Mike and I had the distinct pleasure of going to a concert over the weekend. You may be thinking that “distinct pleasure” is phrasing our degree of concert-going-pleasure just a bit too strongly. In fact, you might be thinking that the phrase “distinct pleasure” should be reserved for occasions where people either a) meet the president or b) introduce Clint Eastwood at the Republican National Convention.
Yes I am a mind-reader and yes I watched both party conventions.
Now, first of all, how do you know we didn’t run into the president at this concert? There were a lot of people there and it seems to me that Barry and Michelle are very hip with the times. They even fist bump. We didn’t run into them at the concert.
Second, although introducing Clint Eastwood would be a great honor on any day, the distinction of the moment may have been a bit tarnished when followed by an 11-minute speech spoken to a chair. I think this incident really frees up the phrase “distinct pleasure.”
So let’s get on with it and please stop hassling me for my word choice. This is my blog and I’ll do as I please.
Mike and I had the distinct pleasure of going to a concert. Just to put this concert-going-pleasure into context, allow me to remind you that Mike and I lived in Yuma for the past three years. In that time, the most exciting concerts to come Yuma were an Elvis impersonator and an ABBA tribute band. The local music scene was just epic.
So on Saturday we attended a concert on the streets of downtown San Diego. The headliner bands were Walk the Moon, Tristan Prettyman, and The Wallflowers.
Walk the Moon was incredible and they made me want to:
- Put neon paint on my face.
- Stack a synthesizer on my keyboard
Next up was Tristan Prettyman, a singer/songwriter that provided most of my study anthems during my junior year of college. Unfortunately, we caught her fresh off her nasty break-up with Jason Mraz, so her break-up songs about men as liars and cheaters really put a damper on our concert-going-pleasure. I think she was aiming for Adele’s “21” angst, but minus Adele, musical angst is sometimes just pure depressing.
We had to take a little break after Tristan Prettyman’s set because we were just so sad. We were so sad that we had to sit down on the ground.
We look happy, but it is only because someone said cheese before taking the picture and we had to smile by force of habit.
But just when we were getting tired sitting on the ground, The Wallflowers arrived. The magical thing about The Wallflowers is not the nature of their monotone music or even the fact that Jakob Dylan seemed more bored than the ticket punchers at the door when he performed. The magical thing about The Wallflowers is the thriving cougar community that comes out to support them. In case you don’t know what a cougar is, Urban Dictionary does a thorough, albeit crude, job of defining the term.
While The Wallflowers played, we observed the crowd. We witnessed a lot of leopard print in the cougar community. I was impressed with the leopard-print mini dress matched with the leopard-print fedora. I couldn’t decide if this could be considered “matching.” I didn’t even know they made leopard-print fedoras.
We also learned that cougars love to dance. They rushed the stage at the first song and started displaying their best shimmy and sway.
That’s when it got serious. A seated, red-faced, older fellow became very angry at all of the dancing happening in front of him. He and his very nice-looking wife paid a lot of money for their exclusive seats in the front section. This couple’s concert-going-pleasure hit an all-time low when all of the leopard print burst into a dancing fury in front of them.
The red-faced fellow started shouting “Sit down!” followed by some words that I don’t like to type around Bailey (she has sensitive sensibilities). Without hesitation, a dancing cougar flipped her hair and started yelling back a lot of bad words. Things got angry near the front row, but luckily this didn’t break Jakob Dylan’s ironclad indifference.
And then it was over. In an instant, The Wallflowers switched to some of their new music that sounded exactly like their old music except no one knew the words. Apparently, in order for cougars to dance they also need to know all of the words to the song. Or at least the chorus. So the cougars stopped dancing and some of them even sat down. The red-faced fellow stopped yelling and got another beer.
So in the end, Jakob Dylan broke up the fight using music instead of words. Isn’t that inspirational?
Then we left the concert. We had seen all that we needed to see to fulfill our concert-going-pleasure. Also, we were getting kind of bored with the new songs that sounded like old songs that we didn’t know anyway. But most importantly, it was ourdistinct pleasure to witness the things that will always be associated with inspiration: neon face paint, music from the 90‘s, and cougar fights.