Sunday, February 7

Who Dat? The Who? Who's Still Awake?

Let it be known that at 9:18 p.m., I am the last remaining person in this household standing. New Orleans keeps scoring, and everyone around here keeps snoring. The two little ones went down with a fight about 15 minutes ago. The big one went down without a peep, although he squawked when I tried to wake him to rejoin me watching the game. For the record, so far the Betty White commercial is winning hands down.

We had a fairly impromptu Super Bowl party, which ended early as little people had to get to bed. I whipped up some jambalaya in honor of the Saints, made some homemade turtles, which I should say, taste as good if not better than any I've had in New Orleans, and got the annual football cake from Wilson Farms.

Ah, 78-yard touchdown. And Adam's asleep. Sucks to be Adam.

But forget Adam and football. Let's talk about the Who. What was that? Oh my, who let those old men who can't sing on stage? Does Pete Townsend really think he still looks rocking with those windmills? And what was on Roger Daltry's head?

Me: Keith Moon was their drummer who died right?
Adam: No. Keith Moon played for the Rolling Stones.
Me: Are you sure? I'm pretty sure Keith Moon was with the Who.
Adam: No. Definitely not. Definitely the Stones.
Me: Hey, Dan, who was the drummer for the Who who died?
Dan: Keith Moon.

In 1981, I begged my parents to let me see the Rolling Stones on their Tattoo You tour. My parents refused. The were playing at Folsom Field during my Colorado years and I wanted to go so badly but, no, my parents said absolutely not.

It wasn't long after this that I did get to go to a concert. My friend Karin and I really wanted to see the Go-Go's at Red Rocks, which my father told me I could go to only if I found an adult to take me. "What's an adult?" I asked him. "Someone over twenty-one," he told me. That summer I worked as a Water Safety Assistant at the Boulder Rec. I was friendly with one of the lifeguards. I was 14. She was 23. My father had to let me go. The lifeguard introduced me to Seven and Sevens, which the guys in the row behind us had smuggled in.

In October of 1982, the Who were playing at Folsom Field--it was their Farewell Tour. (Everyone please note the last lines of this article: "One has to applaud their decision to call it quits now. But that doesn't mean they won't be missed." Um, yeah. I missed them tonight.) Jethro Tull and John Cougar (and I mean John Cougar--this was a few years before he became Mellencamp) opened. For the life of me, I can't remember two things: one, with whom I went to the concert and two, why the hell my parents let me go to this concert. What were they thinking? I'm positive there were no adults with us--I remember sitting in the row in front of the delinquent of my ninth grade class. I loved the concert--whatever happened to my Who concert T-shirt? I'm almost positive it was a baseball shirt, because baseball shirts were so cool and they went perfectly with my braided hair barrettes.

Oh, look who came back just in time to see the game being over? Yea, Saints (Me, to Doodles today, "Who are you going to root for? The Saints or the Colts?" Doodles: "What's a Saint?" Me: "Uh... someone who's dead who in some religions is considered is really important. Everyone will be rooting for the Saints tonight." Doodles: "Okay, then I'll root for the Colts"). It's been a long time since I've been to New Orleans--that last two trips I was pregnant with a Brown Brown, although I didn't know it on the first one (I was better behaved on the second one)--but I'm happy they won. If it can't be my Dolphins, the Saints are a good second best.

And once again, I'm the last one awake (that man can sleep anywhere, anytime. I'm jealous). Time to fix that problem. Good night.

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Blogger yr mthur said...


9:58 PM  

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