Doo doo doo me

I have just one word for you people.

THE POLICE!!

OK, technically that's 2 words, but YOU KNOW WHO I'M TALKING ABOUT!! RIGHT??

Wait, maybe you don't. Maybe you LIVE UNDER A ROCK!! Or, hrm, were born in 1980-fuckingsomething or ~gulp~ even later and weren't blessed to have experienced one of the best bands and most famous hot tantric-sexers on the planet. And for that, it SUCKS TO BE YOU! HA HA!!

And if you didn't score tickets to one of the reunion concerts, like I did, than it REALLY SUCKS TO BE YOU!! WOOT!! Although, hmm, maybe you don't care or don't like their music and therefore are obviously an alien life form with zero taste so in that case you JUST SUCK!! WEEEEE!!

If you hadn't noticed, I'M A LITTLE BIT EXCITED TODAY!! However, I'm not amped up about driving to Los Angeles or paying $35 a day (you heard me) to park at the fancy hotel we're staying in but I am looking forward to getting out of town for a night and doing something more than folding laundry and watching reruns of Trading Spaces: Shitty Designer Edition all weekend. And fucking hell, it's THE POLICE!! With Sting. Sting! Stiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing.

Why do I suddenly feel like putting on a day-glo orange mesh shirt and globbing my mouth with iridescent pink lipstick? Huh. Anyway, it's finally here and I'm stoked!

We're bedding down in a very nice hotel that is a total splurge but I don't care. I wanted a room with a telephone by the toilet and there had better be one, dammit. Anyone want a phone call this weekend? We'll be sleeping on a heavenly bed (whatever that means) and handing over 5 dollar bills to surly teens who will be opening our doors and retrievig the car. And I can't wait!

We'll drive up in the afternoon, hopefully timing it perfectly for our 3:00 check-in, and pray we don't get caught in hours of fuck-ass traffic. My grand plan is to relax for a couple of hours, have a cocktail, get ready, have a cocktail, cab it to the stadium, have a cocktail, ROCK OUT, have a cocktail, I LOVE YOU STING, cab it back to the hotel, [censored], go to sleep.

Then after a nice long lounge in bed the next morning (read: sleeping it off) we'll check out by noon and head over to the Long Beach Aquarium for fishies and piccies then hopefully get home at a decent hour so we can relax some more with a few Netflix movies waiting for us.

Doesn't that all sound like fun? It had better work out that way. Dammit. FUN!

I've decided that I'm going to put aside all the heavy crap that happened this week, like finding out my uncle has what is probably a brutal and swiftly fatal case of prostate cancer, an old and much-admired acquaintance was freshly diagnosed with breast cancer and a new doc of mine has ordered a jamdownmygullet endoscopy test to grab a chunk of my guts for a biopsy. Which is one of the words that causes me to shit my pants and have 47,000 anxiety attacks.

ALL of that will be put on the back burner until after I ogle Sting's buttocks, buy every souvenir my credit card (and our arms) will allow, slam my boyfriend like a $2 hoor on the 18th floor of the Westin, make a phone-call from the pooper, take a zillion photos, and carve out a moment to just sit and breathe.

Which all sounds damn good to me.