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Pigs, I am honkin' old. Honkin', honkin', honkin' old. I stand in front of the mirror in the bathroom every morning and rub my papery skin, stroke my thin, gray hair, and flex my sagging muscles, thinking holy crap, how did this happen to me? And it's only just begun. I'm young, relatively speaking. Oh, sure; ten thousand years ago I would be dead already, the Old Man of the Tribe who almost made it to thirty. But these days, with the miracle creams and viagra and plastic surgeries and Cyborg replacement bodies to have your brain implanted into, I'm pretty young. And yet, I've also turned the corner and found nothing but a slippery slide downward, going on for decades. Decades of physical decline, mental decline, decline, decline, decline, as I slide away into the darkness, trying not to spill my drink. Nowhere is this process of cell death on a massive scale clearer to me than when I go to see a band at a club. Elsewhere in my life, I can fool myself. After all, I'm not Bob Hope, not everyone in the freaking Universe is younger than me: A large portion of the world is, in fact, older than me, and that's always comforting, because as long as there are older people, I have a shot. Once you get to be George Burns, and you realize there are maybe--maybe--two people older than you in the world, well, you're fucked, because you're breaking records every day you open your eyes. Elsewhere in my daily grind I can still manage the cocky walk and mysterious, disturbing grins of my youth. But not at the Rock Show. Back in The Day, going to a show was a chaotic, blurry fun time. You put on your crappiest clothes, got a little drunk, traveled into New York City, and caught a show. Scammed a little more liquor if you're underage, moshed a bit, got a little beat up and sweaty, retreated to the bar for a song or two to catch your breath, and went home filthy and exhausted—a great time. Usually got home at 3AM, already hungover, your ears ringing and more than once with a limp from where some Sucicidal smashed into you on the floor. Of course, this was back in the good old days, when a typical bill that attracted me was Suicidal Tendencies, Exodus, and Manitoba's Wild Kingdom at the Old Ritz. Naturally, as I got older, the bands mellowed a bit. The last five shows I've been to have been a little softer, a little more MOR, but that's okay—I wouldn't fit in at a NOFX concert these days, with my potbelly and disinclination to get beat up in the pit. That part doesn't bother me too much, it's natural and fuck if I don't go to shows because I like the band, not because of some bizarre "cool" quotient. What does bother me, and what inspires this column, is how old all the people around me at shows make me feel. Dimly, I can remember what it was like to be a kid. I remember it the same way I remember most things: I don't, at least not very well, so I make up whatever I can't quite recall, and after a while the real memories and the made up ones merge together into one damned exciting past. So you shouldn't necessarily believe anything I might say about what it was like to go to rock shows when I was younger. One thing I can say with a fair amount of confidence is that I am no longer a kid, and the gulf between me and a lot of the other people at the shows I've been to recently is a pretty large one. In other words, I am honkin' old. Let's examine how old I am: 1. I don't want to stand at shows any more. I used to not only stand all night, but jump around throwing myself into people. Now I'm reluctant to even attend a show at a venue that doesn't have seats, for fear that I'll suffer a debilitating cramp and have to force my way out of the venue, screeching "Out of my way, you damn hipies!" 2. I am much more interested in the bar situation than the band situation. I've always been interested in the bar situation, of course, but I used to go to shows to see and band and have a few beers. Now I go to have a few beers and perhaps there's a band in the room. Or the next room. 3. Hell, let's be honest: I don't even know shows are happening, half the time. Used to be the Grapevine would keep me alerted to all cool shows happening, and somehow cash would be scraped up for the requisite tickets, and elaborate plans would be made with whole teams of people in order to get said tickets, involving syncronized watches and lots of phones. Today I usually don't hear about a show until about three weeks after it has occured. 4. What really makes me old is, I'm usually okay with #3. The end result is, I don't get out much any more, and when I do, I just feel old because everyone else at the show is doing all the things I used to do, and doing them with gusto and good cheer. And never forget: I blame you for this. Why you? Well, I have to blame somebody, and it ain't gonna be me, no matter how many gallons of beer I've imbibed, or how many pounds of chips. As I toddle off into my uncool pre-middle-age era, feeling cranky and piling up minor physical ailments, I am at least comforted by the fact that someday you will be punished for what you've done to me. Until next time, I remain Jeff |
September 2, 2003