Night of the living Dead

Last Friday afternoon two VIP passes to that night's Dead concert fell into my very lucky lap. And, just so we're all clear, it had nothing to do with bribery, blackmail, or sexual favors. For once.

B and I knew these were going to be good tickets, but it wasn't until we were handed our free t-shirts and posters, stuffed our faces with the VIP lounge's free food, loaded ourselves up with beer, and made our way to our seats that we realized exactly how awesome they were. On the floor. Ninth Row. Center. We were so close we could see the tendons in Bob Weir's wrists and the crows feet on Phil Lesh's face. Which is also about the time we realized, my GAH it must be awesome to be rich. Kind of like the time we were given Phillies Diamond Club tickets last summer and all B could talk about was food selection and all I could talk about was the view of Chase Utley's finely chiseled buns.

ANYWAY. The Dead. The great thing about concerts like this isn't just the music, it's also the crowd that comes with it. And this particular show attracted a crowd that we could have found walking through the field at Bonnaroo, swinging hoolahoops and blowing bubbles.

I'm also pretty sure we could have licked the Spectrum walls and we would have been tripping for days, which can be a little unsettling when you're packed inside a building and not rolling around in a field. Not that we lick walls and roll around in fields. That often.

Friday night was awesome. And I'm glad I got the chance to take in another of the Spectrum's very last shows. And that's when we learned this weekend's other life lesson: stay away from family rich people get better concert seats so we should probably start robbing liquor stores and/or your grandmother. Tweet