October sixth, nineteen eighty-seven. Old Cleveland Municipal Stadium. Sold out. Fifty thousand souls and me, all gathered under the cathedral of concrete to go looking for God through Bono's sunglasses. Joshua Tree tour. Big sky music. Dust, spirit, America. But first… Los Lobos Now let me tell you something about opening acts— opening acts are where fate does its warm-up set. So Los Lobos walks out, and behind me sit two girls already halfway to their own spiritual journey. Tipsy. No— beyond tipsy. These girls were swaying in 3/4 time at a concert written in 4/4. The first chord hits… And I hear it. Splashing. Now in a stadium there are many things you do not want to hear splashing behind you. Beer? Fine. Rain? Acceptable. A rogue nacho cheese event? Tragic but survivable. But this sound… this was wetter. Darker. More committed. I did what any survival-minded concertgoer would do. I did not investigate. No no no. I spotted an empty seat just a few seats over in the same row— close enough to feel casual, far enough to save my life. And I moved. Quickly. Smoothly. Like a jazz bassist changing keys. The second my backside touched that blessed empty chair— WHOOOOSH. The girls behind unleashed biblical judgment. Not on me. On the poor innocent people in the row in front of them. Including… my former seat. Friends, I did not merely dodge a bullet. I dodged a biohazard. I dodged destiny. I dodged what could only be described as The Cleveland Municipal Stadium Technicolor Yawn. But wait. Because the true miracle was not survival. It was what happened next. Sitting beside the two human geysers were two couples on a double date. Now I’m expecting panic. Disgust. At least a strategic retreat. No. These people calmly wave over the vendor. “Yeah… four hot dogs. And beers.” I turn around, stunned. I say, “How can you order hot dogs and beer with that going on next to you?” And one of them— without blinking— says: “Oh, that’s nothing. We all work in a morgue together.” And suddenly it all made sense. To them, this wasn’t gross. This was just… Tuesday. Los Lobos played on. U2 took the stage. The streets had no name. But somewhere in Cleveland that night, between spiritual transcendence and projectile catastrophe, I learned this: Perspective is everything. Especially when your hot dog comes with a side of desensitization.
