Seven.

I would have missed Phillip Phillips serenading me (and several thousand of my closest friends) if it weren’t for a mildly corrupt parking attendant named John.

With one week left until we get on a plane, Shoshana — my oldest friend in Cleveland (the one I’ve known the longest not a senior citizen) — and I head to see Phillip Phillips and John Mayer. And we’re running super late. After spending an hour sitting in traffic there’s a chance we’ll miss the entire opening act. Also, I really love Phillip Phillips more than John Mayer. As hundred of cars stream in 40 minutes late (does no one know what time to get to a concert?), we pay extra to park a bit closer. Instead, John (our new BFF), pockets our $20 and sends us to VIP parking, “just tell them John sent you.” With our $20 warming his pocket, we park pretty much at the stage and run in. And Phillip doesn’t disappoint.

Neither does John. John Mayer has mad guitar skills but I always like when singers take a break from playing to talk to us. I grew up in the Oprah generation and I LOVE when people share their feelings. And John stopped to indulge in a great rant about pop music and the joys of not having too many 15 year olds in the audience. He was charming in a rambling sort of way. Also, the past few years have done nothing good for his reputation as a human being so it was gratifying to not dislike him.

I am definitely on an emotional roller coaster these days. I am SO ready to be home, but summer has been this gift of quiet time. And while last night was the complete opposite of quiet, it was perfect. It’s an open air venue on a perfect midwest night. Sprinkled through the crowd of thousands are old friends, and new friends, a few students. I see none of them.  But they are there.

 

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