Katy Perry And The Endless Journey To The Hollywood Bowl


Dear Blue,

It’s now 3 months until your arrival. While you’re still safely packed away, your mother and I are taking the time to do things we won’t be able to do once you’re here. The baby bucket list, remember?

One of those things on the bucket list is seeing live music. Once you’re here, Blue, going to see concerts will be a rare occurrence for a few years.

Because your mother’s been feeling worn down lately and needed a pick me up, I decided to surprise her with tickets to a Katy Perry concert. Your mother loves Katy Perry. LOVES her. If she were ever to kiss a girl, it’d be Katy Perry. And she’d like it. I don’t particularly like Katy Perry, but I like your mother. So I bit the bullet. I bought the tickets online. All I had to do was print them out, pack your mother in the car and drive off to the Hollywood Bowl. Easiest thing in the world, right?

Absolutely of course not in the slightest no way.

It started with the printing of tickets. I went to print them in the afternoon and the printer wasn’t working. The printer and I go way back, Blue. It started with the wedding invitations. After I cursed it out for not connecting wirelessly to my computer, it ate three pages of invitation stationery in protest. Then, instead of using the fresh cartridge of black ink I gave it, it decided to use invisible ink. In return, I supplied it with a generous amount of curse words and the animosity continued.

Into last night. I went to print the tickets, and wouldn’t you know it? The printer decided it couldn’t print my tickets. When I pressed print, nothing happened. The printer no longer thought the ink cartridge was empty. Instead, it had decided that the ink cartridge did not exist. At that moment, I decided to accompany the printer to the top of a skyscraper and tell it that gravity did not exist. But that had to wait until a later day. Katy Perry was waiting.

I had to come up with a solution. I loaded up the tickets on my phone and dashed off to the UPS store down the road.

“Can you print these tickets on my phone?” I ask.

“Sure,” said the salesman. “Just send them to this email.”

“Okay. Great.”

Five minutes later…

“Yeah, the email still hasn’t arrived, sir. I don’t know what to say. There’s a library down the road…”

I drop my shoulders, frustrated beyond belief at my bad luck. I don’t want to lose it in the store, but to quote another Katy Perry song, You’re gonna hear me ROAR!


Which I did, in the car, and for the remaining ten blocks of gridlock traffic to the library.

“Excuse me,” I ask the librarian. “Can I print a document here?”

“Sure. Do you have a library card?”

“No. I need to sign up.”

“Does your driver’s license have your current address on it?’


“Then you’ll need a letter with your current address printed on it or a tax document or a thumbtack dipped in the blood of your first born.”

“I don’t have any of those.”

“Then I guess you’ll have to get a guest pass. That’ll be $2.00, please.”

2 dollars and ten minutes later, I finally had the tickets in hand. I went back to pick up your mother and then dashed off to Hollywood.

This was 6:30 in the evening, and Hollywood was 20 miles away. I expected to get there just as Katy was finishing the last refrain of the last song of her set at approximately 11pm. Hollywood traffic is horrible 24 hours a day. On the night of a concert at the Hollywood Bowl, every street becomes a parking lot.

Somehow, we got to the parking garage on Hollywood and Highland. The garage is so full we have to park on the bottom level. The air down there is about 10 degrees higher than on the surface because we descended into the mantle of the Earth. Back at the surface, we get in line to catch a shuttle bus. 15 minutes later, we finally get on the bus. Our journey is over. We are on the last little stretch to the Hollywood Bowl. All we have to do is step off the bus, get our tickets scanned and head to our seats.

It took us close to an hour to travel six blocks. SIX blocks. In an hour, we could have driven to Disneyland. Or flown to Las Vegas. Or sailed to Catalina. Instead, we drove six blocks.

But we were finally there! We had arrived. We made it to Shangri-La! Now, we needed to get to our seats. Something you need to know about the Hollywood Bowl, Blue. Something I didn’t know beforehand. It’s on the side of a mountain, and while this makes for an awe-inspiring vista for watching a concert, you have to climb said mountain in order to watch said concert.

But we persevered, Blue. Up an escalator, then another and another. And another. Your mother was exhausted. Carrying you is hard work, Blue. If I had known taking her to a concert would be harder than getting Frodo to the top of Mount Doom, I might not have bought the tickets.

But here we were. And at the top of the mountain, your mother sat down on the stairs and said, “Mike, I don’t think I can do it. I can’t…I’m sorry. Katy, I’m sorry.”

Your mother is the most adorable person on the planet, Blue. Even when she’s breaking my heart.

We prepared to descend and head back home. I never thought I’d say this, Blue, but I was disappointed I wasn’t going to see Katy Perry. All I wanted to do was make your mother happy, and even though I knew she was happy just knowing that I did this for her, I wanted the full experience. I wanted to feel like the absolute MAN.

Most of the time though, Blue, being the man means you listen your woman. And when she says she needs to go home, you go home.

Five minutes passed. Your mother, having a second wind, asked, “Can you go see how much farther it is to our seats?”

I get up, walk up the stairs, turn the corner and stare in wonder at the wonders before me. It was right there. I stared down into the Bowl as Tegan and Sara finish their set. I rush back to your mother and tell her the good news. Together, we climbed the final staircase and found our seats.

Later that evening, Katy Perry told your mother she was a firework, and your mother squealed with delight.

On the way back down the mountain, we passed a gaggle of young twenty somethings slapping radio station stickers and club promotions in people’s hands. A club promoter with spiky hair and skinny jeans approached me and said, “Looking for a good time, man?”  Then he glanced at your mother, who was absentmindedly rubbing her pregnant belly, and flipped away the card as we passed.

Lol. Too bad the good time was already found.


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