Last week, Martin offered me his extra Arctic Monkeys concert ticket. I said sure, even though it was two-and-a-half hours away in D.C., and on a weeknight. But hey, the show was supposed to be great, and it was sold out. We left after work and ate dinner at a Chipotle in the city. I drove.
The club was a little sketchy. It looked like a rock club from the movies, one I might turn down any of 57 scary hallways and find a dude with a needle stuck up his arm. But I guess that's just how rock clubs are.
The place was kinda empty for it being such a sold-out show. We frowned at that a little, then turned our attention to the opening band. It was strange, because the band wasn't who we thought it was supposed to be either.
Martin suggested we check out the merchandise booth. No Arctic Monkeys gear.
I pulled the ticket out of my pocket. Monday, March 27.
Then I laughed hysterically because it was Tuesday.
I'm not sure what was funnier - the fact that we missed what was probably the best concert of the year by a mere 24 hours, or the fact that they actually let us in at the door.