Serves me right. After a long, emotional day at work that included twisting my knee, handing over all my cash to a patient with the saddest of sad stories and canceling fun plans to see Mr. Purple Rain himself, I found myself vegged out in front of the computer, gazing at a bad Netflix movie when I found myself in the car, heading toward Tempe. After limping across the street and snagging a ticket I made my way into the Marquee. What a dump. I knew there would be no seats, but gross bathrooms and sticky floors, too? Perched up next to a trash can for I'm-now-an-old-lady-with-just-one-good-knee leg support, the screaming, too many happy hours ahead of me crazies kept bumping and shoving while we all waited for the main event. And waited. After an hour of elevator music under bright lights, the little guy finally showed up. It was good to see him and I hoped to hear some of the old songs. But all I got was more waiting. After another hour and even one song into the encore, I still hadn't recognized anything from the good 'ol days, nothing to take me out of a bad day and back to the 80s. I gave up, limped back to the car, back to a bad Netflix movie, and hoped for a better day tomorrow.
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