We are Concert Champions

To get into the luxury boxes in Madison Square Garden, you gotta know a guy. Or Diana. She gives you these big fancy red tickets and you plan all week how you'll approach the ensuite buffet. 

Tom, Stacie and I arrived early. We wanted to take full advantage of the amenities. This was an astute move since Tom required six trips through the metal detector to successfully empty all his pockets.

We stepped out of the damp and noisy crowd and into a serenely quiet private elevator reserved for suite guests. A tall man looking awfully suburban was already in there. He chatted up the elevator guy. He said to us in a jocular tone, "So nice to get out of the plebeian masses." We didn't do a fist bump or anything, but there were "same here" looks all around. 

Then the suburban man told the elevator guy he was going to the 9th floor. We said we were on the 7th, closer to the stage. The man gave us a mock salute. We totally won that round.

Upon arrival, we attacked the buffet. They had these tiny grilled cheese sandwiches and dip that looked like tomato soup. They had dumplings and sushi, a lovely arrangement of sandwiches and shrimp on toast. All this action went very well with adult beverages. 

We lounged on bar stools at a bar table facing out over the stage. So Tom could continue to surgically clean out every single mango slice from the fruit plate. And when the steward handed out chocolate pretzel covered ice cream pops, we devoured them very suavely. 

Billy Joel came out. Andy's friend the guitar player came out. We cheered wildly.