The Mother, The Mechanic, and The Epic Cell Phone Story

So, hobgoblins stole my cell phone. One minute, I am happily texting away, making ridiculous money while babysitting the cutest and most mellow seven-month-old you have ever met, and the next, my cell phone had completely disappeared. After four hours of tearing the apartment apart, we yielded no logical conclusion as to my beautiful black razr's whereabouts save 1) the baby ate it and 2) there is a 3x2 wormhole at the center of Bronwyn Keith's coffee table. I bought a new one today, if you haven't given me your cell phone number, please do.

Now I my cell phone is sure to materialize after I have dropped several hundred dollars to buy a new one. At least cutey-mc-cuterson Ryan at the Cingular store said I have thirty days to return the phone if I find it. Which I hope I do.

In other, happier news, due to the genius of Wes, we were able to secure tickets to The Early November's triple disk release show. Amazing. It was amazing. The record was worth the three-year wait. The whole band signed our CDs, and Jeff (drummer) took me on the tour bus because he couldn't find his Sharpie. It was magical.

It took us over two hours of traffic to get to Anaheim, and we barely made the show. Because we missed the openers, we found ourselves at the very back of the venue. I hate being in the back at shows because I love the energy of the band and the energy of the front of the crowd. However, as I standing in the back, I couldn't even tell if I was at a live show the way the crowd was reacting. The were just standing perfectly still, blankly staring at the stage 100 feet away. They were barely conscious. How can you not be psyched to see this band live? There is nothing better than seeing your favorite band live, supporting them, meeting fellow fans, hearing new tracks before anyone else, and above all things, dancing and singing and crashing into other fans. We finally squeezed our way to the front by the end of the show, and I got kicked in the face. Twice. It. Was. Awesome.

I mean, what's a live show if you don't get kicked in the face? Am I right, or am I right?