What is it with me, that the only concerts I go to the band is old enough to have ropey, veiny hands.
It pays off, though, in that they've had decades to practice their hits and the words tumble out of their mouths, almost unbidden, and, in the case tonight, hands fly across the piano in a blur.
The sound was full and perfect. The songs were classics, the ones everybody turns up when they play on the radio.
But mom brain kicked in a couple of times, reminding me that this excursion isn't the norm. First, when we went out for dinner and the server asked what kind of perfume I was wearing. My brain scrambled madly for this name that always eludes me. "Demon," I reply, as my date nods seriously and the server hides her surprise. "I mean Alien," I find the right word in the messy storehouse that my normally orderly brain has become. Thinking sideways, I knew that the perfume is the darker sister of Angel, by Thierry Mugler, and I also know I don't like the word; presto-chango and Alien is Demon.
Next up is the word that scrolls across the massive screen behind the band. "Does that say 'lunch," I ask, squinting as the bright lights are hurting my eyes and my companion worries that she will have a seizure. We strain and turn in our seats. Halfway through "The Bitch is Back" we realize that it says "bitch." How does an addled brain turn that into lunch?
And the clincher, the one that puts me into the old and out with the new. We leave before the show is over so that we don't get stuck in traffic.