Want to know a surefire way to feel old? Go to an outdoor concert sponsored by a local radio station whose demographic wasn’t born before 1984.
That’s what I did Saturday night. Surrounded by scads of scantily clad young girls wearing outfits inspired by the era I grew up in and meat head boys without shirts, many drunk or high, stumbling up the grassy hill glassily looking for their buddies, there I am sitting on a blanket, yawning, and it’s not even 10pm.
The minor annoyances like how the line to the port-a-potty was so long and the people ahead of me were so sloppy drunk & stupid I just decide to hold it. For 3 more hours. Or how one band’s lead singer over-used the word “fuck” to the point of sounding completely ignorant. And I like the word fuck, so that’s saying something. And don’t get me started on the cigarette smokers who attempted to surreptitiously smoke on the no smoking lawn section.
The line up included Nada Surf and Pennywise but we were there to see Flogging Molly. For those of you unfamiliar with them, they are a 7-piece Irish American Celtic punk band. They are all kinds of awesome. It’s difficult not to bop around when you hear their music.
But even if I love the music, I have come to the conclusion that I would not make a very good punk. I’m not an anarchist. I’m not even a rebel. I’m a good girl who usually follows the rules. And, thus, I feel incredibly tame and boring. Next thing you know I’ll be saying to Finn, “Back in my day, we had these things called cassette tapes.” and in a couple of years I’ll be yelling, “Hey kids! Get off my lawn!” . . .But first I have to get a lawn.
If you’ll excuse me, it’s time for my Metamucil and then the Price is Right is on.