It was great going to the Magic Stick and its new rooftop bar. It was refreshing to be in a sea of diverse humanity. Dready hippies with loud pants and smelly pits that reminded me of a Rainbow Gathering in 1996. Young girls with black frilly dresses paired with brown harness boots. A guy with a blonde mullet and black tennis shoes, white ankle socks and a t-shirt that says "Fuck your opinion." I really didn't know so many trashy people were fans of rap. Guess something blows your mind every day.
Jason and I are having a good time staring at everyone and wondering about their stories. Then we notice there are people not wearing wristbands, signalling that they're not even 21. Not like I thought they were anyways. They looked like they were 13. I told Jason he was probably old enough to be the father of some of these youngsters. He says, "Isn't that so weird? We're out in this crowd and I'm old enough to be their parent but I can still rock as hard as them."
To which I counter, "Uhh, babe, I don't think any of these kids took ibuprofen before the show."
Yep, that's my hubby. While these underage kids were popping qualudes and getting smashed on illegally aquired booze, Jason was downing a few pain meds to make it through standing on his feet all night long. When I say all night long, yikes, it was such a long night. We weren't home and in bed until 2:30 in the morning. When did we become so old that going to bed at that hour felt literally painful. Poor Quixote didn't get his walk the next morning. Then I was so thrown off by one night of bad sleep that I had to try and recoup the lost hours for a second night in a row. Poor Quixote missed two morning walks. I'll try and make it up to him tonight.
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