At the Creed concert, which is also the Tonic concert, a woman rubs a bald man’s head. A man dressed like Ernest P. Worrell finds his seat. We see many gray ponytails. Do you remember American Pie, Tonic asks. Of course we remember American Pie. They play “You Wanted More.” I tell Molly there are at least three good Tonic songs. Soon, Scott Stapp arrives sweating. Pre-soaked, Christ-posed, a man bursting. I’d spent all day in the emergency room, waiting to see if my son needed his appendix out. Two ultrasounds. A seven-year-old appendix is tiny and hard to find. They find it, normal, but still I sob when Mark Tremonti gives a child a large guitar. The child holds it while Scott whispers to him about his Spiderman shirt. The child is hoisted back down into his father’s arms. My arms are wide open. I’d asked several people to come to the Creed concert but all of them said no except for my sister. I’m not sure if they thought I was kidding, or being ironic, or if they just think Creed sucks. I don’t care anymore. I am leaning fiercely into earnestness. Into sincerity. I am not religious but here I could be convinced.

At the Live concert, which is also the Our Lady Peace and Collective Soul concert, we eat fake hot dogs. Our Lady Peace explains why they are once again playing Chris Benoit’s entrance song. Next, they bring out a Sandy Hook father who guests on guitar. Who shreds. I should not be eating cheese fries during this. When Molly returns from getting a drink, I see a man behind us vomit. Because the ground is slanted, it trickles to our feet. We run to the opposite end of the amphitheater where a man with a gray ponytail calms us, tells us to sit anywhere, just be sneaky about it. The Collective Soul singer is dressed in a white embroidered suit with a white cowboy hat. They play “Shine” twice. Let’s go back to 1997, he says. Gladly, yes, please. I have been to enough of these now to know it’s a cheap pop, but I scream accordingly. Why else am I here? Occasionally Molly yells into my ear I know this one from the radio. Finally, Ed Kowalczyk comes out. I have been watching a video of him in his wifebeater and black slacks, deeply feeling “All Over You” at Woodstock ’99. I have also been watching the “I Alone” music video, sometimes with Beavis & Butthead commentary, sometimes without. I have been watching these a lot. “Lakini’s Juice” is like edging; I can’t tell you how it feels in my chest when the chorus hits. I tell Molly there are at least three Live songs that reference juice. What is the juice? Ed says it’s Friday night eternally, starting now, and it is a Sunday, but it has been feeling like a Sunday a lot of the time lately, so I scream accordingly.