Seeing that B.B. King will be appearing at one of the casinos this week reminded me that I owe him a few bucks.

About 40 years ago, when I was in high school, two friends and I snuck into his concert at the University of Vermont's Patrick Gymnasium.

That was exactly the kind of thing boys in my circle always talked about doing but almost never actually pulled off.

But this caper did not require "Ocean's 11" planning. We just stood by a back door and waited for someone to come out. Then, as I recall, there was an "Event Staff" person to dodge. But it was dark inside and we had remarkably little trouble. It was almost disappointingly easy, if you know what I mean.

Sad to say, the three of us were music-appreciation lightweights. We would shell out good money to take a date to see, say, Poco. But Mr. King's guitar stylings were another matter. He was too good for us.

After just a few minutes of nodding and agreeing that this was a heavy scene or whatever, we got up and left.

I don't remember where we went after that. But it probably involved hamburgers and theoretical girls.

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