June 7, 2004 Last night I went with my friend Kara to the Blink 182/No Doubt show over at the Tweeter Center. It seemed like a good idea, way back in March, when Kara (who is 24 and a former student of mine from University C) sent out an email asking if anybody wanted to go with her to the show. A chance to hang out with Kara, plus be in the same general vicinity as Mark Hoppus, all the while getting to see him and Tom and Travis perform live. Sign me up! I didn't much care one way or the other about No Doubt. I like some of their stuff, but I don't love them. Anyway, it seemed like a good idea when the show was still four months away, still a vague plan in my mind rather than an actual event happening here and now in the present. And actually, going turned out to be a very good idea in reality too, it just took a bit of getting used to. Well, a bit of getting used to and one gigantic strawberry daiquiri in a souvenir guitar glass. See, I love Blink 182. I have all of their CDs. I know all of their songs. I swoon over Mark (the bass player) whenever I see their videos on MTV. And I really like Kara. She's one of those students that you meet and you know instantly that your relationship is going to progress beyond the boundaries of student/teacher and into friendship and even colleagueship. And before anyone gets the wrong idea – Kara was a student in the graduate program I teach for, not the undergrads. Anyway, I really like Blink 182 and I really like hanging out with Kara, so it seemed like the most reasonable thing in the world for me to go to the show. Except that I forgot that I, apparently, am not a normal 33-year-old woman. And that most 33-year-old women don't go to see Blink 182 and No Doubt. Well, they might go to see No Doubt, considering that No Doubt has been around since 1987, but they certainly don't go to a triple bill pop punk show that No Doubt is playing with Blink 182 and The Living End. Unless they're chaperoning their 12 year old daughter and her friends. So, yeah, that was kind of disconcerting at first. Meeting Kara at the ferry that was taking us across the river to the venue and realizing that I was an average of at least 10-12 years older than 85% of that evenings concert goers. (Who am I kidding? I probably had fifteen years on most of 'em.) And then realizing that if I had gotten married right of high school, or even college, and had a kid in my early twenties, I probably would have been herding said kid and said kid's friends onto the ferry and making sure everyone had their tickets and knew where to meet up in case we got separated instead of hanging with Kara and mocking the freshman fraternity dorks next to us who were reminiscing over how much they puked last weekend. Man, I am not ready to grow up. I feel like I wasted my youth being all “adult and responsible” and just when I've found my footing in terms of having fun, I'm suddenly too old. But that's another, much larger, angstier issue for another, longer, angstier entry. At least I wasn't dressed like one of the mothers, in their straight leg Cherokee jeans and Old Navy t-shirts and comfortable white sneakers, all topped off with the black leather jackets they dug out of the back of the living room closet in a nod to the fact that they were going to a “rock concert.” And certainly not like one of the fathers, in their short sleeved golf shirts and Dockers. Nope, I pulled off a pretty cute skater-punk sort of look. A pretty big accomplishment considering that while I really like pop-punk music, I'm much more of a rockabilly/goth girl when it comes to fashion. Plus, the fact that I can't fit into 90% of my cute clothes anymore because of the 25 pounds that seems to have come standard with a desk job, a new car, and a thyroid issue. But I did manage to wear my denim Capri jeans, appropriately rolled, my black Chuck Taylors, and I even managed to layer a short-sleeved t-shirt (my red one with the yin/yang cats) over a long sleeved one. I put my hair up in little balls on my head and well, in the dark, you could hardly tell I was way older than the rest of the audience. But it did take a while for me to feel comfortable. I felt like an imposter, like I was filming a remake of 21 Jump Street, and any minute my cover was going to be blown. And there would be no Johnny Depp or Richard Grieco or even Dustin Nguyen and Peter DeLuise to have my back and bring down the teen drug ring that the Science Club is running out of the school chemistry lab. But then a few things happened: Kara and I bought those large daiquiris I mentioned earlier. (And you know, there's a definite trade-off being 33 instead of 16, and that's the ability to purchase large quantities of alcohol in plastic guitar glasses.) I realized that Kara is 24, not much older than most of the audience, and she doesn't think of me as “old” or her “older” friend. In this instance, she thought of me as her friend who likes Blink 182 and would be a good companion for a pop punk show. I took a good look at the chaperones and realized that most of them have a good 10 years on me. I'm still on this side of being too young to have a kid of concert-going age. (Although, it seems like 8 year olds are being brought to concerts these days. What the fuck is up with that? I was 13 before my parents let me go to a concert, and then it was Rick Springfield, not the Sex Pistols.) The Living End took the stage to open the show and they were really good and I was glad to be there to see them. Plus, I found out they're from Australian. Cute boys with guitars and Australian accents – aw yeah. I remembered that skater God, Tony Hawk, is 36. Gwen Stefani is 35, and the rest of No Doubt are between the ages of 34 and 36. And my beloved Mark Hoppus? Well, he's 32. Only a year younger than I am. Blink 182 came on and they rocked. A mosh pit formed right next to us and I got moshed several times by 21-year-old boys who did not react as though they had just moshed their mother. The just kept moshing and occasionally moshing me until I slugged one of them. Then they stopped, but they didn't call me an “old bitch” or anything. They just reacted as if I was one of them and I was supposed to be there. Blink played “Rock Show” and I realized that most of the kids had no idea what the fuck The Warp Tour was. So there. Another guy showed me his underwear that he had proudly emblazoned with “Blink 182,” written in black marker. He said, “Don't they rock?!” and I said, “Yeah! Woo hoo!” and he moshed away. No Doubt came on and they were really good, too. So good that I will have to buy their greatest hits. And most of their set list consisted of songs that were popular when I was 26. So there. By the end of the night, I had had a good time with a good friend and saw some really good bands. I didn't feel old. I felt exactly right. So now, I suppose I should close by saying something sappy like “Which just goes to show, you're only as old as you think you are.” But you know, that would just be such an “old” thing to say.

7 Deadly Sins and Other, Less Fatal Diversions Pride: My outfit was pretty cute. Envy: I freely admit it. I was envying most of the crowd's youth. Wrath: Those moshers tasted mine. Fists of Fury, baby! Sloth: We left before No Doubt finished their set. Either I am very old or very lazy. I prefer lazy. Avarice: I want Gwen Stefani's wardrobe. Well, that and her body. Gluttony: Strawberry Daiquiris in souvenir guitar glasses. Good for what ails ya. Lust: Mark Hoppus. God, he is beautiful. Book: Taken by Kathleen George. I gave up on Who's Who in Hell. Tune: Blink 182 What's My Age Again? That's about the time that she broke up with me. No one should take themselves so seriously. With many years ahead to fall in line. Why would you wish that on me? I never wanna act my age. What's my age again? Task at Hand: Playing my Jack the Ripper computer game. Quest for Publication: Total Submissions: 102 Rejections: 44 Acceptances: 1 Withdrawals: 7