Here's how you can tell I'm getting old

I didn't make it to the Deerlick Christmas show last night for the first time in YEARS. There was a choice, stay home cuddled up with DH and the kids after cleaning out the office and getting a tree and putting lights on it and putting the ornaments on it and making dinner and ... man, I'm getting old.

But not too old to have a terrific party on an otherwise crappy night. Lots of text messages from friends too worried about the weather, which as south siders know, turned out to be nothing but cold wintry rain. Didn't get a flake of snow until well after bar time, well after everybody was home safe and sound, well after plenty of birthday drinks took their toll on my ability to keep my eyes open. (I didn't drive, thank god.)

The Danglers opened the night up on this rainy night with Astronomy Domine, and they were wonderful as usual. Jason brought a guitar which he never ended up playing, but it was there just in case. Plenty of my friends who'd never seen them before were congratulating me on my choice (as well as my ability) to get these guys. Up next was the totally other side of the continum , Floor Model, straight up snotty punk with more than a touch of literacy. Normally you'd put the punk band first, but this worked out well. First of all, they're the only band in town who has the balls the follow the Danglers (NOBODY every wants to follow the Danglers, which means they always have to go on last... and at our age that gets tiresome. Remember when you WANTED to go last? When you WANTED to headline? Another sign I'm getting old. Last few shows I played it was, "You can go on last? Oh no, I'm fine going on first..."). Anyway, it worked out well, because I was good and birthday wasted by the time Floor Model swept into their Ramones and Black Flag covers, and I wasn't the only too-old-to-be-doing-this punk on the floor swaying along with them.

The day before it was high art with the kids; I was a chaperone for my kids' school to see the final dress rehearsal of the Nutcracker. I ended up sitting nowhere near my kids, so I sat with some others and we discussed Tchaikovsky's career other than the Nutcracker ("He was whatcha call a tortured artists, chillen," "What does that mean?" "He never though anybody liked his stuff"), which songs they'll recognize, which songs they're expecting, ("Oh, no, that was Mozart.." "I thought that was Beethoven" "I get him confused with Bach"). Actually, it was uplifting to sit with 2nd graders who even know who Mozart, Beethoven, Bach and Tchaikvosky were much less kids who were actually embarassed that they get them confused sometimes. Makes me feel better, as I enter this second century of my life, about that vapid Katy Perry crap I heard on the radio coming home.


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