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“I don’t fell like paying three hundred dollars to have Bono explain to me why I’m an asshole”. The Beat Poet, politely declining an opportunity to attend a U2 gig.

It has been an interesting day.

It’s a world of toil and turmoil, a devil’s playground structured with an emphasis on the immediate and the tangible, cultivated to dismiss what is incorporeal and spiritually sustainable.

I sent an e-mail to my sister in Ireland last night listing conclusively the reasons why I was angry at Bono and would not be attending U2’s gigs in Toronto. I groaned at the horrible choice of venue. I mentioned the exorbitant ticket prices at a time when North America is facing severe economic challenges. I asked why he couldn’t have organized a fifty-bucks-a-ticket low key tour, y’know, absent the “Spaceship”, and take the time to offer encouragement and kind words to some battered souls (if this tour is about greed, then it is Bono’s greed, not that of his traditional targets, a George W Bush or a capitalist conglomerate).

I was pissed. I decided to spend the nights of the show ranting, instead, at anyone who walked through the door at The Rail.

My sister responded this morning and, well, she was pissed too. It was a wicked missive, straight to the point. You’ve been out of Ireland too long, she snapped, and you’ve forgotten the influence this man has had on Western culture and on yourself. Miss the show and you’ll regret it forever. Gulp.

Through the years, right back to Boy, U2 has been not only my favourite band, but also an almost organic part of my life. I regard Bono as a poet, his lyrics the lynchpin of the Dublin crew. I have, at various points, because of his influence, dragged my family to his house in Killiney, studied African History at the U of T, trawled through the streets of Dublin, and on and on. I own all the bands DVD’s and CD’s. I have, through a series of laughably implausible circumstances, never seen them live. I have never been in Toronto, or Dublin, when they were performing.

But at some point I became fatigued with the “we’re just four lads from Dublin” routine. No, Bono, you’re not, at least not anymore. You’re the scion of a multi-million (billion?) dollar entity, fixated on generating even greater amounts of capital. Irishmen are aware that artists in Ireland, until recently, did not pay tax.

The e-mail this morning brought back other memories, though. Being in Ireland after the release of All You Can’t Leave Behind, How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb and No Line On The Horizon, and tooling around the beautiful country blasting the songs, singing with my nieces and nephews, never happier, never more at one, through his lyrics, with the sacred and the divine.

My mind reflected on the Biblical parable where the vineyard workers who showed up late were paid the same as the workers who were present all day. They complained and pointed fingers at the monies allotted to the others (lads, surely you know the story?). Don’t look at what others are paid, or what their burdens are, worry about yourself and your commitments, Jesus taught. When the workers rebelled Jesus fumed, “I will take these grapes and shove them right down your f#@?!!#% throat…” Okay, maybe not. But the message is clear; take care of your own business, your own life. Live the best life you can and don’t pass judgement on others because, really, only God has the wherewithal for that kind of shizzle. Bono has raised over seven billion dollars for aid to Africa. He has, as well, raised awareness of the grinding poverty and disease in Sub Saharan Africa to unprecedented heights.

He has also tripped the light fantastic in the minds and souls of people all around the world. He has lectured and infuriated, yes, but also taught and inspired.

 Damn it, I had a quarrel with Bono, but it was the kind friends have. It’s deep and painful, yes, but also reparable.

 I’m not just seeing U2 tonight; I’ll also be attending on Thursday.  

I going to turn my groove tuner to eleven and really get my freak on. I’ll drink too much, knock a few people over, ruin my Ireland Rugby shirt and end the night in a vomit soaked nightmare of confusion and disarray. It’s going to a good, a really good couple of nights.

 I’ll leave the judgement to God, and saving the world to Bono…