Please say we’re forgiven for spending $22 on two tall boy cans of Bud Light Lime… The hipsters reigned at the Kings of Leon concert last night. We only saw 3 incidences of public vomiting. That’s why I love SPAC—just let it all hang out under the leafy trees.
Caleb earned his keep; they sounded awesome. Happiness is “Taper Jean Girl” live when you can high-five a really awesome 11-year-old rocking out with his dad.
I’ll always be in search of the perfect concert gear—I don’t go to enough of them anymore to be able to differentiate between the fantasy (“oh, hell yes, sequined skirt and ripped t-shirt, Rumi style!”) and the practical (“this will certainly drag in the tepid beer and peepee mixture of the Port-o-Let floor, good thinking, self.”). But I played my cards with subtlety and instinct—given it was windy and in the 50s. Only 6 people asked me what kind of animal I killed to get my vest. “Possum, asshole.”
At one juncture, I looked over at Rob and yelled: “You having fun?” “Totally!” he yelled back. It was the truth—he looked even happier than the morning he woke up after dreaming he’d landed an unmanned, doomed 747. That’s a good concert.