My Italian friend got us tickets to see Pink last week.

I’m only telling you my friend is Italian because this is important later in the story.

The other day I ran into another friend (country of origin not important to the story) who flashed me her screen saver on her phone. It was a picture of Pink that looked as clear and close up as an album cover.

Me: “I was at her concert on Monday!” I kind of had an “In Yo Face!” quality in my voice I’m not proud of.

She said, “I was there Monday too. Where were your seats?”

How could she be so casual? I clearly don’t get out enough.

Me: Well, we were actually in the nose bleeds. We had the worst seats in the house.

Friend snickering.

If you imagine the highest point in the building, requiring a ski-lift to get us all the way up, we were straddling that tippy-top bar, almost behind the stage with some cables hanging in the way. It may not have been Pink at all because we really couldn’t see anything. I was singing, “I’m coming out so you better get this party started” and then I would cleverly insert “Get this party started on a Monday night!” but maybe it was the children’s ensemble of Pinkalicious. Also, I think I’m a few albums behind.

Where did you sit?

Friend: We were in the front row. I high-fived Pink during one of her runs past.

Me: How did you get up so close?

Friend: Oh, we have an Italian friend who hooked us up.

I have an Italian! Where was my hook-up?

Wait, it might just be on her Mother’s side.

Here’s a peek from our seats.