Tag 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.

Why TMZ is unhealthy for me

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I was merrily skipping through my exorbitant amount of TV stations (skipping being a deceptive word as I have Direct TV and trying to surf their channels is very much like the unlikely event of my mother literally surfing. (Up! And she’s down…Uh, uh, up, no she’s down, etc.) when I came across TMZ, a show populated by third grade graduates, wait…I’m being told they are, indeed third graders, who seem to think they have a career in journalism when in fact they are simply bed bugs dressed like wannabe hipsters.

These six-legged pests crawl into the world, bother people and then return to their nests with tales of how angry people get when they are annoyed by biting insects.

Now, I am not a celebrity and TMZ seems completely uninterested in accosting me as I go about my life, no matter how many times I call ahead to give them a heads up as upcoming whereabouts. So, one might assume that my displeasure, bordering on simmering disgust is out of proportion to the situation and that I would choose to ignore them since there has been no legislation enacted requiring me to suffer fools gladly. You’d be wrong, because on this particular day, TMZ was harassing Coldplay’s frontman and my pretend gentleman friend, Chris Martin.

I know what you’re thinking, aren’t you a middle-aged woman who should have matured beyond crushes on rock stars? A: Is this the first blog post you’ve read of mine? Go back and do your research before accusing me of teen-aged behavior B: Shut up.

Anyway, this post is not about Mr. Martin as much as I’d like it to be. This post, eventually, will be about misplaced anger and why it is unhealthy. Now, back to Chris Martin.

The reason I paused to watch TMZ (which stands for, you rat bastards, you’re going to hell,) was that I glimpsed Chris Martin getting into a car at an airport, which naturally needed immediate attention from the press and never fails to garner mine.

As he was stowing his luggage, wannabe arachnoids skittered towards him, throwing out the kind of questions that are completely appropriate to yell at human beings who write music, sing and put on a sensational show. “How many times do you go to the bathroom everyday?” “Is there a sexual position you prefer when cheating on your wife?” “Can we see your feet?”

Chris attacked ne’ery a one of them and hopped into a car with a smile and a wave. This is where I should have changed the channel, but instead, to my everlasting regret, I lingered, having never had a close up view inside the nest of nuisance insects.

At this point, the “reporters” discussed what was surprisingly evident to them: that the questions asked were less than professional. Then-get ready for irony to make a guest appearance-a female of the species offered, that given the opportunity to accost Chris Martin, she would have asked, “… how he stays married to that insufferable woman,” (Gwyneth Paltrow, presumably.)

Now, I have only achieved an Associate Degree in Ms. Paltrow in the course of getting my doctorate (cyber stalking) in Chris Martin studies. Much to my chagrin she seems to be quite cute, smart and funny, so much so that I almost hate to put my fiendish kidnapping plan into motion.

Even given that information, however, there is absolutely no reason for me to borrow rage from her loved ones, and yet I made the decision to gnash my teeth and carry that insufferable woman (insect girl) with me for more than a week, to my admitted detriment.

(OK, here comes the social commentary portion of tonight’s entertainment.) There are many things which should anger humanity as a whole: injustice, war, and why we can’t cure static electricity, but still, we feel the need to drop coins into the anger vending machine and take whatever random item that drops into a less than sanitary receptacle slot, holding our dubious treasure tightly in our hands and wandering off eating, even though it tastes like the stuff your mother used to make which could only be made relatively palatable with large doses of catsup or ketchup, whichever makes you less angry.

Of course, indignation on behalf of celebrities is a purposeful exercise of which we should all indulge, but do we have to turn our stomachs into acid milkshakes over our neighbor’s rickety fence? (And we’ll be working on it this summer, neighbors, FYI.)

My mother is the queen of random anger, (which is a good name for a band). High on the top of her list, which rivals the government’s Facebook files, are high heels and the women who wear them. On the bright side, neither she, nor I, nor anyone we visited while she was here, wears them. Plus, we agreed that the huge lifts that pass for an elegant shoe these days resemble what The Bride Of Frankenstein might wear to The Bride of Dracula’s open bar wedding reception.

I argued that, since we were neither shopping for these items or are required to wear them to avoid a fine, we might as well laugh at them and then go about our business in the closest thing to slippers we can legitimately wear out of the house.

Instead, my mother chose to grunt like an amplified tennis players every time a woman on TV or in a magazine slipped on these monstrosities and stumbled into view before careening into the next available wall.

My mother has the same reaction to women in low cut dresses, men in low cut dresses and women who dress very modestly (Ellen Degeneres). She hates teenagers, Ann Margret, the idea that she should have to pick up her dog’s poop (She doesn’t. Feel free to become infuriated if she lives in your neighborhood) and the other political party, when she figures out which is which.

Early on in her visit, I explained that anger is a destructive thing which turns in on ourselves unless it’s directed at my middle brother. However, for whatever reason, she chose not to change her lifelong view of the world because I told her to and continued to harrumph at an alarming rate for her entire visit.

I suppose we all have our triggers which we should be able to ignore but, instead offer a rent free room in our mind so we can conveniently visit at our leisure. Whether it’s politics, sports, who lives in the stupidest state, (I won’t name names, but it starts with In and ends with ana…I’m KIDDING! Can’t you take a joke? Why are you Hoosiers so angry all the time?), we choose our own destruction via pointless temper.

Maybe as a New Year’s resolution, we can all attempt to release our anger and find the peace which would replace it.

But don’t @#$% pick on Chris Martin or his circle of loved ones or I will torture myself with unfounded fury. I’ll do it! Don’t think I won’t!

Namaste, dammit.

Why I’m Thankful Post-Thanksgiving

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So, on Thanksgiving, did you go around the table expressing your gratitude? (Prepare for a series of run on sentences. In fact, as Dave Letterman says, “Hold on to your wigs and keys.)) Although we didn’t say it aloud, I’m sure we were all grateful that the burn I got my stomach from nudging a pan of rolls out of my way because my hands were full and my counter more full because the sink backed up and we were unable to cycle the dishes through the dishwasher didn’t mean a trip to the ER where the people who didn’t cook their turkey properly were less than appetizing to be around.

Speaking of thankfulness, and despite what it may seem for the next few sentences, I am speaking of thankfulness; you know how when someone says something to you and you fumble around in your brain looking for Oscar Wilde or at least Groucho Marx and can only come up with the neighbor kid who answers every question with “huh?”? And then, in the middle of the night, when you wake up to worry about vitally important stuff like, should I bring my jacket back the tailor that hemmed the sleeves a good half-inch higher than my wrists or fold shirt sleeves back over the cuff and act like I mean it? You know how, during that same time of the night when TV used to play the national anthem and go off the air, but now airs commercials starring people who can’t sleep because they’re on crack so you don’t bother watching and instead come up with the perfect in-your-face comeback which is not only witty, but thoughtful with the ability to change a persons entire perspective to that of your own, which is the only the only rational point of view? You know how that works, Sparky? That’s how I am when someone asks me a complicated question like, what’s your favorite song or what are you grateful for?

So, when my husband asked me what I was thankful for during our Thanksgiving meal, I could only come up with the fact that my little dog seems feel better and therefore was not urping during dinner. Now that I’ve had a few days to think, I have a much better answer, at least in my opinion. Here are the highlights.

I’m thankful there are so many mind-blowing, reality warping, tear provoking, danceable songs that I can’t come up with just one favorite. I’m grateful that composers can still write new music with the same handful of notes. I’m really grateful that my son is one of them and that everyone who hears his music agrees he’s a freaking genius. OK, not everyone, most people are just impressed with his musical abilities and skills as a conversationalist however, me, his dad, his grandparents, his godmother and some of our life-long friends are in agreement that his is a musical force to be reckoned with. (Please, if you care anything for me, don’t tell him I called him a musical genius as this seems to annoy him.) He’s also adorable.  Buy his CD.
I’m grateful that the election is over and more so, that the election commercials are gone, at least for a few months when the next cycle will begin.

I’m grateful that out latest attendance of the musical Les Miserables is over, because, no matter how astonishing the talent, how evocative the set design, how sweeping the epic, how memorable the music, in the long run, we are paying an enormous amount of money to attend a show with the title, Les Miserables, which translated means get ready to lose hope in everything good in the world. You should go see it. It was sensational and I’m still dehydrated from participating in the mass weeping. What greater tribute is there than that?

I am, as I mentioned, thankful that, after a bill from our vet which fell somewhere between ouch and BWOING, my little dog is feeling well enough to be irritating again.

I’m grateful that my husband made it possible for me to attend the best concert I’ve ever seen. Had I paid to see Coldplay with my own nickels and dimes I would currently be questioning whether I had actually seen Coldplay. Considering the fact that he has seen me slap my hand over my mouth and squeal at the sight of Chris Martin and still loves me enough to pay for me to scream at Mr. Martin in person, that and his charming good looks make him the best husband ever.

I’m grateful that (hang on while I knock on wood) that I have thus far evaded my regular head bashing which I have scheduled nearly every decade whether I need it or not. Thus far, I’ve had three skull related car accidents and one collision with a porch railing when I was short enough to run headlong into a railing. If we ever meet, ask to see my dent.

I’m thankful for the editors who remember I have a car payment.

I’m grateful to those of you who take the time to read my essays which, in case you’ve been thus far unaware, were meant to be funny. I’m especially grateful to those who’ve let me know that they realized this.

And finally, I’m also grateful for my ability to grant wishes to those of you who shared my blogs. Spread the word and bless us, every one.

Why American Idioms Are Discouraging or I Don’t Want to Be an American Idiom.

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Once, long ago and never again, I was once wandering around on youtube instead of working when I came across a video of Chris Martin, Coldplay’s singer, song writer and all around cutie. It was complete happenstance as I spend little to no time seeking out anything remotely connected to Mr. Martin as he is far too young for me to crush on and, therefore, of no interest to me.

As I sorted through hundreds of hours of examples of why Chris Martin is not interesting to me, I came across outtakes from a British show called Extras, starring Ricky Gervais, the actor/comedian and very loud laugher. Chris Martin had appeared on the show and was commenting on the subject of why, although he is a performer, he finds himself lacking as an actor. “Just ’cause you can boil a chicken,” he said adorably. “Doesn’t mean you can skin a rabbit.”

At first, I considered the fact that, although, like Mary Poppins, he is practically perfect in every way, he might also have a bat in his belfry, you know? His light are on but nobody’s home, get it? One taco short of a combination plate?

If you’re American, you are totally clear that I was doubting the sanity of the object of my affection, in jest, of course; he’s a freaking genius! He was obviously utilizing what I would consider a vague idiom, British style, which led me to consider American idioms and how confusing they must be to newcomers.

Imagine you’re a person from another country, a foreigner, if you will. Your country ends in skia or nia and has a proud and long history. Still you decide to leave your mother, who loves you more than anyone else ever will, except for your dog, your dad, who also loves you, but in a more “when’s he getting outta here?” sort of way, your siblings, friends and various relatives whom you see only at Christmas and Throw Paint on Each Other Day.

Leaving home wasn’t a decision taken lightly or on the spur of the moment. In fact, you’ve wanted to go to America ever since you learned about The Home Shopping Network. So you’ve saved your rupees, or whatever it is that your particular country is nearly out of, and you’ve studied English since there apparently is no such thing as an American language.

Finally, on a fateful day forever marked by your mother as the day my child ceased to be grateful for everything I’ve ever done for him/her, you pack your bag and hit the cobblestones outside of your cottage.

How you get here is a tale you can tell your grandkids as I’m not interested in the details, but you do arrive into the heart of a metropolitan area. The noise! The lights! The people! The weird smell…which…although is a bit alarming, doesn’t deter you, although it does nauseate you and you decide to investigate what American’s drink.

You enter Hal’s Get Your Drink and Get Out Store. After some time, you realize the line isn’t moving; it is surging, as customers rush past with buckets of drinks, sucked through plastic pipes.

These Americans,” you say to yourself with an affectionate grin. “Who can tell you about them?”

Finally, you make you way to the counter. “Excuse me, sir,” you say a few dozen times. Fortunately, a terrifying noise just outside the entrance, silences the crowd, sending them scurrying to the window, mumbling words you’ve not heard before but assume, given the tone, are the kind which resulted in a mouth full of soap when you were still wearing short pants, mostly because you were short.

You get your chance. “Excuse me,” you say. “I would like to purchase a refreshing beverage.”

Wha-?” says the guy behind the counter who could be a girl, but you decide it’s best not to ask.

A refreshing beverage?” You repeat, as the customers trickle back to the counter.

Are you pulling my leg?” says the guy here-to-for named Hal.

This puzzles you. “I am not… unless it’s a custom?” You reply.

Look, buddy,” says Hal. “I don’t know what’s eating you, but I don’t got all day.”

You feel sympathy for the poor man who has less than 24 hours to live, perhaps due to some sort of rampant bug infestation, but mostly, you wonder if this is the best place to buy a drink. “I’m sorry for your trouble,” you say. “I’d like a drink.”

OK!” says Hal. “Now we’re getting some place.”

Where?” You ask.

Where?” Hal replies, his face turning an odd mix of red and redder.

Fortunately, a young lady, steps from behind you. “Look, Hal,” she says. “Don’t bite his head off, for crying out loud.” She turns to you. “What’s your poison?” She asks, speaking loudly and slowly; enunciating as your family does with your great-uncle who fell out of a tree on his 50th birthday.

Although you don’t understand the question you decide to try one more time before seeking out your country’s national treasure; McDonalds.“Water, please?”

See?” She says to Hal. “He’s just wet behind the ears.”

No,” you tell her. “I’m dry in my mouth.”

Good for you!” she cries out. “Water, Hal!” she says as she turns to go. “And I better not hear that you charged him an arm and a leg.”

This is a terrifying land, you tell yourself as you pull a bill from your wallet.

That’ll be two dollars!” Hal announces.

Jeez,” says the guy behind you. “They make you pay through the nose for water, don’t they?”

Shaking now, you unfold your money, hoping the cash will satisfy the man behind the counter and that he isn’t in the market for body parts. Hal takes your money, hands you a bottle of water and a receipt. You turn to go, relieved.

Wait a minute” says the guy behind you who intends to pay with secretions from his nose. “I smell a rat.”

Good god, you think as you try to hurry out the door, but the fellow grabs your arm. “Keep your pants on,” he tells you. “Whadda ya tryin’ to pull?” he yells at Hal.

You try to wrestle away as you’d prefer not to be pulled, particularly if there’s any notion of trouser removal.

Okay, okay,” says Hal. “Don’t jump down my throat.” He holds out a few bills, but you see your chance, break free and flee the store and, while you’re at it, the country.

Whadda ya, some kind of a nut?” Someone cries after you, as you race away, longing for your mother who was right about foreign countries, (and everything else, just for the record,) which you will tell her when you arrive safely home with everything you were born with still attached.

Why I May Owe Chris Martin an Apology.

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For those of you still in the depths of despair concerning my experience at Lollapalooza, your long period of mourning is officially over.  During the first week of August 2012, I attended another Coldplay concert, but this time, attended in a way heretofore  (apparently that is a word,) unbeknownst, (also a word,) to me; I attended as if I were an adult.

It all began last year,  when an August 2012 Coldplay concert was announced. I was determined, for once in my life, to be able to pick out of a lineup,  a band that I had previously seen at an arena concert, independent of all images seen otherwise.  And, yes I realize that makes little sense, but so does a 53-year-old woman crushing on a 35-year-old rock star.  Anyway…

I’ve attended a number of live acts in my life as a concert goer and viewed said acts from a number of different seat assignments, most of which were in the area where they stop assigning rows and/or numbers.  For instance, I had to take the promoters word that I was seeing, say Wings.

Before I go forward, I feel it necessary to explain that no kid, presently or at the time when Wings was a band (mostly the 70s)  has ever been surprised to learn that Paul McCartney was in a band called The Beatles before Wings.  This idea was considered hilarious, in the seventies, by the same breed of adults who thought reading the words to rock songs as sonnets would illuminate how much better the music of the WW II era was written.  (Skiddery dinkie doo, anyone?)  This “joke” is occasionally regurgitated by current day newscasters when the subject of Sir Paul shows up in the news.  Please take this as your notice to knock it off.

Now, back to our regularly scheduled blog post.

In 1976, I saw Elton John from a distance best traveled by airplane, yet I felt completely assured that the man I saw in the distance was either him or a flock of fey birds and Elton seemed more likely.  When I saw John Denver, he could have easily have been replaced by a muppet, and, now that I think of it, that might have been the case in general, but I digress.

As time went by, I’ve (and by I’ve, I mean my darling husband) has been able to pay for the privilege of seeing a few bands from the back half of a basketball court.  Here is a list of said Bands/Performers I’ve technically seen: Paul McCartney, Paul McCartney, Tom Petty and, um, Paul McCartney.  They all (both) put on sensational shows which makes me think it was really them because who would pretend to be them and then go to all that effort.  Plus, I saw them on the giant TVs provided and the images seemed to be moving simultaneously with the on stage performerance.

At this point, I would ask your indulgence while I hold a woman up to public ridicule and I hope you will join me in heaping scorn on her head.  At the last Paul McCartney concert I attended, where I was seated about 3/4 of the way back on the main floor, I was admonished by the woman behind me to stop standing.  In her world view, if I sat down, the 40 or so rows of jumping, screaming fans ahead of me would cease to be an obstacle for her viewing pleasure.  I will wait as you sneer.

Anyway, last December, my son and I mobilized with a mission to get good seats to see Coldplay.  We waited until the allotted time and proceeded to type frantically and reload just as frantically as every other person in the Chicagoland area, including Skokie, tried to get tickets and was successful.

We ended up just North of the Cheddar Curtain and decided to mope rather than go and tell ourselves a tale of a band we loved that once played their instruments in the same giant hemisphere as we lived.

I handled this very maturely so when my husband came home from work, I was weeping incoherently about Chris Martin, once again, not sending passes.  There were a series of events that followed, but, in a nut shell, my husband came to my rescue with a American Express card and the promise of VIP seating if he threw money at said company.  He did so and added, “Merry Christmas,” which made me worry that I would get no other presents.  Not only was that not so, but he rocked last Christmas, for which he should be nominated for Knighthood.  Or at least a public, “What a guy!”

So, skipping forward, I arrived at the United Center on August 7, 2012 to a seat so well placed, that I not only was absolutely sure that all four members were who they claimed to be, (I tried to frisk them ahead of the show, but a large man said I should, “move along.”) but, I could hear the music!  I am not kidding.

It should be said that, Chris Martin throws himself into a performance like someone wound him up, just a bit too tightly, force-fed  several pots of coffee and then released, and I mean that in the best possible way.  He dances, he leaps over invisible barriers, he gallops from one end of a runway to another as if I were chasing him. (I was not.)  He rolls on the floor and gyrates like…like none of your business, all the while performing songs that uplifted me and everyone else (with the notable exception of the girl sitting next to me), to staggering heights of delirious joy and satisfaction.  Which leads to the question: why am I so often seated near less than enjoyable people at concerts.

Wait.  One more thing.  During the show, Martin and Company set up a small stage toward the back of the arena to assure those in attendance that they are indeed, Coldplay.  As they returned to the main stage, they passed by me and I, never one to neglect the opportunity to touch Chris Martin, reached out my hand and patted bass player Guy on the shoulder, as a warm up.  (Please do not report this to him, I’m sure he’s feeling very special about now.)   I exchanged the geekiest high five with Jonny, lead guitar, as a result of a last minute decision he made to high five an unsuspecting me.  And, finally, with much love and admiration, I  slapped Chris Martin so hard on the chest the paint came off his t-shirt.  I have included photographic evidence.

Chris seemed to have recovered enough as to put on another show the following night and since there was no mention of broken ribs or public reports of a mugging, I feel certain I have left him unscathed.

If any reader knows Mr. Martin personally, I would embrace the chance to apologize for any serious bruising I caused.ImageImage