Back to our regularly scheduled programming.
I've been following U2 on Letterman - they're there all week. I've heard a couple of songs off the new record, and at this time of writing I'm withholding judgment. (Not withstanding David Fricke's 5/5 star review in the most recent Rolling Stone).
That being said, I was thinking about U2, and what they've meant to me over the years.
In Fall of 2002, Dad had just started to scuffle around the lip of the crevasse which, would start his inevitable slide. I had moved him in with me by then and for days, had been doing pretty well. Uncle Stan wanted us to drive out from Maple Ridge to his place for Dinner, and as Dad had been OK, we both agreed to make the trip. We got out there just fine, fine enough in fact, for him and me to have an afternoon beer on a sunny patio in White Rock before traveling the other couple of blocks to Stan's place.
None of us were big football fans; Uncle Stan likes his baseball, Dad liked to read the sports pages, and well, when I was a kid, my Mom wouldn't let me play hockey like my older brother - I was her precious flower who had to take piano lessons instead. (Of course I got picked on immensely growing up in frozen, hockey-mad Edmonton). But it was the Superbowl, so we watched part of the game, Dad & Stan caught up with each other, and I busied myself in his kitchen. (Usually when Stan invites me out - it means that he's bought the groceries, and I have to cook, then clean everything - I don't mind at all). Halfway through the meal though, his pain came back with a vengeance. Dad turned pale, borrowed a sweater from Stanley, and I put him to bed in Stan's spare room. The rest of the evening was spent with the football game on in the corner with the sound off, Stan sitting in his chair either gazing off into space, or just not wanting to talk about it, me cleaning his kitchen, and wondering how severe Dad's pain was, and how the hell could I get him the hour drive home? Should I put him in the White Rock Hospital instead? Should I knock him over the head with one of Stan's ancient mining tools enough so I could get him home and back in his own bed where he was comfortable and safe?
Regardless, I just remembered this tonight and thought to send it along. The amazing second part of the 2002 Superbowl halftime show. Some brassy Irish guys in America, 12 months after the tragedy, at the absolute height of their powers, singing about hope when I had none. (Fun Fact: At the beginning, Bono is mumbling something when the band is kicking into the song, in fact, he is saying "Lord open my lips ... so my mouth show forth thy praise").
Just because of that - I really hope I like the new album.
I've been following U2 on Letterman - they're there all week. I've heard a couple of songs off the new record, and at this time of writing I'm withholding judgment. (Not withstanding David Fricke's 5/5 star review in the most recent Rolling Stone).
That being said, I was thinking about U2, and what they've meant to me over the years.
In Fall of 2002, Dad had just started to scuffle around the lip of the crevasse which, would start his inevitable slide. I had moved him in with me by then and for days, had been doing pretty well. Uncle Stan wanted us to drive out from Maple Ridge to his place for Dinner, and as Dad had been OK, we both agreed to make the trip. We got out there just fine, fine enough in fact, for him and me to have an afternoon beer on a sunny patio in White Rock before traveling the other couple of blocks to Stan's place.
None of us were big football fans; Uncle Stan likes his baseball, Dad liked to read the sports pages, and well, when I was a kid, my Mom wouldn't let me play hockey like my older brother - I was her precious flower who had to take piano lessons instead. (Of course I got picked on immensely growing up in frozen, hockey-mad Edmonton). But it was the Superbowl, so we watched part of the game, Dad & Stan caught up with each other, and I busied myself in his kitchen. (Usually when Stan invites me out - it means that he's bought the groceries, and I have to cook, then clean everything - I don't mind at all). Halfway through the meal though, his pain came back with a vengeance. Dad turned pale, borrowed a sweater from Stanley, and I put him to bed in Stan's spare room. The rest of the evening was spent with the football game on in the corner with the sound off, Stan sitting in his chair either gazing off into space, or just not wanting to talk about it, me cleaning his kitchen, and wondering how severe Dad's pain was, and how the hell could I get him the hour drive home? Should I put him in the White Rock Hospital instead? Should I knock him over the head with one of Stan's ancient mining tools enough so I could get him home and back in his own bed where he was comfortable and safe?
Regardless, I just remembered this tonight and thought to send it along. The amazing second part of the 2002 Superbowl halftime show. Some brassy Irish guys in America, 12 months after the tragedy, at the absolute height of their powers, singing about hope when I had none. (Fun Fact: At the beginning, Bono is mumbling something when the band is kicking into the song, in fact, he is saying "Lord open my lips ... so my mouth show forth thy praise").
Just because of that - I really hope I like the new album.
0 comments:
Post a Comment