Stage Hands

This morning started out normal. Then Peter and David woke up. 

'Can we go, huh? Huh? Can we go now?'

'Guys, the concert doesn't start for another twelve hours. Go back to bed!'

See, a few months ago, Angie bought tickets for the boys to see their first ever concert. Then she volunteered me to take them to see Adel Tawil. Who?

Rather than yet again thanking my funnier-looking half, I volunteered her to make me a coffee as I got the boys dressed. I was on my third cup when I heard Peter and David trying to teach Tommy the ice-cream chant. 

'I scream, you scream, we all scream for ICE-CREAM!'

'Huh?!! Eyes don't scream!'

Peter and David lost it completely and cracked up even harder when Tommy starting walloping them with his tiny little clenched fists. Before the vicious circle could spiral out of control, I grabbed my shades and opened the front door. 

'Let's go!'

Peter and David whipped around simultaneously. 

'Go? To the concert?'

'No.'

Tommy was still hyperventilating, but I had piqued his curiosity.

'Where are we going, Papa?'

'To get ice-cream, of course.'

On the way to the parlor, a little boy about Tommy's age ran in front of us screaming. Before I could figure out what he was doing, he raced up to a pigeon perched on a bench and screamed again. 

'Aaaggghhh!'

The pigeon flew away and the boy with issues ran off again, apparently still in search of winged rats to scare the crap out of. 

The ensuing silence was broken by David, who had dropped to the pavement and was howling with laughter. He was still giggling away when we got to the ice-cream shop, where he broke into a perfect rendition of Screaming-boy.

'Aaaggghhh! I HATE PIGEONS! AAGGGHHH!'

 

Of course none of the patrons at the ice-cream shop had a clue as to what the hell David was doing, let alone why. Join the club. 

 Luckily, we are used to drawing strange looks and simply ordered the frozen cones to go.

'Go? Can we go, huh? Huh? Can we go now?'

'Guys, the concert doesn't start for another... ah, come on, let's just get this over with.'

After grabbing a bite to eat and two cokes that Mama will never know about, we made our way to the concert tent that was guarded by a tank. I'm sorry, I meant to say that we made our way to the concert tent THAT WAS GUARDED BY A FREAKIN' TANK!

I thought about questioning the driver on the logic of parking a tank in front of a concert and then allowing sugar-crazed civilian-types to strike a pose in front of it, but we were already late for a different mission that was about to crash and burn horribly.

'What do you mean I can't bring in my camera?'

'I mean that you cannot bring in your camera.'

After thanking the helpful security lady, I broke the news to the boys that cameras with telephoto lenses are not allowed in.

'But look, Papa - that man there is taking pictures!'

'Yeah, but he is using an iPhone.'

'But you have an iPhone!'

'Yes, I do.'

'Where is it?'

'In the car.'

And that, my Zoobies, is the funny little story about how I took Peter and David to their first concert ever and was only able to get this measly shot. From outside the concert tent. In the dark. After the concert was over. I'm an excellent father.

At least they didn't cry about it. Oh, wait, David did. It happened right after I had fought my way to the stage with him on my shoulders and Adel Tawil reached down and high-fived him in mid-song.

'Wow! Papa, did you see that?'

'Yeah, buddy. Pretty cool.'

'Did you get a picture?'

After David was done crying, I found Peter sulking by the drink stand. Without asking, I scooped him up onto my shoulders and ninja-kicked my way back to the stage. Two minutes of waving-like-a-jackass later, Adel Tawil bent over to tag Peter's hand.
 
'Wow! Papa, did you see that?'

'Yeah, buddy. Pretty cool.'

'Did you get a picture?'

After Peter was done crying, I decided that buying a bunch of overpriced souvenirs was the best way to secure their forgiveness. It worked. 

After the concert, I picked up my camera with the telephoto lens from security and decided to treat the boys to dessert because, you know, nothing says sorry like chocolate pancakes. My roadies paused in the heat of their feeding frenzy to announce to me that they were never going to wash their high-five hands again. Ever. 

Angie tends to love pointless arguments, so I decided to leave that gem for her. When we got home, she took one look at their chocolate-smeared fingers and surprised everyone by coming up with a solution that didn't involve tears or the sofa.

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Ladder Talk: [Tommy was racked out by the time the stage hands came home]
1) What was the best part of your day?
Peter: That Adel Tawil touched my hand.
David: That I got the high-five by the concert. 
Tom: ZZZZZZzzzzzzzzz



2) What was the worst part of your day?
Peter: That we couldn't make a picture in the concert. 
David: That you forgot the iPhone in the car.
Tom: ZZZZZZzzzzzzzzz

3) What would you like to do tomorrow?
Peter: Tell all my friends about the concert.
David: To show Tommy the hand print from Adel Tawil. 
Tom: ZZZZZZzzzzzzzzz