Get On With It

And on the last day we went to Victoria...blah...blah...blah

We've been home from our Alaskan vacation for more than a month now, and the memories of our adventures are melting faster than the glaciers. Since our return, we've been working hard at our respective offices; I've been ignoring my thesis while watching my self-imposed deadline tick away; we've been to a few parties, including the 1st birthday of an impossibly cute nephew; and we went to a very intimate Howard Jones concert.

I've been to more concerts than I can possibly remember, from ginormous events at Shea Stadium to summertime waterfront shows at Jones Beach to talent-packed line-ups at Radio City and other arenas. But I have never been one of fewer than 100 people at the concert of a well-known artist.

If you don't think you know who Howard Jones is, you probably avoided the radio in the 80s. I've always liked Howard Jones; apparently so much so that I effortlessly sang along with nearly every song. Sometimes even in tune.

Seeing Howard at a keyboard with a guitar accompanist from just 15 feet away was like having a private show in someone's living room, and like the director's commentary of a favorite film, Howard talked about the inspiration behind many songs and the memorable moments attached to each one.

It was one of those spontaneous midweek experiences that catch us by surprise when they take us beyond our expectations.