This past weekend was organized entirely around one thing: seeing The Police perform at Dodger Stadium.
I have fond memories of listening to the band on my little clock radio back in elementary school some twenty years ago, when I was oblivious to their infighting and did not fully understand that Roxanne was really a hooker. As I got older and grew only slightly less naive, I mentally added them to a list of great bands that I wouldn’t get to see in concert due to any number of circumstances, be they death by hard living, personality clashes, or simply being born just a little too late. To say that I was excited by the opportunity to see them live, onstage, together is nothing short of an understatement.
I didn’t even find out who their opening act would be until I got to the stadium (there were two: Fiction Plane and the Foo Fighters) — I was too googly-eyed over the prospect of such a great show to bother finding out after I bought my ticket. And what a great show it was. I sang myself hoarse and danced the entire time. I thought I might memorize the set list or take pictures to post here, or even just call my sister and hold up the phone to record a bit onto her voicemail (sorry, K!), but it was too good, and I had blissed out a bit. The drive — and the twenty-year wait — were completely worth it.
Some other thoughts…
- To the guy in the row ahead of me: Seriously, don’t stand so close to her. Or put your arm around her. Or keep dancing up on her when she was very clearly pushing you away. That you were singing that very song while doing these things did not make you charming so much as creepy.
- To Liz, with whom I will Ultimate Fight you to the death for Sting’s affections: I hope you got home safely.
- To the guy in front of me in the merch line: Thanks for the beer. I did think of you.
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