I love U2, Terrance Howard

Several times a month, I write a post that gets lost in draft mode, or that I fail to finish, or that I forget about.  I think I have more posts in draft than I do on this blog, and I’m trying to be better about publishing the things I start. This is one of those posts.  The U2 concert was about a month ago, which is when I wrote this, but I felt the fact that I basically busted a celebrity getting busy in a bathroom made this worthy of making it out of the drafts.  Please to enjoy.
This past weekend, we went to a U2 concert.  Except that we almost didn’t go, on account of a small little outfit crisis I had at about 15 minutes prior to the moment we needed to leave.  See, the concert was going to be outside, and it’s June gloom around here and rather chilly after the sun goes down.  But we were tailgating first, and it was really hot in the sun.  Also, we had floor tickets, so there was a lot of standing involved.  So, I needed an outfit that was cute without a jacket, that still made sense under my leather jacket (because my only other coat is a vintage peacoat that is the opposite of concert attire).  I also needed to figure out a hip and yet comfortable shoe option (the only comfortable shoes being my cross-trainers), and I needed the entire ensemble to also make me look stylish but just a tiny bit edgy, and also about 20 pounds thinner than my current weight. 
This task proved so impossible that at one point, I had to take a break from searching for an outfit and lie down for a bit.

Are you already sick of this outfit crisis?  Let me give you a little hint as to how Mark felt about it.

We were finally on our way, and showed up to the parking lot of the Angel’s Stadium about three hours prior to the show for what was my first “tailgating party”.   I’ve heard tell of these things before, but I think my friend Garrett ruined any other future tailgates for me because instead of cooking hot dogs on a hibachi, he actually loaded his fancy Weber grill into his truck and we feasted on grilled chicken, grilled bananas, and sweet potato fries.



We got to start out the night in a VIP suite, which basically translates into a room full of people looking at each other trying to figure out if anyone else is famous.  The only celebrity that I recognized was Terrance Howard . . .and I really had to restrain myself from singing You Know It’s Hard Out Here For A Pimp at the top of my lungs once I spotted him.  Although a few minutes later, a really drunk guy did that very same thing, and I was happy that it was him and not me having that awkward moment.

I also wanted to ask Terrance if he was trying to be incognito.



But instead, I just pretended not to notice him, and then tried to take a picture of him while pretending to take a picture of Mark. Sly, right?

AND THEN TERRANCE HOWARD PHOTOBOMBED THEM.



And then I became the biggest Terrance Howard fan ever.  We watched a good portion of the show from the fancy box, but then I finally convinced my husband to go down to the floor so we could really experience the rubbing-elbows-with-common-folk part of the concert.  Mark is . . . how to say this gracefully?.  He’s a bit of a concert snob.  Some close friendships with musician/promoter types have given him a sense of entitlement to the tune of, “if I can’t watch from the stage, I’m not even sure if I want to go”.  When he acts like this, I like to sing the song Prima Donna from Phantom of the Opera in my best soprano to mock him.  He doesn’t appreciate this.  But it’s true.

Before we left the VIP area I made a run to the bathroom, and on my way in a friend told me that there was a couple in one of the stalls.  Indeed, when I sat down to pee I noticed two pairs of shoes in the stall next to mine – a pair of boots, and a pair of heels, facing each other.  I just got this funny feeling that it was Terrance Howard in there.  And then while I was washing my hands, they came out.  AND I WAS RIGHT.

Oh, Terrance. You're so crazy.

Once we got on the floor, we were surrounded by all the usual suspects at a concert.  There was the couple totally making out.  There were the girls who think that it’s a dance floor even though we are all crammed into a tight space.   There was the guy who thinks he’s Bono, dressed just like him and singing along as if HE were on stage.  There were the people who insisted on fist-pumping with their beer.  And then there was Maria Shriver.

Yeah, she was standing right next to us, too.  I am here to tell you, she looks HOT.



I’m probably giving myself away right now, given the fact that I haven’t mentioned U2 at all yet.  I’m just going to put it out there: I think they are overrated.  There, I said it.  Yes, they put on a great show.  But there were some distractions for me.

First of all, Adam Claypool’s outfit.  I just don’t know what is going on with this guy.  He was wearing white cropped pants.   With a shirt that looked like someone took an Ed Hardy tee and said, you know what?  THIS NEEDS MORE SPARKLE.   It appeared to be bedazzled, as did his guitar strap.  The whole get-up looked like an outfit that would be available in a tacky boutique for older women with heavy plastic surgery at Fashion Island (OC peeps, ya’ll know what I’m talking about).  It was very “ladies who lunch” chic. Or should I say Chiccos.



Then, after the mid-show break, he changed into a shirt that was just all white sequins.  Still wearing the white manpris. I believe I had the same outfit in 7th grade that I got from Charlotte Russe.

Bono’s wardrobe choices had me puzzled, too, especially when he came out wearing a JACKET MADE OF LASER BEAMS.  I know that Jafta would have thought this was the most awesome jacket ever.  Myself, though, being a full-grown adult, found it to be a bit ridiculous.  Then he had a fancy microphone that looked like the discs from Tron, and after singing into it for a while he climbed aboard and used it as a swing.  Again, Jafta would have loved it.  Me, not so much.

Photo credit: Moritz Waldemeyer

It also didn’t help that Bono kept referring to The Edge as The Edge.  I just don’t think people over 23 should have nicknames. Especially not ones that start with a grammatical article.  All of these shenanigans made me want to pull them band aside, give them a big hug, and tell them it was okay to start acting their age.  And to tell Bono to stand up straight because the bent-over tilted microphone schtick is getting old and gonna hurt his back.

So.  To summarize.  My husband is an entitled snob and I am a grouchy old lady, and the U2 show was a lot of fun in spite of it all.


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