Kooter with a K

I love a good movie as much as the next guy. I even enjoy seeing a movie on opening day, but only after a good night’s sleep.

I think many people would agree that spending the night on a sidewalk waiting for tickets to a great concert is one of life’s simplest and greatest pleasures. Sleeping in a line in front of a box office with three thousand other people makes you feel like a rebel, like you alone appreciate the musical genius of whatever Pop star’s album just went platinum and won a Grammy. Relaxing in a camp chair alongside your fan-club friends, you’re a nonconformist surrounded by other nonconformists who, like you, are all dressed in last year’s tour t-shirt.

Camping on a sidewalk to see Dave Matthews, U2, or the Rolling Stones is a respectable adventure. The urban camper recognizes that at a concert he will experience his favorite song as it was meant to be heard. Live. Loud. Driven not by a producer, but by the passion of a moment. And that moment cannot be duplicated. That song will never again be played exactly as it was for that crowd in that arena. That immortal song is worth the discomfort of sleeping in a bag on the cold, hard ground.

It is this sidewalk-filling mentality that has, for years, made the Grateful Dead grateful.

I’m not a sports fan, but even I can admit that making a pilgrimage to see your favorite team play on their home field or court must also be an exhilarating experience. Movies document a boy’s first gaze upon Wrigley Field or the home of the Fighting Irish as a holy time, a spiritual moment that makes old men cry and bonds fathers and sons for a lifetime.