Marathon

 The past few weeks have found my wife and I in a variety of venues, watching a variety of artists sharing their thoughts and sounds and wisdom. It began with a trip to the Palace of Fine Arts. Now, some might quibble about the "fine art" of standup comedy, but we were there to listen to the mildly thought-provoking ramblings of Demetri Martin. It was his run-up to what he announced would be his new Netflix special, and we were there as part of his dress rehearsal. This meant we were not getting the "greatest hits" that some less-inspired comics might run through. We waded through his freshest bits. Some of them landed, some of them were merely chuckles and were noted as he checked the list he kept in a notebook next to his water bottle. 

This was just a few days before our appointment with Mister Springsteen. A very different experience, not merely in size but in reverence. There wasn't much new to see and hear in that basketball barn. That wasn't the point. This was what a friend referred to as "a revival meeting." We sang along to songs we knew by heart, and laughter came with tears. Among eighteen thousand of our closest friends. Had it not been for a peptic ulcers, this show would have stood alone at the end of December, but rescheduling landed it somewhere just shy of Good Friday.

Another week passed and now it was time for us to head on our to the local Jazz Spot, Yoshi's to see a concert put on by the cult favorite Squirrel Nut Zippers. We danced and swayed to the faux Dixieland stylings of this band of talented musicians as we sipped our overpriced cocktails and nibbled on sushi in a room that was by far the most intimate of the three we had entered over the past few weeks. I was taken back to a time when I played in a band myself. Not the rock group that I may have once aspired to, but to the Pep Band in high school. Playing trombone and blasting my way through brass renditions of music meant to promote school spirit. 

And then, it was over. This flurry of adult nights out came to an end. It made me remember when I always had a ticket waiting for me after the last show I had seen. Something for which I could look forward. It was a lifestyle that fit well in a world of a twenty-something who was only paying twenty-something per ticket. This was different. These were events that were expensive enough that they really couldn't disappoint. They had to entertain as well as inspire. No pressure guys. 

In the end, I am happy to say that re-inserting myself into that lifestyle was a truly fun and relaxing ride, but it was a reminder that all that stimuli was a challenge to my tired old nervous system. But it was three weeks of a reminder of the times I remember oh-so-well.