My Rick Springfield Concert Experience (subtitle: I Will Never Wash This Hand Again)
On a national scale, the bombing of Pearl Harbor in December of 1941 was a day that will live in infamy. On a personal level, July 12, 2014, is a day that will live in infamy. Why? Three words: Rick Springfield concert.
Three more words: twelfth row, baby.
I'll give you a moment for the sheer awesomeness that is twelfth row Rick Springfield tickets sink in.
Before I get to my date with Rick (as I've taken to calling the evening) (even though Tata and Banana were there with me and Rick) (as well as about 2.000 other people), we stood in a slow moving line to buy concert shirts. Yes, we were buying concert shirts, even though we had these bad boys custom made for the occasion.
Matching t-shirts. Because we're total bad asses. Obviously.
The shirts pulled double duty. Not only did we look super cool, the shirts would ensure that Rick would pull us up on stage to sing backup on Jessie's Girl. Being pulled up on stage was our goal for the night. Well, it was my goal. Tata's goal involved hijacking Rick's tour bus. Banana's goal was raising enough bail money.
At first, I wasn't going to buy a concert shirt, you know, because of our awesome custom Ts, but Tata wanted one. The closer we got to the front of the line, the more Banana and I had to have one, too. Is a little crazy, yes? Maybe, but I believe that any time you can buy a vintage inspired Rick Springfield concert t-shirt you should seize the opportunity.
Plus, T had a great idea. "I'm going to buy my shirt a couple of sizes too big so I can sleep in it," she announced.
"Ooo, that's a good idea," both Banana and I agreed.
Then, being Tata, she over shared. "I plan on flipping my shirt inside out so it's like Rick is touching me."
B and I were horrified, but not terribly surprised because that's how T rolls. Actually, that's how she's always rolled, even in the fifth grade, but I digress.
We found our seats with a few minutes to spare before the opening act, the band Berlin. To refresh your memory, Berlin had two huge hits in the 80s, "No More Words" and the love theme from the movie Top Gun, "Take My Breath Away".
In addition to many others, Berlin played both of these songs. They were fabulous and all three of us, me, Tata, and Banana, loved shaking our groove thangs to the old stuff. We were having a great time, well, that is until Take My Breath Away was played and my two friends refused to slow dance with me.
Um ... excuse me? Did we lose a war or something? Friends should always slow dance with other friends to that song. It's in the Constitution for crying out loud.
I quickly got over it once Tata pointed out that lead singer Terri Dunn still sports the two-tone, black and platinum 'do from 1984. This hairdo delights me way more than it should.
You know what else delighted me way more than it should? Seeing Rick Springfield. I don't know what happened, but the minute he walked on stage I completely lost my mind. I screamed. I threw my hands up in the air. I jumped up and down. I may have peed a little.
In short, it was complete pandemonium as just about every person in the theater fangirled at the same time. It started off bad and it quickly got worse. The screaming. The crying. The accidental wetting of one's pants. I reverted back to being twelve years old, although I don't think I behaved like such a twelve year old even when I was twelve. I instantly felt myself Benjamin Buttoning back to 1984, complete with a pair of pink Reebok high tops, an Izod polo shirt, and Levi's with the knees ripped out of them.
Not a good look, people.
And honestly? I felt my hair to see if it had reverted to the one-two punch known as the 80s perm and scrunchie. (It had not.)
And like I said, my fangirl behavior started off bad and got worse once I touched Rick Springfield. You read that correctly. I. Touched. Rick. Springfield. I kinda sorta have a photo of the moment. I apologize; it's terribly blurry. I was shaking so badly from excitement and the stress of trying not to poop myself that I simply could not hold my phone still to snap a decent picture.
He literally walked into the audience a scant five feet from us. Before my brain could compute "Rick Springfield is near enough to touch", I felt two hands on my back and heard T yelling "GO!" in my ear at the top of her lungs. Poor Banana, who had the aisle seat, got shoved out of the way in our mini stampede to touch the Great Rickitini.
Tata and I each got a hand on the poor guy, but Banana only managed a pinkie. Because we're such good friends (and we felt horrible about her missing the Opportunity of a Lifetime), we wiped a little Springfield sweat on her.
At one point, we were hugging each other, jumping up and down, and screaming about this being the best night of our lives and how we were never washing our hands again. Ever. No matter how much you paid us, we wouldn't wash away one single bit of Rick's DNA. We even made plans to stop by a CVS on the way home to buy a big box of disposable rubber gloves to keep our Rick hands pristine. Forever.
That solemn vow lasted approximately ninety minutes, which is when I had to pee. You will all be relieved to know that the germophobic/excellent personal hygiene side of my personality won out over my need to keep Rick's sweaty DNA and I washed my hands thoroughly with soap and water in the restroom of a Steak N' Shake.
You're welcome, America.