I Got Soul But I'm Not A Soldier.
Friday night, Kam and I and a few friends went to The Killers concert at a small venue here in Houston. As we got in line to enter the theatre, I was repeatedly shocked by some of the individuals we were surrounded by. I mean seriously, when did it become socially acceptable for guys to wear eye makeup, and can one of them please show me how to apply liquid eyeliner without smudging it all over my eyelids because I've had 10 years of practice and still can't get it right? And let me also say that I hope that Avril Lavigne gets attacked by a gang of rabid Hoary Marmots for starting that stupid wife beater/neck tie fad the girls are sporting these days. Oh, and one more thing, can someone please tell me when black mesh, side ponytails and denim cutoffs made their official comeback, because I never got that memo. I honestly kept looking around for the Vans photography crew because I could have sworn I got caught in the middle of their commercial shoot.
You might be saying to yourself, "Well, Deja, that's what you get for going to the live stage performance of a band made popular by Fox's hit prime time teen drama series, The O.C.", to which I might reply, "I liked The Killers long before they sold out to network television. Besides I only watch that show to make fun of the deplorable acting and outlandish plotlines, not because I secretly wish I were a wayward teen living with a kind and wealthy couple in the Newport Beach community, struggling through everyday, run of the mill teenage moral and legal dilemmas with the help of my highly attractive and exceptionally thin friends." In truth, I had no idea that we would quite possibly be the oldest people in attendance of said concert, not counting the parents of the many 11- and 12-year-old wanna-be rockers. My first indication that we might be considered the elders of the crowd was once they opened the doors to the droves of screaming O.C. fans. We immediately headed to the tiny bar in the corner of the theatre, only to find that there was NO LINE. Do you hear that, America? THERE WAS NO LINE TO BUY BEER AND YARD-LONG FROZEN DAIQUIRIS. Smells like teen spirit.
After procuring an overpriced margarita in a pathetic attempt to impress some of the young juveniles with my frozen alcoholic beverage chugging skills and with the far-fetched hope that they might ask me where I got that awesome fake I.D., we began looking for the best vantage spot from which to view the show, since it was a general admission event. Our choices were: a) in the pit, two feet from the stage and likely within sweat-splattering range, or b) in the back of the theatre, on the risers behind the sound booth. Do you know what words actually came from my mouth while we were debating this decision? "I don't really want to get trampled in the mosh pit." That's right folks, consider my AARP application signed, sealed and delivered because I don't want to get trampled in the MOSH PIT AT THE KILLERS CONCERT. And Kam? He was concerned about the area which would provide us with the safest access to an exit in the event of a fire. What did I tell you? Fucking geezers.
Once we were settled into our seats and finished gawking at the blue mohawked sound technician who possessed the ginormous juevos to have his iPod within clear eyeshot, downloading the entire show to peddle on ebay for way more than the price of admission, I started looking around in desperation for anyone who might be older than me and/or not wearing an undershirt with the words "Mrs. Brightside" stenciled in pink glitter. I found none, unless you count the creepy middle aged man-couple in front of us with their matching khaki shorts, black dress socks and tennis shoes. I'm not exactly sure WHAT that was about, but if I wanted to see a couple of 50-year-old fashion oblivious honkies get wasted and try to "dance" to popular indie-rock songs while attempting to mouth the words that THEY DON'T ACTUALLY KNOW, I'd watch home videos of my parents from last Christmas. Or the past twenty Christmases, if I'm being honest. Christmas with my family is like the party of the century- BYOBestofMeatloafCD.
To further confirm my suspicion that we were the Golden Girls of the concert attendees, when we approached the bar for our second round, THE BARTENDER DIDN'T EVEN CARD US. It was at this time that I began demanding my senior citizen's discount whilst shaking my fist at all of the raucous young whippersnappers.
When did this happen? When did I become too old to rock? Thinking back, I should have seen it coming. A few summers ago we attended a Weezer concert, where we engaged in a conversation with a young lady who asked us, "What's your favorite Weezer song? Yeah, I totally jam that song on the way to school every morning with the windows rolled down, I don't even care if I'm late to homeroom." Shortly after this, we encountered a young fellow whom had sought out refuge in our area in order to smoke his fat J without inciting the suspicion of security personnel. I can only imagine that his logic must have been along the lines of, "I'll stand here, by these old people. Surely the cops won't suspect THEM of anything." I recall lecturing said boy about the perils of drug abuse and am ashamed to admit that I used the slogan "stay in school" more than once.
I suppose those memories were rendered obsolete by our next concert experience, a music festival hosted by the local classic rock station. At this event, we were the youngest attendees- by a long shot. I'd be willing to wager that I was the only individual within a 1 mile radius donning a functional bra and my own teeth. Also, leather + soft bodies + Houston summer heat does not equal fun for all, and I have a sneaking suspicion that the above equation might be responsible for all of the puddles of vomit I saw in the grass. Oh, and for the record, I was not there to see Blue Oyster Cult or Peter Frampton, I swear. My allegiance is pledged only to Styx and Kansas.
At any rate, after I spent some time mourning my youth and my ability to blend in with a crowd of young concert-goers, I was able to get drunk enough to forget that people were probably making fun of me and proceeded to have a good time. The Killers were killer (especially on my sensitive ear drums... OH GOD DID I JUST SAY THAT?!) and the show was simply spectacular. Afterwards, we were walking back to the parking garage when Kam began harassing a pair of young girls with matching homemade t-shirts which read, "Smile Like You Mean It"- so original that I'm sure the band's lawyers will subpoena them for a violation of copyright law in short order. Following an exchange of witty banter between their entourage and ours, one of us mentioned the fact that they shouldn't be interacting with the likes of old folks such as ourselves. One of the girls turned around and quipped, "Yall aren't that old," which belies the unspoken implication of well yeah, you're old, but...
In fact, I am SO OLD that when I flashed my tits in an attempt to get backstage and have sex with a member of the band and/or road crew, I was scoffed at and turned down by the bouncer. He just shook his head and said, "Hey lady, your liver spots are showing. Please put your girdle back on." When I threw my panties onstage, the band used the tip of a drumstick to throw them back, informing the entire audience that they had no use for my wetness protection liner. Psha, what was I thinking? A rock band who wears matching tuxedos on stage is not the kind of rock band I want to have gratuitous sex with, anyway. They did me a favor. Only rockers with dragon tattoos and raging heroin addictions get to tap this old ass.
(The Killers do rock, though. I just bought their album last week. Love it.)
Getting old does suck. At least you still look young and I am sure you don't act any older than ten, so it's alright. You a still a cool youngster in my book!
Rock on, Spoonie.
This post cracked me up, thanks!
I can remember when I first felt old. It was when I decided not to go to a Grandmaster Flash concert as I thought about how potentially embarrassing it would be to have a cap shot in my ass while waiting in line. Then I realised how stupid and old I sounded saying "cap in my ass" and I promptly fell down and broke my hip.
I knew I was getting old when I realized that eleven-teen year olds were now driving leagally on my streets, and that the same said eleven-teen year olds were serving me my 16 oz triple sugar-free vanilla soy latte and bran muffin every morning.
I've stopped trying to be young on the outside, but inside I'm still in my 20's, even when I'm lying snuggly in my bed every night by 10pm...on a Saturday night.
i don't know when i got old either. i'm with greenthumb- i'm still young on the inside, no matter how those damn kids look at me ;)
Old is when you read a post and do not recognize ONE of the band names. Then you read the comments ... and do not recognize ONE of the damn band names there, either.
Seriously. I'm fucking reading this and it's all "Yeah, I know how you feel. I was at a Gloodge Synblop concert last week and I was totally the only one there in my 20's."
Jaysus. All I can say is "People, we've had some reports that there's some bad Kaopectate going around the crowd. So we're just telling you right now ... stay away from the brown Kaopectate."
And if you don't get that reference, my damn point is made.
Spoonie, for the record, Sheryl Crow is much more our speed. Old hippie ladies like me bring their KIDS.
Especially if it's Gerard Way from My Chemical Romance. I'd make out with him all day long AND let him apply my make-up for me!
I also don't think of myself as old, but realize after reading this post that this might be a sign that I am not only old but also clueless. Not realizing you are "old" is likely even more embarassing. lol