I'm not sure that a completely innocuous event in my life has ever bothered me this much.
Look, it seemed easy enough on paper. Go to the casino with your wife and a few other friends; down a few $9 gin and tonics in the lobby prior to the show; sit in the back row by yourself and make fun of a bunch of women that think it's still 1983; leave every 15 minutes to fetch more gin; endure an hour and a half of god-awful music while secretly enjoying "Don't Talk to Strangers" and "Jessie's Girl." I could do this.
Then, it happened.
Since I'm apparently the only person of the five that knows how to use their camera phone, I have to make my way up front to get pictures. Now don't get me wrong, this is a handsome man, but this was pretty much the most heterosexual manner in which you could touch another man. Just sort of a quick pat on the shoulder as if to say, "Hey, do your thing, Rick." It's really this thought process that I'm struggling with...
a) There's Rick Springfield.
b) He's coming this way.
c) I should probably touch him.
I guess there comes a day in every man's life when it's time to accept the fact that he's just not as cool as he used to be. A month ago I was on a beach in Jamaica smoking purple haze with the guy who signed Bob Marley to Island records and a Scandinavian supermodel. It may as well have been a lifetime ago.
I had this. I was actually gonna attend a Rick Springfield concert and walk out no less cool than I was going in and I dropped the fucking ball! I'll search for redemption, but I'm just not sure it's out there.