Concert-ing My Age

My wife and I went to a concert this past weekend with a group of good friends. She and I have been to a handful of concerts over the last few years, and I must say, I’m not loving the crowds and the noise quite so much anymore. Or at all.

At a normal concert, you get a wide age range that shows up, but the concert this weekend was special. We went to see Tainted Love, which is a semi-local band that does nothing but cover ‘80s and ‘90s top forty songs. Specifically, the songs we grew up with.

So, we discovered on Friday night that there’s a very obvious and almost universal demographic that shows up to a Tainted Love show, consisting of people who graduated from high school somewhere in the late ‘80s to early’90s.

Meaning us. And also meaning, we were all old.

When we got there, it struck me that they had missed a huge opportunity not having the show sponsored by a proctologist.

“Thank you, Roseville! It’s great to be here, and remember, if you haven’t scheduled your first colonoscopy, it’s time! Go see Dr. Phillips at Sutter Proctology. Speaking of doctors, here’s Bad Medicine by Bon Jovi!”

Or if that’s not the vibe the band is going for, at the very least they could be sponsored by a chiropractor or a financial company selling annuities.

Besides missed ad revenue opportunities, I made a few more observations on Friday night:

As an over-50 concertgoer, I like my shows to start on time. I know it goes against the rock and roll lifestyle, but dammit, be punctual. I was annoyed early on when we showed up to closed venue doors and a mile-long line. The tickets said the doors would open at 7:00pm and the show would start at 8:00. It was 7:30. We learned in line from some other annoyed over-50’s that the website contradicted the tickets and had 7:30/8:30 listed.

At that moment I learned that I think 8:30pm is a tad late to be firing up a concert. I’m not going to lie – I like to be in bed by 9:30 these days. To the band’s credit, probably because a couple of the main guys looked to be around my age, they started right at 8:30.

I also learned that I like my rock and roll on the muffled side now. We bought the tickets back in November, so my wife and I gave each other really cool earplugs that another old friend (take that any way you want) told us about. I was even showing them off at dinner before the concert. When the band started (thirty minutes late!) I could hear the music just fine. I pulled one of them out of my ear during the show to see how well they were working, and I was appalled at how loud it was. That was new.

But probably the most humorous observation I made on Friday night was how lame the fights are at an over-50 rock show. You’ll be shocked to learn that alcohol still remains the major – and possibly sole – catalyst for concert shenanigans and general ballyhoo, but things are a little different at a Tainted Love show than an AC/DC concert.

We had a situation unfold in front of us where two guys were pushing and shoving and threatening to throw down, but the potential fight was quickly diffused by my wife and my dentist.

I am not making that up.

Rock on!

(You. You rock on. I’ll be at home.)

See you soon,

-Smidge

 

Copyright © 2024 Marc Schmatjen

 

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Margaritaville

As you may have heard, Jimmy Buffett passed away on Friday. He was a legendary singer-songwriter, undoubtedly most famous for the song, “Margaritaville.”

I knew he was a very successful individual, financially speaking, but I didn’t know until this week that his net worth was estimated to be a billion dollars. That’s a lot of dollars.

He parlayed the song, “Margaritaville,” into an absolute empire of a lifestyle brand, which now includes tortilla chips, cookbooks, RV parks, blenders, pool floats, casinos, slip-on shoes, pickleball paddles, drink mixes, retirement communities, patio furniture, hotels, salsa, various frozen shrimp meals, at least one cruise ship, and of course, the Margaritaville restaurant chain that spans the globe. I mean, my goodness, the word “Margaritaville” doesn’t even flag your spell check!

In case there is some scenario involving a time machine or interstellar space travel you’ve endured that has prevented you from ever hearing the song, “Margaritaville,” it’s a heartwarming tale about a man who has been spending some quality time away from home, drinking delicious frozen cocktails, playing his guitar, eating delicious shrimp, every once in a while discovering that he has gotten a new tattoo after a few too many of the frozen drinks, and slowly coming to the realization that he is the one to blame for his failed relationship.

It's a great song with a catchy tune and it’s fun to sing along to with your friends. I never thought too much about it past that until I heard a stand-up comedian describe it as the most depressing song ever written.

Now, obviously, you might argue that there are far more depressing songs out there. Anything from an opera where everyone dies would be a natural trump card to the relatively tame, “Margaritaville.” Or anything by the Doors. There’s a lot of material to counter the claim. That is, until you put it into context with Jimmy’s empire.

In the song, we are led to believe that our boozy hero is somewhere tropical, or south of the border. The refrain that we all love to sing along with is, “Wastin’ away again in Margaritaville, searchin’ for my lost shaker of salt…”

On the surface, it seems to be an almost enviable situation. Leaving all your worries behind on some tropical beach somewhere. When Jimmy Buffett wrote the song, Margaritaville was just an idea. An unknown destination. A far-off paradise.

But that’s not where Margaritaville really is today. Thanks to his incredible marketing efforts over the years, the destination is no longer unknown, and the stand-up comedian might just have a point. “Wastin’ away again in Margaritaville” takes on an entirely different tone when the lyrical scenario is playing out in the parking lot of a shopping mall in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee.

RIP, Mr. Buffett. Thanks for all the great songs.

And this sweet pickleball racket with the parrot on it.

Cheers,

-Smidge

 

Copyright © 2023 Marc Schmatjen

 

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Quitting

I haven’t had a drink since New Year’s Day. But I’ve had a lot of beer.

You see, I made myself a last-minute New Year’s resolution that I wouldn’t drink any alcohol until I finished my next book. This was a self-motivational deal with myself, made under the assumption that it would take about another month to finish up the book. Well, it’s been almost six months and I’m still not done. Whoops.

Alcohol for me means beer. It’s really the only alcoholic beverage I ever drink. I will have a Bloody Mary on special occasions, but mostly because I am asked to make them, since I happen to make the world’s best Bloody Mary. (Not meant to be boastful – simply the truth.) Other than that, it’s beer. I don’t really know if that’s because I don’t really care for wine and spirits, or because I just love beer. Probably a little of both. I have always liked beer - literally from the moment I took my first sip from my dad’s can of Coors when I was a boy. I remember thinking, “Man, that’s good! I can’t wait to grow up so I can have a whole one!”

Well, I grew up, and I have been enjoying beer after tasty beer from the time my incredibly good college fake ID said I was 21. Little did I know as a young lad that there were so many choices! Coors is good and all, but I might have exploded with joy if my dad had been a Guinness drinker.

Anyway, due to my love of beer, I figured a drinking moratorium would be a very motivational way to encourage some extra effort and finish up the book. What I said to myself was; no beer until I’m finished. What I naturally meant by that was no alcohol until I was done, which I foolishly thought would be the motivating factor, since beer and alcohol have always gone hand in hand. I did not count on the unexpected happening.

I didn’t miss it at all. I cruised right through the first month. I was shocked. My wife was shocked. My friends were shocked. People who didn’t even know me very well were shocked. If we had a dog, it would have been shocked.

Then, the totally unexpected happened. We had a party at our house, and one of the guests brought over two six-packs of Clausthaler, a German non-alcoholic beer. I looked at it and snickered, like any true beer-lover would do. It never even occurred to me to try one, until my wife said, “Well, you could have one of those, couldn’t you?”

I thought about it for a second, and decided that I could, since my “no drinking until I’m finished” rule really applied to alcohol, and not necessarily a brewed malt beverage that didn’t have any measurable alcohol content to speak of. So, on a whim, just to see how bad it was, I held my nose and took a swig.

Then, the truly, totally, wildly unexpected happened. I liked it. It tasted just like beer. After the first delicious German-brewed sip I realized all at once that I really missed beer. I really, really missed beer. I just didn’t miss the alcohol. Go figure!

I have probably drunk more beer in the last three months than I did in the entire previous year. I used to think of myself as a true beer lover. In my old world, non-alcoholic beer was something to be scoffed at. I am now enlightened. For a true, true beer lover, non-alcoholic beer is awesome. It opens up a whole world of new beer possibilities. Want a beer at lunch on a work day? No problem. Thirsty and want to crack one open while driving home from the store? Sure. Want beer on your Cheerios for breakfast? That’s gross. But you could totally do it! Plus, it’s about half the calories of regular beer, so your beer gut grows half as fast!

In fact, there are only two problems I can find with it. It costs as much or more than beer with alcohol in it. That seems wrong at first, but it’s probably because they have to take the alcohol out after they brew it, so it’s really more work to make it. Nothing we can do about that, I guess. Secondly, due to having no alcohol, there is no clearly defined stopping point. I found this problem at my good friend’s 40^th birthday party. His wife rented out a bar, and we were there for over five hours. As the party was winding down I was feeling unusually bloated. When I paid my tab I realized I had downed ten O’Doul’s over the course of the evening. Maybe paying cash as I go would be a good solution to that one.

Last month, in the midst of all my non-alcoholic beer enlightenment, I, too, turned 40 years old. I had always planned on “cleaning things up a little,” health-wise, when I hit 40, and one of the items on the checklist was soda. I drink waaaay too much Coke. Over the course of many years, I have apparently stopped getting my nutrients and energy from food sources the way God intended, and have instead become the human equivalent of a fat, slow hummingbird. I exist almost entirely on sugar-water. I’m no physician, but I know that can’t be good.

Life is funny sometimes. I quit drinking alcohol almost by accident, and that went really well. I am currently trying to quit drinking caffeinated soda, and it couldn’t be more difficult. I feel like I’m detoxing from morphine. My temples are pounding, my vision is blurry, my palms are sweaty, and I’m walking around with my head in a cloud where I constantly feel like I’m forgetting something. I’m thinking about starting to use heroin just so I’ll have something easier to quit.

I know I need to be done once and for all with my daily soda intake, but this is ridiculous. I don’t think the motivational “take something away” plan will work this time. I already quit drinking, so I really don’t have anything left to take away, anyway. I refuse to give up my non-alcoholic beer, so I’m kind of stuck.

Maybe, instead, I’ll do some kind of motivational rewards program. I could always substitute in real beers for the Cokes as an incentive. That might have some merit... It will either work on its own, or I’ll end up drunk in the middle of the day, get fired from my job and have no money to buy any beverages.

Either way, I’ll get off the Coke.

See you soon,

-Smidge

Copyright © 2012 Marc Schmatjen

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