Just the men and me. 

I had driven five hours and survived Buffalo parking. The people behind me could wait twelve additional seconds.

Afterward, we were directed to the merchandise area to choose our free shirt. It was included with the Experience. I selected the shirt featuring the title of one of Buckcherry’s most popular songs, “Crazy Bitch.”

Fitting. No one ever knows what they’ll get with me—including me.

I had some time, so I stopped by the bar to get something liquid to toast to myself. The bartender gave me a birthday shot on the house. Finally, someone understood the assignment.

By the time the show started, I was ready. Beyond excited.

Front row in front of Kelly and Billy.

Tonight I wasn’t a photographer. Normally I’d have been behind the camera, concentrating on lighting, angles, and getting the perfect shot.

Tonight I wasn’t a professional.

Tonight I was a fan.

Tonight I just wanted to listen, and I wanted to dance.

And apparently, I wanted the entire Town Ballroom to hear me being a fan. 

I recorded three songs during the concert. When I listened to the videos later, I discovered that I had screamed through most of it. Not just sang. Screamed.

Did I go overboard?

Absolutely. 

The band sounded incredible. I sounded like a horror movie victim.

I could hear the woman two people away from me was complaining, but what could I do? 

Josh’s dance moves didn’t help. That man moves better than any stripper who has ever paid rent with a pole. Where did he get those moves? More importantly, how can I get some?

I said what I said.

Billy Rowe and Stevie D. traded guitar riffs while Kelly LeMieux’s bass rattled everything I had spent 29-plus years trying to keep in its proper place. Behind them, Francis Ruiz drove the songs forward with the kind of precision and energy that made standing still challenging.

I got guitar picks from both Billy and Kelly.

A setlist from a stagehand.

Billy came out to the lobby to talk with friends after the show. He looked at me with an expression that could have meant recognition, surprise, or “Dear God, she found me again.” I chose to believe it was recognition. 

Don’t ruin my fantasy!

And before Buckcherry even hit the stage, the night had already started to feel like one of those shows you find yourself mentally reviewing while pretending you’re absolutely just there as a fan.

Tim the Truth helped open the evening with the kind of confidence that makes a room pay attention before everyone has even finished deciding where to stand. There is something satisfying about an opener who does not behave like an appetizer. He came out like part of the meal. The lead singer jumped off the stage and into the crowd, got people running in circles around him, and threw a blow-up doll wearing a band T-shirt into the audience, daring the first person to strip the shirt off to keep it. He wasn’t just performing-he was actively daring us to have fun with him. He was an opener that showed up to entertain. Nothing else.

Loveboxx followed, fronted by a singer with a genuinely impressive range-the kind of voice that makes you wonder if she was trained by an opera coach. But they also had a videographer camped out the entire set, capturing content. It felt less like a rock show and more like a very polished audition tape for something bigger. Compared to the ease Tim The Truth walked out with, Loveboxx felt like they were performing more for the camera rather than for us.   

Then Bad Marriage came in supporting their new album, “Match Made In Hell,” and tore up the place, delivering a higher-octane show than I had ever seen from them before. If the album title sounds dramatic, the performance made the case for it.

Delaney was a human explosion.

Fitzy and Jon tore across the stage as if standing still would result in an immediate moving violation.

Tommy and Todd were a wall, holding down their corner of the stage like a fortress. Solid. Immovable. Which meant no good looks for a photo.

Despite celebrating my birthday solo, my spirits were anything but dampened. Quite the contrary. The bartender supplied a celebratory drink, the band sent me home with parting gifts beyond the official VIP merchandise, and I somehow ended up taking photos on my Google Pixel 8 Pro because apparently I am physically incapable of attending a concert without accidentally becoming part of the media.

The evening’s greatest surprise, however, came when I returned outside and discovered my car exactly where I had left it—snug in its parking spot, untouched and patiently awaiting my return. At that point, the night officially qualified as a complete success.

After feeling mostly forgotten on a milestone birthday, maybe I needed to be loud.

Maybe I needed to remind myself I’m still here and I matter.

Still capable of meeting one of my favorite bands without making a complete ass of myself.

Please note that I said complete.

Still capable of getting lost many times over and still figuring it out.

No one threw me a party.

I may have turned twenty-nine plus again by myself.

But I did not celebrate quietly.

I threw one for myself for the ages.

It had handsome rock stars, loud music, clothing I might have worn better when I was a young twenty-something, only now with better judgment, and stronger shapewear.  

And in the end, it was a milestone.

Just not the one anyone expected.

Buckcherry

Bad Marriage

Tim the Truth

Loveboxx

More coverage of Buckcherry here …