I have never been much of a concertgoer. Maybe because my family was more likely to attend a free symphony or Renaissance Fair when we were not at the Kingdom Hall. Although, my chaste upbringing is at direct odds with the first concert I did attend as a teen in the ’80s – Eddie Murphy Live. I loved every swear word right up to the moment near the end when a security guard invited to meet Mr. Murphy backstage. As if.
Since then I have only been to one or two random events including Elton John and Billy Joel (I can explain). Which is why the kids were shocked when I impulsively jumped online last summer to buy tickets to the Macklemore and Ryan Lewis concert.
My purchase was fueled by my presumably mutual to the band’s passion for thrift shops, Equal Rights and that bemused guilt that cloaks us when we hear children singing lyrics they couldn’t and shouldn’t understand at the top of their little lungs in the back seat.
Five months later, as the concert date loomed I began to have second thoughts: “What have I gotten myself into?” I pretended not to be nervous even as I prepared secret exit strategies for Sistafoo. I felt clever deciding to beat traffic by parking downtown, but I sort of forgot to make a dinner plan so we foolishly sought a last minute restaurant recommendation.
On the bright side our accidental white linen and candlelight meal added a rare new approved food to Venom Pen’s repertoire – wild boar. Apparently his picky palate likes things fancy. To keep it real we had McDonald’s ice cream cones on the Monorail for dessert.
I was feeling trepidation as we arrived at the the Seattle Center. The security line was brisk and efficient and before we knew it we were in line to pay nearly $50 for a T-shirt. As I scrutinized the hipster hordes, they began to resemble nerdy neighbors. Soon we climbed like goats to our seats clinging to a king’s ransom of loot labeled with words like Heist and Sharkface.
Squeezing past excited 60-year-old women and families, I started to relax. But of course, seconds before the concert began, two super big and tall drunk guys stumbled into seats to my right. Over the next few hours we danced, we screamed, and we laughed (uncomfortably) at 10-year-old boys twerking on the Jumbotron.
I used my mom voice a few times to wrangle my sloppy seat mates and I am certain I left a memorable impression on the teen girls who blocked views and encroached on our seats when they tried to fit four contemptuous attitudes into two seats. I loved it and would do it again even though I had to employ creative censoring tactics for the more vivid portions of the night.
In the days that followed, Macklemore and Ryan Lewis owned my Facebook newsfeed as the duo seemed to pop up all over town: personal friends with that person, at a surprise charity performance for that group, backstage with those kids, poking friendly fun at that team.
And then, presumably because he really wanted to meet Sistafoo, I noticed a man with a certain swagger and a sharp coat in one of my favorite stores. First we chatted with his companion as I begged Sistafoo in hissed whispers not to fanstalk this man with truly beautiful skin. We loitered as he considered and then purchased exactly the kind of thing you would expect to find in every stylish rap star’s home. I wont tell you exactly what Macklemore bought, but Sistafoo told him it was a “little creepy, but cool.” I just noticed how it has as much in common with Run D.M.C.’s Adidas as with Venom Pen’s new favorite meal.
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