I’m the old lady!
the one you see with a beer
and scary tank top
My brother-in-law (aka the Token Conservative) and I are going to be the oldest people at the Tool concert on November 14th.
The last time I saw tool, it was in 1993 at Lollapallooza. I think it was 93. It was actually the first time I had a conversation with my current husband (who was then a mysterious senior who knew my boyfriend, and who had a car). We argued about whether or not tool sucked. (Just FYI, my husband’s taste in music is what I like to call indie-lesbian. I blame art school.)
That was back in the day when the success of a concert was measured not just by how long your ears rang afterwards, but by how many bruises you came away with. I once got kicked square in the jaw by some steel-toed Docs just as the Butthole Surfers set the stage on fire. Mostly, though, being a tiny girl, I often found myself lifted off my feet and passed around like a prone, flailing joint. A prone, flailing, molested joint.
The Token Conservative and I have seats well away from the pit this time, so hopefully we will avoid errant boots (and molestation). It’s possible we could decide to kick each other’s ass, though, in which case: BRING IT, TC. BRING IT.
I’m so excited! I haven’t been to a noisy concert in about a million years. I plan to drink a beer and sing along and be positively lame. The big question is… what does an old lady wear to a noisy concert these days? Probably not a nursing top. Ah, well, I’m sure I have an ill-fitting, inappropriate shirt I can dig up. Yay!