Considering her darling, brilliant daughter devotes so much time, attention and ducats to a silly Irish rock band, I thought it would be a nice gesture to take Mom along to the first of, er, several, U2 shows that I am lucky enough to attend this year. So, leaving the menfolk to fend for themselves on the mean streets of South Philly, Mamasita and I proceeded to the Wachovia Center last night to rock.
Props must be given where props are due, for Mom spent the preceeding weeks studying lyrics and assigned albums. She bragged to all her "kids" at the office that her daughter was taking her to a concert. Appropriate excitement levels were attained. I, for my part, was six kinds of stoked as well.
Nosebleed seats, but a decent view. A nice mix of folks in the stands, although we could have done without a pair of flatulent fellows in front of us, but all in all a fine vantage point. We arrived just after the opening act, so we wouldn't have to wait long for the lads to take the stage.
And then lift off.
Those who know me and know of my musical predilictions would be forgiven for discounting any of my personal reviews as biased. But they are very much the bee's knees. The cat's pajamas. I lost my voice and pranced about like a lunatic. Mom occassionally shouted out the random lyrics she knew (very cute) and was as entertained by my antics as those of Mssrs. Bono and Company. After the show, she remarked that he really was an incredible performer. She may not be a full-on convert, but I think she at least gets it now.
And yes, I have made the transition from not wanting to be caught dead with my folks to happily inviting Mom along to rock shows. I might just be a grown-up yet.
Robyn
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