Category Archives: Coldplay

Why Chris Martin owes me a refund

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So. I went to see Coldplay for the third time last month. Those of you who’ve read my blog, know me or have driven next to me in traffic know I love Coldplay, specifically, Chris Martin and believe he is magical. Not like a unicorn, because they only exist in the mind of the truly innocent and that guy from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, but still as magical as one can be without the ability to spew glitter on demand. On second thought…

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I was depending on Chris Martin to help me recover from my Annus horribilis, which is not Latin for hemorrhoids but Horrible Year, a term I learned from Elizabeth the Second after she tripped over a Corgi three years back.

 

My year, however, has actually been worthy of whatever award they give First World People when life has smacked them about for more than a week or two.

 

Hold on to your wigs and keys, as Dave Letterman used to say when he cared about what I wanted to see on TV. Don’t get me wrong, I love Stephen Colbert and watch him most every night, but I wish I could have my cake and eat it too and, also that Dave would pop up from time to say something smart and snarky before sinking into his beard again, while Stephen Colbert continues to amuse.

 

Anyway, here’s a list of what has gone on in my life since March 2016. Ironically, I was given a mood leveller in hopes that I would stop dragging my nose on the ground on a regular basis, instead, it knocked me on my ass for 5 weeks while I laid in bed trying not to move my head, which caused vertigo and a plethora of unpleasant symptoms no one truly wants to hear or experience, trust me.

 

As I pulled slowly from that sinkhole, I fell into the larger crevice of my father’s death, followed closely with my big brother teetering on the edge of death for a number of weeks and then, one week after her 16th birthday, my dog, Gracie Louise Greco barked at her last mail carrier, successfully sending him from my porch, gripped in terror, or so she likely thought.

 

By this time, it was late June and I pinned my hopes on Chris Martin, who, most likely was blithely unaware and mostly goofy, because as Dr. Phil says, the past is the best predictor of the future.

 

I had bought my tickets last December, splurging mightily and shockingly to my more pragmatic friends. As a freelance writer, I won’t be taking any solo trips to Paris or even Peoria any time soon. Still, I thought, I love my Coldplay and I took a leap of faith that I would continue to receive a fairly regular, two or three gigs from The Daily Herald on a monthly basis, thereby paying off Chris Martin in hopes he didn’t send out one of his goons to break my kneecaps. Luckily for my legs, I did so and proceeded to squirm and squeal in anticipatory joy for the weeks leading up to the concert.

 

The concert was at the end of July and I would be in the second row between the stage and one of two runways. He would probably have to sit in my lap to perform a couple of songs as I intended to be in his way. My hope was that I would have my face splashed on the evening news: Local Woman Arrested After Chris Martin Incident.

 

Sigh. I dreamt of it nearly every night, knowing that this would end my losing streak and begin a new age of delight and peacefulness if I managed to ignore the conventions and subsequent elections.

 

Unfortunately, and apparently Chris Martin caught wind of my upcoming intent to violate my probation and removed the two ramp, replacing them with one ramp down the middle of the floor. The following ensued.

 

One week before the show I got a letter from Satan AKA Satan. Dammit, Spellcheck, I’m trying to write Satan and it keeps changing it to Satan.   Hang on. Ticketmaster is the accepted term, but, just for the record, I agree with Spellcheck.

 

So, the letter was from Ticketmaster, telling me, due to a production change and I was now sitting in the 24th row, unless I wanted to return those tickets and try to do better, which I did. I ended up choosing 12th row floor tickets, which seemed to be stage right, but turned out to be stage Southern Illinois.

 

Yada, yada, Big Storm, yada, yada $49 parking, yada, yada, jumping kids obscure any view I might had in the steam bath that was the floor of Soldier Field. One more yada, yada, huge storm, buckets of cold water. Concert is cut short, or so I heard as I was in a cornfield in Springfield.

 

My friend and I muddled our way back to our car in a deluge and it took three days before ducks stopped following me, thinking I was a lake.

 

So, suffice it to say, I am less than cured of my 2016 malaise and am open to ideas of how to get past this year without having to live through autumn and Satan. Winter. I meant winter. For the record, Spellcheck is on a roll.

 

By the way, I still haven’t received my refund from Satan. (Ticketmaster. Not Winter.)

 

 

 

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Why Game of Thrones, Coldplay and Laundry are a Bad Combination

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Fire and Blood (Game of Thrones)

Fire and Blood (Game of Thrones) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’ve started and stopped watching Game of Thrones this season. The reason I began was Will Champion, drummer for Coldplay, was set to make a cameo appearance, the reason I stopped was laundry related.

I’ve never been good at getting stains out of my clothes and if I can’t spray an article of clothing with something, throw it in the wash and have it come out of the other end of the process looking like I just carried it home in a TJ Maxx bag, I pronounce it dead and panic about how to rid myself of it.

You can’t give away spotted clothes to anyone, it’s like saying, here’s money for food, but it’s in rupees, good luck to you.

I don’t use rags because I apparently don’t care about the future of the only planet available to my grandkids, especially when you consider that I still buy magazines and newspapers despite my new Kindle. I figure, with the rate technology is advancing, they’ll probably be able to make a new planet from stuff we’ve had lying around for years with no notion of its planet-making quality and once Congress votes on its use, we’ll be set. (Wait for it. You know it’s coming.) So, we’re doomed.

Anyway, to those keeping score, back to Game of Thrones. I watched about six in a row, scanning mass murders for a glimpse of Will, hoping he wasn’t a target, as he seems to be a very nice fellow, despite his habit of stealing nano seconds of camera time from Chris Martin on the rare occasions he is pictured at all.

Here’s something I read about Will; in most photos of Coldplay, he looks slightly insane and not in a good way, in a I’m-currently-mapping-out-a-plan-which-will-make-Game-of-Thrones-look-like-a-Disney-film-and-not-the-current-offering-type-but-the-era-where-Walt-had-yet-to-take-residence-between-the-peas-and-the frosted-sirloin way.

Turns out he’s ruined many of the groups publicity pictures by being in them. I’m kidding, of course, he’s perfectly nice looking, the only problem being, standing next to Chris Martin, in my admittedly warped way of thinking, would make even the affable and charming George Clooney look like last nights perch.

The real reason Will looks as if he’s about to make mince meat of a photographer is that he blinks at inopportune times, thus destroying the photo, so his solution has been to stare into the lens, looking as if a preëmptive prison sentence might be in order, a practice I am considering as I also am a destructive blinker. This has been: Things I never needed to know about Coldplay. Tune in next week to find out why Chris has a scar on his neck. (Hint: Noel Gallagher has nothing to do with it.)

Ok. Game of Thrones. After the fourth murder, in the first ten minutes of the first show, I started watching the show from behind the crook of my elbow which makes it at least twice as difficult to ascertain which mangled victim might be holding a drumstick. After a while, you start seeing drumsticks everywhere, when actually most of them are severed limbs.

By the way, for those of you who have not yet watched this show, here’s my synopsis: many people hate the snot out of most everyone else in the Middle Ages. Rather than engaging in diplomacy and/or therapy, everyone tries and often succeeds at gruesomely murdering every one else and those victims are the lucky ones. Some poor schmuck was hanging from lumber for the whole season while his hosts considered ingenious ways to practice depravity on his body, and there was absolutely no safe word. Plus there were dragons.

After I’d “watched” several episodes, ruining, not only that night’s dinners, but three or four after, my son, who is part of the generation responsible for building a new planet, said in that smirky, I’m-24 sort of way, “You know you could wait until it’s over and google Will Champion on Game of Thrones.” Smart ass.

By that time I had already mopped up (with paper towels) a quart or two of blood from my newly installed bleached wood flooring and that was only from lumber schmuck, (which is a good name for a band.

Once it spattered my “Look at the Stars, look how they shine for you” hoodie, and said hoodie emerged from the washing process with pink splatter marring the perfection of my white hoodie, I had to stop watching.

I’m being allegorical, of course. I’ve never owned any white piece of clothing which wasn’t discolored, rendering it unwearable, for more than 15 minutes of my life. Even if I had covered myself in a tarp during Game of Thrones, my hoodie would have been sent to the Now-what-do-I-do-with-this pile within moments of my trying it on. I once sat on a caterpillar in my mother’s white shorts and she has never gotten over it, and, needless to say, neither did the preëmpted butterfly.

Anyway, sitting here in my previously mentioned hoodie, complete with non-recognizable stains which I am ingeniously wearing over pajamas, I finally watched Will’s 17 second bit as a drummer on Game of Thrones. Not only was it the only clip not marred by human innards, but it was about the same attention he gets from me during a basic concert, so what was the point? Well, he wore a funny hat.

As I finish typing here, I’m beginning to see a problem with this post. If I tag it with Game of Thrones, fans will become irate that I spent little time discussing their terrifying show. If I tag it with Coldplay, fans will become irate that I dissed Mr Champion’s face, if I tag it with laundry, those in charge of clean clothes will become irate that I didn’t pre-treat my hoodie.

Will I get credit for writing the first blog post which mentions Game of Thrones, Coldplay and laundry in the same breath? Most certainly not. If there are three more ardent groups of admirers other than Game of Thrones fans, Coldplayers and launderers…launderators…laundrynistas…, I haven’t met them yet.

OK, The Beatles, but that only gives me another tagging issue.

I can only apologize to each in turn and remind you that violence should not be practiced or even considered by drummers during photo shoots. It almost always ends in stained clothing.