When last we met on this page, John and I were on our way to a concert by a band of rock’s elder statesmen, The Who. It seemed a fitting way to celebrate my 60th birthday: sing along with fellow sexagenarians Pete Townshend and Roger Daltrey to such amplified anthems of my—and their—youth as "My Generation" and "We Won’t Get Fooled Again."

I had been looking forward to the concert for months, and—after paying top dollar for tickets—we drove nearly 100 miles and booked a motel for the night so we could imbibe in overpriced cocktails at the amphitheater without having to worry about negotiating the interstate following the show.

Unfortunately, despite our careful planning, I would soon be joining many other old fans of The Who in chanting a refrain of "We DID get fooled again."

The evening started pleasantly enough with mild temperatures and a brilliant red sunset framing the giant outdoor arena. A couple drinks under our belts, we took to our seats as fanfare music played, colorful lights danced through the aisles, and giant video screens projected footage of a much younger Who smashing guitars and cutting up with one another back in the day. The crowd roared and leapt to its collective feet in approval when the live Townshend sprinted onto the stage, grabbed his guitar and launched into the initial chords of one of the group’s early hits, "Can’t Explain." Daltrey—whose powerful voice continues to entertain millions of TV viewers every week via the theme songs to the three CSI series, approached his microphone, picked it up and crooned, "Feh-ech-garg-ahh—echhh!"

With that one discordant word—or was it two?—the singer replaced his mike on the stand, turned around and walked off stage. Townshend waved the rest of the band to a halt.

"This must be a joke," John suggested.

"I guess it could be a satirical comment about getting too old to rock ’n roll," I replied.

"Maybe Roger will run back in, laugh and belt one out."

I doubted my words. "Or, do you think it could just be a bad microphone?"

Townshend quickly dashed all semblance of hope, informing us that his partner had been coming down with a terrible case of bronchitis, one of pneumonia-like proportions. He said he would go check on Roger and report back to us shortly. A few minutes later, he returned and apologetically announced that the show would not go on. (It reportedly was their first cancellation in 40 years of touring.)

Many in the crowd were ticked off, not because Daltry had taken ill. We all know that old people are more susceptible to illness. But, if the singer had been coming down with bronchitis, why hadn’t the event been called off earlier—before we had checked into motels or paid parking fees and invested big bucks on drinks, mediocre food and massively marked-up memorabilia (commemorative shirts for $40 and up)? The venue and the merchandisers made out like bandits, but we fans were ordered to head for the exits, our love unrequited. In the words of a popular slogan about a vacation’s aftermath, "…all I got was this lousy tee-shirt."

Someone seated near us suggested that the crowd instigate the nation’s first "geriatrics riot." It was an idea I immediately embraced because a few canisters of teargas might have salvaged my 60th-birthday goal of revisiting the rambunctious exuberance of my youth. I mean, it was supposed to be a momentous occasion.

It was not to be. The cries of "Storm the stage!" quickly subsided—and everyone began a solemn, strangely quiet walk back to the parking lots and our motels. My head was swimming with Don McLean’s old lyric about "the day the music died."

"That’s it! I’m never leaving the house again for one of your adventures," John (who was never as big a fan of The Who) scolded.

Deflated, I concurred. It was time to stop wasting money, time and energy tilting at windmills in search of meaningful events. Rather, we should be content to stay home, finally purchase a big-screen TV, and let the entertainment come to us—in 40 glorious inches of high-definition.

So that’s exactly what we’ve done. We now have "on demand" movies, stereophonic concerts and so much more—complete with a DVR that allows us to view what we want whenever we want. Yes, there still are times we can find nothing worth watching on any of the 200 channel choices (or pay-per-view), but at least we haven’t traveled long distances and we can drink our favorite cheap wine instead of $10 beers. And with a little advance planning with our video recorder we can be sure that something we want to see awaits us.

One of the most enjoyable aspects of our expanded digital lineup is that we now get Logo TV. The channel has allowed us to experience numerous quality gay-themed movies we had missed. This spring, Logo has been compiling a viewers’ poll of the "50 Greatest Gay Movies" of all time, and it is broadcasting quite a few of the contenders. Thus far, we have been particularly delighted to discover Touch of Pink (2004) in which Kyle MacLachlan (of Desperate Housewives) delightfully plays the specter of Cary Grant, who serves as mentor to a young man trying to decide whether to come out to his family, and Latter Days (2003) in which a party boy and a Mormon missionary battle stereotypes to learn what it means to be in love.

Not surprisingly, leading Logo’s popular vote is director Ang Lee’s Brokeback Mountain. But I was surprised (and have written to the channel to complain) that Lee’s first gay film, the marvelous The Wedding Banquet (1993), is not on its list of nominees. This pioneering comedy (which played mainstream theaters) is the poignant yet hysterical story of Manhattan gay couple Simon and Wei-Tung. Wei-Tung’s traditional Taiwanese family expects him to get married, so Simon suggests a wedding of convenience between his partner and a female immigrant friend who needs a green card. When Wei-Tung’s parents show up in New York for the nuptials, they insist upon an elaborate banquet, and the complications are captivating.

Another significant omission from Logo’s list is Outrageous a semi-autobiographical film made by and starring the late internationally acclaimed drag celebrity Craig Russell in 1977. In addition to its joyous musical comedy performances, the movie documents the courage required for men and women to come out of the closet in the early days of the post-Stonewall gay liberation movement.

Concerning its omissions, Logo says it’s continuing to add more films to the list of nominees (based in part on write-in votes) and will update its results in the months to come. At this point, approximately 100 movies are named on the channel’s website—and almost every one of them is worth seeing. Among the all-time greatest, in my opinion, are Strawberry & Chocolate, Beautiful Thing, Lilies, Get Real, and Flawless.

Some of the nominated films are on Logo’s schedule; many others are available for purchase on DVD through its website. Or you can rent or buy them from your favorite video source or gay bookstore. Though incomplete, the Logo list is definitely worth referring to when you’re in the mood for memorable drama, comedy or music—without having to leave the comfort of home.

Speaking of unforgettable music, I just learned that Roger Waters of Pink Floyd is scheduled to perform the complete Dark Side of the Moon in concert this month, and it’s only an hour or so away from us. Hmmm. "John! You know how much I love Pink Floyd…and good seats are still available.... Pretty please?…"

Bill Sievert can be reached at BillSievert@earthlink.net.