(b)old and spicy

Spicy by association. Lori and Zach provided a nice, hot smoke screen. I slipped in undetected. Thanks for the bone anyway, Mags. And I hope you do great with NAVY. May it be everything and more that Buster experienced with ARMY. Just run in the opposite direction if they ask you to do some work with the SEALS.

On Tuesday evening Lori and I headed down to St. Louis to catch the Fleet Foxes at The Pageant. It was a great show. We were right next to the stage and even got there early enough to score a couple of seats with the other old people. However, it was right next to the general admission area (where people were standing) which meant that it attracted stragglers. People who got to the concert late, but still wanted to be close. As in, directly in front of us and obstructing the early birds' view of the stage. We allowed this during the opening set (a really great performance by country rocker Alela Diane), but I was having none of it once the Fleet Foxes came on.

First it was two women. I tapped one on the shoulder politely. "You're going to need to move down to the floor, or off to the right. But you are not going to stand right there." Pause. As with the others, they waited for me to flinch, trying to detect if I was a) an employee b) full of crap, or c) just crazy enough to make a scene. The answer was b. Every time. But they all guessed a or c. Every time. Next came the affable and clueless stoner. Authoritative tap. "Down, or back there...or you can kneel down." He gazed and grinned. Then knelt down. I felt so bad (read: good) about his decision, Lori and I offered him a bar stool next to us for the remainder of the show. Then there was the guy and his gal. "Dude, that's not happening. Down to the floor, or move on. Or watch from your knees." He looked at me, sized me up. I didn't blink. From Montezuma on he watched the show from a squatting position.

My best "old lame guy at the concert" moment came when I pointed out the dude and his hitter. To be fair, the guy had on a Primus t-shirt and was head-banging to White Winter Hymnal. He was disturbing everyone. And he was in the front row. Had he been of the laid back pot smoker variety, I would've let it slide (inconvenience outweighs principles). I got the attention of the security guard by pointing to the guy and making the internationally recognized 'smoking grass' hand gesture. He then called in the big mean looking security guard. Primus was never seen again. His name WAS mud.

Like a dog: marking my territory early and then defending it in earnest. I was determined to have a good musical experience and to ensure the unobstructed view of my fellow 'too old to be here' concert goers. I barked and did my best alpha dog...when really I am just a pansy in a pair of Chacos.

Like any good dog, I enjoy impressing my master. Which, more often than not is our children. So on Saturday when the kids encouraged me to join them on the slip and slide at my in-laws, I only said, "No, no," once before my shirt was off and I was lubing the slide with dish detergent for decreased friction and increased awesome. The first few slides were pretty impressive. It didn't hurt too bad and I got going fast enough to fly off the end and into the grass, popping up on my feet before the mud puddle.

Brennan then created a complicated game which involved rules and points: the game consisted of running, sliding on your feet, then leaping over the puddle at the end to see who could end up the farthest from the slide (Zoe: "And after you land, you yell, 'hotbox!'" She's still milking it.). Brennan went first. He athletically stayed on his feet the whole time, then landed a nice leap at the end for maximum points (which he awarded himself). At this point the neighbors had come by to observe the summer fun and Lori's father was watching from the kitchen window. Not to be outdone by my son I tore across the grass for my soapy takeoff. When I hit the slide my toe got caught underneath, whereupon my other foot slid too far in front of me, flipping me to the side where I crashed down on my face, slid five feet, then ended up a mangled, soapy mess at the end of the plastic carpet to hell with my right ear almost touching my left shoulder, left arm sticking straight up, and legs bent in all the wrong directions. I'm pretty sure the plastic sliver I pulled out of my butt yesterday was a toe nail. Ava had her hands on her mouth in horror, Brennan and Zoe began laughing hysterically, the neighbors quickly and awkwardly headed for home, and Lori's dad - not exactly the kind of guy who would fling himself down a slip and slide - asked Lori with concern (read: disgust), "Is he ok?" The consequence: two small scratches on my face, a bruised shoulder, abrasion on my back, and a neck in need of a Rainbow rub (which I'm still trying to get from the Italian).

And my pride? I think it's doing fine. The little bit that remained after the fall was left at the concert. Kneeling in front of me. Not to get out of my way, but rather in hiding. Ashamed to have ever been associated with the (b)old guy.