Aaaaaaand ... Springsteen tickets are ours! Or, more precisely, a printout with a booking number that carries the promise of Springsteen tickets is ours. It will have to do. The whole exercise was a masterpiece of coordination: I left my work computer switched on overnight (sorry, Al Gore) so as to avoid any log-in problems as per yesterday, and Designated Driver offered to start ten minutes earlier to make sure we were in by nine, when Ticketmaster booking opened. At 9.00 I was in the Springsteen window, refreshing like mad and trying to remember how to breathe, and so wound-up that when the booking screen finally showed up I almost missed it ... but 'almost' isn't 'quite', and now tickets are ours! I do not think they are very good tickets - they're the lower of the two prices, and 'upper tier' (so, no dancing, I'm guessing), but they are tickets, and I DON'T CARE. So.
Bizarrely, J, who, from what I can gather actually got online before I did, didn't get tickets. Which is just as well really, as we don't need two lots, but still ... strange.
Unfortunately, the upshot of all this was that I had built up a huge adrenaline surge by ten past nine, and after that there was nowhere for it to go but away. Which meant that I spent most of the day in a slump and, when I got home, pretty much fell into a coma. To which I shall shortly return. Pausing only to mention that, although I am still persevering with Studio 60 I do not love it - I've tried, but I can't; there is the odd flash where you can see it could be good, but not nearly enough, and for the most part it's strung-together shocks of recognition: why, here is someone correcting someone else's English; here is a man with daddy issues; here are two women snarking about dating, exactly as Natalie and Dana might, but with the wrong heads on and with rather more shopworn dialogue. With, here and there, the odd tug at the heartstrings so contrived as to be downright smackable. And how did Bradley Whitford get to be so old? Tonight someone said "It's a steal" and, while they may not have been the first or the last to do so, I still found myself looking around for Isaac. Oh, Isaac. If only!
Still, it is, I suppose, more respectable than my guilty passion for Grey's Anatomy which, tonight, saw the entire hospital staff grind to a halt - some to sit slumped in corridors, some to just stand and twitter inanely - on account of Meredith has fallen in the water. (Meredith, meantime, has woken up in what appears to be the waiting room for the afterlife. Since the waiting room for the afterlife is currently occupied by Daddy Winchester and what's-his-name from Early Edition, I say Meredith is on to a winner and should stay there. The alternative, after all, is McDreamy. When clearly she would be better off with Christina.)
Speaking of guilty passions, I am so into Brothers and Sisters. Why do more people not share this love? I don't need fanfic - well, unless anyone wants to slash Dan Rydell with Justin for me; just a round of apres-show discussion of the "Yes! Grandma thinks Justin's gay!" and "I would vote for Rob Lowe, and I'm not even American" variety. Is that so much to ask of you, world?
Oh, have it your way.
