5 More Days to 360, a Letter to Bono

Dear Bono,

Only five more days, my Irish lovely. Five more days until we meet again, with our 65,000 best friends, at Soldier Field.

Can you believe it has been 22 years since our first concert together? So much has changed.

Not you, of course. You’re still the same man I fell for all those years ago. It’s just that now your resume includes saving Africa and being BFF’s with Oprah.

But other things have changed.

For this concert, I ordered my tickets from my PC via the Internet. I did not own either of those things in 1987.

(But I did in 1997, yet you still made me stand in line at the ticket outlet for your Midwestern City Stadium show. Not very progressive in hindsight, now, was it?)

I then “texted” my girlfriends to tell them about it and “Googled” a place to stay. Those “verbs” didn’t exist back in the day of shoulder pads and Cosby sweaters.

Neither did my “husband” or “kids,” who, I might add, have promised not to stand in the way of our "love."

But, my leather-clad, wrap-around-sunglasses-wearing, poetic little leprechaun, the most striking change from 1987 to 2009 was the price of the ticket.

This time around, I am paying $135. Granted, I will be on the lower level. Yes, you have big video screens so I can see every bead of sweat roll down your beautiful face while you scan the crowd looking for me. (I’m in Section 153. I don’t know what I’m wearing yet.) And the visual effects and sound system are sure to be spectacular. And I know the cost of airfare from Dublin to the United States has got to be astronomical these days, considering how much excess luggage I imagine you and your three amigos must lug along with you.

Everything costs more now, I get that.

It’s just that... a mere 22 years ago... at Midwestern City’s Large Arena...

I watched you from a suite. It included food and drinks and a private bathroom. I stood, the entire time during your sold-out show, hanging over the glass partition that kept out the riffraff, drool streaming down my chin and onto the lady in front of me, just 50 feet from the stage.

You were wearing leather pants and had the set list taped to the floor of the stage right next to your microphone stand.

I’m pretty sure you looked up at me and made a little heart sign with your hands during “Bad,”

I know I did it to you.

But my point is not our unrequited love. My point is that we shared that magical night for just $17.50.

Seventeen dollars. Fifty cents. Including the service charge.

INCLUDING THE SERVICE CHARGE!

Needless to say, for the extra $117.50 you are getting out of me to fly to Chicago this time and share you with 64,999 other people who, I guarantee, cannot possibly have adored you as long and as deeply as I have (got that, Oprah?), I have some high expectations.

Namely, though, that you wear leather pants, make Section 153 your favorite section, and give me some sort of secret sign that our love is still alive. Like, run your right hand through your hair during the encore.

And meet me for a drink afterwards.

My treat.

So have a great trip to Chicago, I am looking forward to seeing you MAYBE almost as much as you are looking forward to seeing me.

All my love,

Jules