It was a predominantly bearded, Caucasian, over 40, flannel-wearing, graying, long-haired crowd at the concert tonight.
I’m swyping on my phone, stuck in a post-concert traffic jam feeling the cool night air while wafts of blueberry smells from my friend’s vape pen fill my nose.
Over the stereo is Lizzy Ellison, the backup singer for The Decemberists tonight and boy, could she wail.
Two men in their sixties in lawn chairs next to us brought their own stemmed wine glasses. Alcohol Enforcement – a barely legal kid – was forced to confiscate the paraphernalia.
“The Federalales got us.” One joked to the other, his Santa Claus red face with weirdly black hair dye job on full display.
The conversation in the car is moving now, just like the car. The debate is whether a trip to the moon will happen in our lifetime.
Whether it does or not, I plan to keep my feet firmly planted on gravity’s ground.
Well, I need to hang out with my best gal pal for the 31 minutes I have left next to her.