A few days ago, Mr. Wonderful and I crossed another concert off our bucket lists – we saw Bruuuuuuuce.
We were rushing to get to the show, and then there were huge lines to get into the arena. We rushed to hit the concession stand and we rushed to hit the restroom and we rushed to find our seats. Finally, we settled in, ready for The Big Show.
And we waited.
Finally, our boy Bruuuuuuuce came on … 80 minutes after the time printed on the tickets.
Now, I fully expect concerts to start half an hour late. Forty-five minutes was even borderline acceptable. But by an hour? By an hour, I was starting to get annoyed.
Don’t get me wrong: Bruuuuuuuce brought his shit. And he’s still got that something something that makes a woman say, “Hmm!” The band was great and the show was so high energy that I considered what would happen if Bruuuuuuuce and My Boyfriend Dave Grohl had a rock-n-roll baby. I shuddered at the arena-destroying thought.
Bruuuuuuuce played for three hours … and lots of people had to leave before the show was over because they had to get back to babysitters. On a school night.
I’m torn. Part of me thinks, “Rock and roll, baybee!” And part of me thinks, “I paid $70 for a ticket in the nosebleed section. At least let me get to bed before 1 a.m.”
So. Old biddy? Or perfectly reasonable?