Or accordian consonant earPlugs playing his head onsh

It's official: I am old. Mr Elinoire and I went to see The Pogues last week. I foolishly thought "at least the crowd will mostly be people my age for once," but I was only sort of right. There were many of my fellow Gen Xers there, but also many people who had not been born when I got addicted to Irish Punk.

Sigh.

That being said, the concert was EXCELLENT and much bouncy fun was had by all, or at least by Mr Elinoire and myself since I did not bother to survey any other concertgoers on their experience. Also? Things have changed since I started going to concerts in the '80s. A few random observations:

• Phones are the new lighters. I saw two lonely little flames when the band left the stage but there were at least 30 glowing cell phones.


• Speaking of phones, there is a reason they don't care if you bring in your phone with camera: the totally unsaleable quality pictures like this:



• The opening band, Ollin, said they were honored to have been asked to perform because they were "a bunch of Mexicans who like to cover Pogues' songs."


• The lime green faux snakeskin freebie "wristlet" I received with my purchase of Clinique products was the perfect size for my ID, cash, phone, and a lipstick.

During the concert, I kept thinking "I should write myself a note so I'll remember to write about somethingorother in my blog!" Unfortunately, bouncing around while trying not to spill your beer as you sing along to songs you learned in college is not the most conducive way to take notes. So I started texting myself little messages to remind myself later of all my Briliant Thoughts.

Remember how I said I was bouncing? And drinking beer? When I looked at my messages the next day, I had to spend some time decoding. Read the title of today's post again if you don't believe me. I wrote that. And sent it to myself.

Here is the probable translation for the message above:

"Something that I now forget was either one thing Or another; I usually don't like accordian music but for the Pogues I will gladly make an exception; Shane MacGowan's impressive substance abuse over the years hasn't killed him like I assumed it would* but it's turned him into an old man and somehow stolen all his consonants; Ohmygod am I glad Mr Elinoire went out to the car and found those earPlugs** for us; when MacGowan started banging what looked like a hubcap against his ear during the last song, Mr Elinoire said "he's playing his head! and he was right; onsh? What the hell is ONSH?! Oh! I think I was trying to write "mosh" and the cell phone had no idea that was a word. (I used to think that the best place to be in the audience was right on the outside edge of the mosh pit because there was a big (mostly) open space in front of you and very little view obstruction, but now I am too old to dodge moshers and come in contact with sweaty people I don't know so I will enjoy the concert from over here instead thank you very much.)"

So there you go.

* I never thought I'd get to see this band because I assumed the lead singer would die of an overdose or drunkenly walk in front of a bus before I ever got the chance. Let's hear it for aging rockers who reunite and tour so they can cash in on their older-and-therefore-more-affluent fan base!

** No, I don't know why I capitalized the P, and yes, the earplugs are further proof than I am old.