You’d Have to Live in a Cave

Frank and I are going to see Kings of Leon on Wednesday. You’d have to live in a cave . . . well maybe not a cave, but you’d have to not have read a single thing I’ve written on Facebook or Twitter since . . . uh, April, to miss that juicy tidbit.

So I’m pretty obsessed with them, have been since Mechanical Bull came out. Before that I liked them, but MB started the official obsession-phase.

We have seats in the second row, or the fourth row, but not further than that. In the middle. And we have parking (at Red Rocks, who knew?), and VIP passes, which get us in early, and some other stuff . . . like free drinks.

I hope not to drool when I see Caleb Followill. Or I hope he is not as hot in person as he is . . . everywhere else. And if I do drool, I hope Frank will overlook it. And not ever remind me of it, for the rest of my life. 

I’m not sleeping wonderfully these days . . . my to-do list is miles long and the minute I cross something off, the damn thing repopulates. BUT on Wednesday, to-do lists will be damned.