Most Monday nights we are in front of the tube, mesmerized by the “Antiques Road Show.”
“Look at the piece of junk!’’ my husband exclaims.
“Don’t just sit there. Get down to the basement and start looking!’’ I reply.
One recent Monday night was different.
Oh sure, there were some “antiques’’ involved. They were the thousands of middle-aged people like us, dancing and rockin’ out in a big public arena.
It was quite the sight: A huge mob of people over the age of 50, forgetting their 401-k's for a while, courtesy of Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band.
At the concert, there were people of all ages singing along to the new tunes on the “Wrecking Ball’’ album – as well to a host of Springsteen oldies.
But there was no denying that in every row and every corner of the joint, balding and gray-headed inner rock stars were coming back to life.
“Tramps like us, baby, we were born to run!’’ they shouted with glee.
This was to the chagrin of some teenagers, a few of whom appeared to be present against their will.
“MAKE HIM STOP!’’ one boy’s eyes pleaded as his dad danced around. The more rowdy the father got, the lower the boy slunk in his seat.
I’m sure the kid would have left if he could. He looked like he wasn’t old enough to drive at night while his father looked like night driving could be a problem in the near future.
We also saw at least one over-excited fan being led out by paramedics. He was hanging on the EMT and singing, “Ohhhh Thunder Road!’’ at the same time.
I wondered if it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to require a ticket and a doctor’s note before letting people in our age group into a rock concert.
On the way home we also wondered about the following:
- A. Whether Bruce has a hairpiece or hair plugs.
- B. How many of his “groupies’’ are on Social Security.
- C. How in the world we’d survive work the next day.
- D. Who was supposed to bring the ibuprofen.
Mainly, we questioned whether Bruce should have jumped off a stage and bodysurfed through the crowd.
“Isn’t he, like, way over 60?’’ I said to my husband, who whipped out his smart phone and within seconds, proclaimed that the Boss was still a spry 63.
This led to a heated discussion over whether the so-called body surfing was spontaneous or whether there was a team of trained spotters mixed in with the audience.
I said it was faked. He said I had no faith in Bruce, who has always been his hero.
Our argument was interrupted only by the 12:30 a.m. Thruway restroom stop – a place that was hopping with dozens of other post-Springsteen show Flomax users.
Back in the car, I said, “Ok, what were we arguing about?’’
“I forget,’’ he said.
We were back to our old selves. But at least we know one thing for sure.
No matter what a thrill it is when a gazillion dollar price tag is put on a broken down antique chair, it’s never gonna top a night with the Boss.
Kathleen Norton's New E-Book is: "If 50 is the New 30, Then 30 Ain't What it Used to be!" Reach her at firstname.lastname@example.org.
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