Oh yeah! Alright! Are you gonna be in my dreams tonight?

Hubby, myself, Ma and Dad are all heading into Fenway Park for the McCartney concert.  Our seats aren't together, but we're all still very excited.  By the third song or so I pull out Blackberry and start to document this momentous occasion.  A sort of live blog, if you will, only it's not because I come home and fix all of the spelling errors...

Got to get you into my life! is pure magic.  Even though the boy sitting to the left of me smells like shoes from a bowling alley.

Let me roll it.  Let me roll it to you.  Paul makes the same face as my character in Rock Band.  All big eyes and crazy grin and lots of pointing and nodding.  I'm into it. 

Sir Paul tells us, "I'd like to play a song off of my new album," and I immediately take this opportunity to pee.  I did, after all, suck down two Rieslings at the Cask'n Flagon beforehand at dinner.  It occurs to me that tonight will be the closest I ever get to John Lennon, in a roundabout sort of way.

During The Long and Winding Road I stop worrying about the terrible nearby stench and give Hubby a cuddle.  We're having a nice time.  But there's trouble.  The cantankerous older man in front of us is starting a fight with the woman from security.  He refuses to stop stretching his legs out into the aisle.  (He has rheumatoid arthritis.)  Another security person comes over and tells him if he doesn't pull in his legs, there's going to be a problem.

Paul dedicates the next song to Linda.  And when the cupboard's bare, I'll still find something there, with my love.  It's understood.  My love does it good...

I wish the old man in front of us would stop causing such a ruckus, because Sir Paul just started singing Blackbird and I want to listen.  He wrote the next one, he tells us, after John died.  The crowd cheers, and I clap hard even though I know John is probably turning over in his grave.  But I kind of want to cry a little, too.  And if I say I really knew you well, what would your answer be?  If you were here today...

But then Sir plays some newer stuff again and I really do start to cry.  (Not really.)  But I did sort of want to: Everybody gonna dance around tonight...

Hubby needs a bathroom break and on his way out he trips over the old buck's outstretched legs and I nearly pee myself laughing.  Old dude looks PISSED.  Hubby gives him his best dirty Hubby look. 

A word about Sir Paul.  He looks good.  Damn good.  How old is he again?  I will hold you for as long as you like, I'll hold you for the rest of my life.  I wonder, does he ever miss Heather Mills?  Did Linda want to come down from Heaven and stab her?  I probably would have wanted to, if I were her.  But then again, I'm the jealous type, and prone to supernatural acts of violence.

Security is back, but all rifts appear to have been mended.  This time she's just warning the old folks about the impending fireworks to come.  Eleanor Rigby picks up the rice in a church where a wedding has been, lives in a dream.  Reminds me of Mrs. Jarvis' 7th grade music class.

Paul would be such a nice grandpa.  

Stuck inside these four walls, sent inside forever, never seeing no one nice again, like you, Mama you, Mama you...

It happens so quickly but suddenly I want to have Sir Paul McCartney's babies.  A little.

I've got to stand up for Band on the Run.  I look around at all of us Massholes, and I'm the Massiest of them all.  But I don't even care.  I'm dancing.

The ballpark is abounding with lots of middle aged skanky types with bad Mass accents in tight Sir Paul baby tees.  Hubby has often remarked that this is one of the most foul accents a human could possibly possess.  Except for my Massachusetts accent, of course.  Because mine is nice.  Really.  He swears.

Back in the USSR!  Cue fog machine.  Go Sir!  After the song Paul remarks, in that impossibly impish way of his, "The USSR.  That doesn't even exist anymore."

How can you laugh, when you know I'm down?  His voice sounds great.  I bet my mother is going absolutely crazy.  Now a tough young broad is fighting with the old buck in front of us.  He tripped her (surprise, surprise), and she's getting right up in his grill.  Oh boy.  I hope this doesn't come to fisticuffs. 

Paul is playing a ucalayly he got from George.  Let's hear it for George!  I liked George, so I really woo woo!  He sings Something.  You're asking me will my love grow?  I don't know, I don't know...

Paul can really work a crowd.  As he bounces around I can still see traces of that moptop of yesteryear.  We can't see any of the photos they're flashing on screen, because our seats are kind of crap, but Paul tells us a lot of them were taken by Linda.

During I've got a Feeling, Hubby texts an old band mate and tells him Paul is rocking it.  Everybody in that band was so nice and groovy and thought Hubby and his horn were just the greatest things since sliced bread.  (They are, of course.)  I wish Hubby could find a band like that in Boston.  Sigh.

Sir pulls out his Les Paul.  He changes guitars a lot.  I drop my new ladies sunglasses just as Paperback Writer begins.  Crap!  It's too dark and I can't get at them.

I read the news today, oh boy...I sing along.  But I just had to look, having read the book...

All we are saying...is give peace a chance.  I heard him do this last night, so I already knew he was going to perform it.  Again, I wonder if Lennon is rolling over in his grave.  For a moment it sort of feels like we're disrespecting him so I don't sing along.

And when the night is cloudy, there is still a light that shines on me.  Shine until tomorrow, Let it be.  I have chills running up and down my spine during this number.  Paul plays the piano and I sing along.  It's effing awesome, Reader, and somehow I know everything that has been stressing me out as of late will be okay.  I wake up to the sound of music, Mother Mary comes to me...Speaking words of wisdom, let it be...

Live and Let Die.  Holy pyrotechnics!  Paul puts Axl's remake to shame.  Used to say live and let live...(You know you did, you know you did, you know you did...)

Hey Jude, don't make it bad, take a sad song, and make it better.  It feels as if Paul is singing directly to me.  And don't you know that there's just you, hey Jude, you'll do, the movement you need is on your shoulder...

I remember watching the Concert for New York on TV after September 11th, and Paul just went on and on with this one.  It's kind of turned into a running joke in our house.  But tonight I eat it up like so many Chocolate Covered Peanut Butter Pretzels.  Because it's pure genius.  I sing with abandon, at the very top of my lungs, and Hubby sings along using his rock star voice.  (Have I told you he has one of those sometimes?)  We sing the Na Na's forever but we keep doing it because Sir Paul is asking us to, for fuck's sake!

Paul is threatening to leave us.  But Hubby and I already know he'll do two encores because we heard him do so last night.  I still scream bloody murder.  She was a day tripper.  A one way ticket, yeah.  It took me sooooo long to find out, and I found out.  By this point I am unabashedly dancing and gyrating.  I cannot help myself.  The guitar player effs up slightly and McCartney glares at him.  I actually don't notice this but Hubby does, and points it out to me.

Lady Madonna, children at your feet.  Wonder how you manage to make ends meet?  Paul's back on piano.  He's so youthful!  I don't know how he does it.  "I believe you want more?" he asks us. 

"Well my heart went boom, when I crossed that room, and I held her hand, in my-eeeeeeeeen-eeeen!  I imagine my mother going hog wild, somewhere out there in the sea of faces.  I wish we were sitting together.

Is he really gone?  Last night he played until 10:30 and it's only 10:00!  Nah, he's back.  Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away.  Now it looks as though they're here, to stay.  Oh, I believe, in yesterday.  Haven't we all felt like this at one time or another?  I sing along in my full child star voice.  Suddenly, I'm not half the man I used to be.  There's a shadow hanging over me.  Oh, yesterday came suddenly...

There's a dude sitting next to us and Hubby calls him The Craig's List Killer.  But he seems harmless enough to me.  "The next song is going to be crazy," he tells us.  I bet it will be, Craig's List!

Helter Skelter!  This song always kind of scared me.  But Paul rocks it.  Makes me think of college, when I should have been cast as Squeaky Fromme but never was.  When I get to the bottom I go back to the top of the slide, where I stop and I turn and I go for a ride...

I'm really shaking my moneymaker now.  Full on jamming.  I am a sight to behold.  Get back, JoJo!  Go home! 

I love Sir Paul even though I read he didn't want Heather raising their child in the US because he didn't want her picking up a terrible accent.  I don't blame you, Sir Paul.  We yanks talk filthy.

NO WAY.  Sergeant Pepper's one and only Lonely Heart's Club Band!  We're getting very near the end.  I remember being little and asking my dad who the heck was Billy Shears?  He didn't know, but he told me he asked his mother the very same question when he was younger and Grandma didn't know, either. We didn't have Wikipedia back in those days.

Oh yeah!  Alright!  Are you gonna be in my dreams, tonight?  Wait for it...I know it's coming, because it's The End...

And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make...

It's time for Paul to say goodbye.  It's nearly 10:30 and this 67 year old man has played two and a half solid hours of music.  Utterly amazing.  Hubby turns to me and yells, "That was fucking awesome!!  The man's a musical genius!!  Where are your sunglasses at?"

Comments

[Sissy]

Lucky! I wish I went too....pooey. Now where's my baby tee?

[the odd broad]

Oh sister, didn't get the baby tee. But I caught you a delicious bass.