Okay, so because of the wonderful high school that my daughter, Rachel, attends –the Duke Ellington School of the Arts—she gets this once-in-a-lifetime experience (which evidently is the norm at Duke Ellington) to grace the same stage, feet away from Sting!!!! Well, it’s not the norm for me, so I’ve been ecstatic for a minute.
But, I was not too ecstatic to fail to let a certain notion drop into my head. Immediately, I began badgering my daughter about slipping one of my bookmarks into Sting’s hand, in his shoe, on his person. Stuff it in his shirt pocket—why don’t you–pleazzzzze!
I mean, look, Mick Jagger’s doing a movie on James Brown, whose music I loved so much, my kids once said, “Hey Mom, why don’t you put a James Brown tattoo on your butt or somethin’.” Disgusted, I deleted that notion. Right now, I’m kinda sorry for sharing.
But why can’t Sting, and Paul Simon, who was a part of last Wednesday night’s concert at the Strathmore, take a liking to one of my literary offerings? I reasoned and propositioned with the last of my litter-loins, who failed to even feign interest in what I proposed. “It’s about me, Mom, remember?” If she says that to me—one more time…*#@()&^#!!!!!!
I mean, doesn’t she know how old I am, that my stomach’s literary clock is wound tight with tension? Doesn’t she realize that I let her, and her siblings, satisfy my baby clock, years ago. And even though, I’m now rethinking the sacrifice of motherhood (because shouldn’t I have picked a best-seller-hood clock, instead?), can’t she repay me by risking expulsion, and sticking a measly bookmark (or book discussion invite) in Sting’s pocket? Can’t she do that little thing for me????
I mean if Sting became aware, my writing would do the rest. It’s not like Fifty Shades of Grey, blessed by the marketing and promotions, and horny gods, with an author who admits that she can’t write [cited in a Los Angeles Times story, dated April, 2012]. (Okay, I sauced the sentiment, but she said it, first. I didn’t.)
I just know that if Sting knew it, he’d wanna read and produce on stage/film God in Wingtip Shoes, or Jubi Stone: Saved by the Vine (dedicated to domestic violence awareness), or better yet, The Prison Plumb Line—because—It is Easier to go to Jail than You Think! He could play the Prison Chaplain!!! Shoot, he just needs to know that that’s what he really wants to do. I can back up my writing!!!!
The Seventh Annual Performance Series of Legends, a benefit concert for the Duke Ellington School of the Arts; well, it was magical! The packed crowd partied—up on its feet long before he sang Every Breathe You Take! Sting gyrated on two occasions, and the gleeful crowd lost it both times. When he left the stage for the last time, a woman leaned over to my husband and asked, “Is this intermission?” Nobody wanted it to end.
My daughter: I lost it when I spotted Rachel on stage. I forgot all about Sting (momentarily) and crouched over stranger-knees and toes to a restricted area, desperate to snag a picture.
The trouble with me is; I never know when I’m going to do something embarrassing. In the midst of motherhood glee, I suddenly realized that I was in view of EVERYBODY in the concert, except Sting and Paul Simon because they were busy performing. My knees buckled. Thank God, I got outta there before two ushers mysteriously materialized to haul my behind out of the area.
Sting shared a heartfelt story about how in his twenties, he and his bandmates came to America, rented a station wagon, crowed it with themselves and their equipment, and drove here-and-there performing at half-filled dives. The relatable story stilled my heart. Then my eyeball welled up when I thought of how I’m well-beyond my twenties. (If only I could catch some more gyrating to make me feel better.)
Alas, at home, Rachel got so giddy; she could not get to sleep. I became giddy because I’m her mother and she’s my Baby-girl. And I don’t have to hope in the Will Call line or hock my soul for a ticket to hug her, tell her I’m proud, and kiss her cheek.
Oh, and for the record, I still felt giddy, even when after she had gone to bed, and I walked by her open purse (in slow motion), and accidentally spied my bookmark bent and twisted, adorning a pile of her pocketbook crap. Motherhood. Passion. — Ain’t NO Shame in Either Game!
Check out the story that landed in the newspaper: