My Last Duran Duran Concert

Not everything is rosy when it comes to Dish and Duran Duran. My love is tied up in adolescent angst, many shitty albums, abandonment issues with Roger and John, who left the band and almost didn't come back. Dizzying solo projects, untapped movie/book potential. Simon's beard bothers me because it's so obviously hiding middle-aged jowls. He looks like Shakespeare. Nick's brooches resemble the ones I wore circa 1985 but I let it slide because he's so artsy and a trendsetter. My love isn't blind. Okay, I guess I wouldn't change a thing about them.

By choice, I ditched mountains of work and hundreds of dollars to trek out to Foxwoods yesterday. It's a given that Duran Duran is a bright spot, but something made me cry as I left last night's concert. Maybe because they didn't play Rio.

Then it occurred to me: I'm having an existential crisis, which makes sense since I've been reading so much Sartre. These were my desperate thoughts:

I've been a fan for 30 years. I'm too old/too much of a fan to keep getting nosebleed seats. I've never flown First Class either. That really sucks.

The two women next to me were drunk and loud. One of them fell on me. She was a cow.

I always dread the moment when Simon Le Bon picks up a guitar and pretends to strum during Save a Prayer. I hate that song. I hate fake guitar playing. Stop it, Simon.

I didn't have enough space to dance. I didn't know what to do with my hands, so I felt awkward.

They played 17 songs. I knew they were stuck in traffic on the way to Foxwoods, but Dish would never cut it off at 17. What they did play was awesome.

Before the show, I met people who hung out with the band on a regular basis. They were in the very front row, lapping up band-sweat. I was green with envy. I wish I could have tagged along with them, but I was the outsider. Maybe if I'd been pushier...Oh well, I sort of wanted to just go to bed after the show.

If this is so painful, how could I possibly attend John Taylor's book signing on 10/16? I probably wouldn't even get in the door.

It made me sad to realize that I'd need to spend more $$$ on VIP packages, be at death's door or freakishly win some deal from a radio show ever to meet them. Or I'd need to know someone and they'd have to follow through (which usually never happens). I could stake out their hotel in NYC, but I'm not a loser. It must be my choice to be meet-less thirty years later.

This didn't make me feel better. Here's what did:

I left the concert, mascara running, a woman suddenly barfing in front of me, and realized I hit the jackpot when I met TG. He is a real person and gives me joy at every moment (except when he drives in parking garages). He is there at the end. He won 35$ at the slots and got a free Hard Rock Cafe glass -- which is his equivalent to seeing Duran Duran.

A couple years from now, when the closest place they play is Wallingford, Connecticut, I think I will just stay home (unless I win something).