Punctuality is the thief of time. —Oscar Wilde.

This article was supposed to begin with an utterly irresistible bit of backroom decadence—you know the ploy —Phil Lynott, Scott Gorham and yours truly are stretched out on the floor of the penthouse suite at the swank Pontchartrain Hotel in beautiful downtown Detroit, guzzling champagne before Thin Lizzy's gala concert (it's all OLD YELLOW EYES Lynott can drink after his recent bout with hepatitis).

There's just one hitch: Your correspondent was late. In fact, this whole rock travelog has been indelibly shaped by my inability to arrive at even the most convenient, well-planned rendezvous on time.

Apparently, the affliction is congenital [You mean terminal—Ed.]. I was late exiting the womb, was suspended from high school for missing homeroom for a month running. I even kept Lou Reed waiting for an interview— then walked out in a huff after he refused to let me try on his shades. Accordingly, this opus is rendered chronologically, since WILDE SYNDROME could strike at any moment.