While sitting at Fenway Park last night, I had a grand vision that I’d log on once I got home and pound out a post-midnight blog about my night at the Police concert.  I was dreaming of bringing that “hot off the press” auro to The Diatribe.  Sadly, that didn’t happen.  Oh well, what’s a 12-hour difference, right?  Say what you will about aging rock stars reuniting strictly for money.  Say what you will about how said rock stars are just going through the motions.  Say what you will about seeing rock stars in concert “when it matters” and not some decades later.  I can hear those arguments ad nauseum.  I will listen patiently and then when you’re done, I’ll give you a giant raspberry.  The Police were phenomenal.  I waited over 20 years for this tour and these three guys delivered.  And then some.

Stewart, Andy, and Sting played for well over 2 hours and had the crowd of 35,000 whipped into a frenzy.  Several times during the show, I looked around in awe at the crowd.  It was a level of excitement so different from that of a Red Sox game at Fenway.  The lights were turned off, which was a huge asset to setting the right ambiance.  The only lights came from the stage in center field, and a few hundred arm-high cigarette lighters. 

Nothing could get me down last night.  Not the pre-show downpours, which luckily subsided before the concert.  Not the dew point of 70 and the air so thick with humidity that you couldn’t cut it with a chainsaw.  Although, one thing that did come close to driving me to distraction was the constantly dripping pipe directly over my head.  Condensation from this pipe, some 25 feet above me, kept me moist and and annoyed all night.  You just gotta love a 95-year-old ball park.  However, this was offset by the presence of a “celebrity” two rows ahead of me. 

Early in the show, the sweet smell of weed wafted through the air.  I was just waiting for a major bust, since there were seemingly hundreds of Boston cops at the park.  But the smell subsided and any arrests were put on hold.  But later on, I discovered the smoker.  It was a man two rows in front of me who was the spitting image of Comic Book Guy from ’The Simpsons.’  Tipping the scale at 300 pounds – check.  Tent-sized t-shirt – check.  Dark shorts – check.  Scraggly goatee - check.  Graying ponytail – check.  Glasses – check.  If only I could have heard his voice, like if he had declared, “Worst Police concert ever.”  To sum up, the guy smoked up a few times, got away with it, and his wife didn’t seem too pleased about his antics.

Anyway, I’m still jazzed about the show.  Looking forward to being back there tonight.  It may be corny, but a thought that ran through my head last night was that now I can die happy.