The happiest day I never knew...

I've been looking forward to seeing The Cure at Red Rocks Amphiteatre for nearly two years now. When I bought tickets for their show scheduled for last October, I was disappointed that they pushed out their dates until 2008. No worries though, I love Robert Smith and knew he would be worth the wait.

So they released their 2008 dates finally, and I instantly updated my work calendar, my phone calendar, advised my date for the show and cancelled all other appointments for May 28th. I've been prepping myself to see my man Robert, and to ask him to marry me yet again. The Cure has been blaring out of my ipod for weeks, and I've seldom listened to anything else. I went to work early so I could manage to leave early, skipped lunch, worked hard, and fought traffic all the way home.

I rushed home, put on my blackest-black outfit with some raspberry peep toe stilettos, and donned a shiny hot pink bra which peeked out from behind my black and white corset and a matching pink punk rock belt. My makeup was so glamorously gothic, it bordered on the surreal. I couldn't belive it was me... I haven't looked this kickass in a while.

So Alan and I get to Red Rocks. We get a great parking spot and don't even have to hike up the big hill to get to our seats. We have 14th row reserved seats and we're so stoked to be pretty close... should be amazing. When we get out of the car, I notice that everybody looks like they're from Boulder in hippie-esque-I-never-comb-my-hair mops and, "oh hey look, I just found this t-shirt and jeans on the dirty floor and it didn't smell so I put it on" type ensembles. Everybody was so devastatingly casual. I mentioned it to Alan, that these weren't my people. The Cure isn't just some novelty band that people apathetically come to see. Robert Smith is hailed as an alternative legend. He and Peter Murphy are the grandfathers of goth! The alternative set dresses for such an event. Most everybody dons black attire and black eyeliner. Vampires in tuxedos make an appearance, hell, you can see goth getups for miles. But not tonight, this is so whack.

We get past security (with my camera, yay!) and hand over our tickets for admission. The lady scans the tickets and the scanner sounds with a error type bleep. She scans them again. Errored bleep. She examines the tickets and says, "Oh, these tickets are for October 2nd." I said, "I know, Ticketmaster didn't reissue tickets when the dates were pushed, but it's for tonight's show." She looked puzzled and said, "No. These tickets are for The Cure, they were here last week. Tonight is Deathcab for Cutie."

Fuck. Fuck, fuck and more fuck. Fuck a duck! I'm unsure about what the fuck I was thinking when I programmed the wrong date into my brain and onto my schedule. What the fuck??? I walked back to the car with as much strength as I could muster, but ultimately handled it like a girl. Alan tried to console me, but it was no use. I'm so pissed at myself. Alan offered to take me anywhere else I wanted to go. "Let's go to your fave place for a nice dinner. Let's go to a move." I couldn't budge. "I know, let's go to that new mall you haven't been to yet!" So okay, I went to the new mall on 144th and I-25 but it sucked. I was too depressed to buy clothes and wasn't even remotely interested in shoes. I didn't want to eat dinner, I didn't want to go have beers. Fuck, I just mostly wanted to cry.

P.S. No wonder all of these fuckwits are dressed like retards, they probably don't even know who The Cure is. That's not why they went.

Lucky for me, Alan wasn't a quitter. He drove me around to places that make me happy (aside from malls), got us some seriously funny movies (so we can laugh) and offered up some yummy ice cream. I'm sad to have waited so long to see The Cure and still miss them, but I'm grateful that Alan is here to stay.