Tuesday, February 22, 2005
Little Girl Keep Growin Up
No tunes or pictures today (I'm still trying to figure out how to access my FTP remotely) bare with me if you feel like it. San Francisco is bee-YOU-tiful. The weather has been sunny and warm, the people are friendly and the food has been excellent. I went to see Paul Westerberg last night (once again thanks to Gary for the ticket and to my other new SF friends including Cheyenne, Paul, John and Leslie for the great time). Westy was very entertaining. He blew lyrics, threw racial epithets at his bandmates and spontaneously smashed a perfectly good guitar in a fit of pique. The headstock kicked up off the floor and caught him in the back of the head. He kept playing with a tiny rivulet of blood mixing with the sweat on his neck. In short, after five or six Jack n' Cokes, if you squinted hard enough, you might have believed it was 1987. Then a scary thought occurred to me. It's NOT 1987. All the people in this room are kinda old and kinda bald. (Paul's got to be nearly 45 himself.) In a panic, I looked around the room and thought: "Am I old enough for nostalgia acts? Has Paul Westerberg become the Jimmy FREAKIN Buffett of the thirty-something hipster set?" I sipped my Jack n' Coke and stared at my feet as Paul wiped the blood from the side of his throat and ripped into Left of the Dial. Nostalgia or not, that song hit me somewhere important. It still made me want to deny that tomorrow mattered. It still made me want to do reckless, exciting things; to behave like I was immortal. THAT, my friends, is why rock and roll matters. And if that makes me nostalgic, lock me up and send me to fucking Margarittaville.