I used to love snail mail. Despite the fact that my mailbox was mostly stuffed with adverts and bills and eye appointment reminders, getting a real live letter was so delicious that it was always worth a check.
Now I am afraid to look.
The transition happened very gradually. As the years flew by, there were fewer and fewer Victoria’s Secret catalogs, and a lot more Pottery Barn Kids. Not surprising, really. Once I’d ordered diapers online, all hell broke loose. Not that I minded looking at baby clothes now and then, but I was a little offended that the folks in the marketing department assumed I had switched to sensible undergarments.
As my kids got a bit older, my junk mail haul further devolved into catalogs of clogs and tchotchkes. I didn’t fully digest the severity of the situation until I found myself staring at a picture of a dung bunny. That’s right. An adorable rabbit statue made of manure. You leave it in your garden and as it decomposes, it adds vital nutrients to the soil. Suddenly, I realized: I am f*#!ing old. Some marketing director took one look at my profile and decided, “This lady does not exercise or travel. She no longer needs yoga pants or Bose speakers or groovy furnishings. This lady putters in her garden and makes loving decisions about mother earth. It is way more important for her ogle progressive, thoughtful novelty items than anything else the commercial world has to offer.”
Then, a couple of weeks ago, The Most Important Gift Catalog in the World arrived:
That’s right. Heifer International sent me a catalog. What demographic does that put me in? Wait. Don’t answer that. I definitely don’t want to know.
Next up was a magnetic schedule of the San Francisco 49ers with a plumber’s contact information on it.
I don’t get it. What is the connection? Let’s see, my toilet is broken, but I wonder when the game starts? And why me? Am I so old they think I can’t look up game times and phone numbers online?
Monday. The final straw. I received a postcard from a life coach.
Great. Now I can lie awake wondering where my life is going and whether my spouse loves me. You know, I didn’t need the life coach until I checked the mail. I’m not calling this one, though. If they can make me feel this horrible by sending me a postcard, why would I want to spend time and money for continued contact?
Most importantly: did they review my past purchase patterns and assume I needed some help?
Once I stumbled across Phoenix’s “Lizstomania,” the song went into impossibly heavy rotation. Were it not for an occasional, palate-cleansing round of “Today’s Hits,” my kids would have defected to your house long ago.
Not only did I love the song–and all their other songs, for that matter–I was charmed by its reference to music history, to Berlin and Paris in the 1840s.
Just in case I’m not the only one who had to look up the title:
“Lisztomania was characterized by a hysterical reaction to Liszt and his concerts. Liszt’s playing was reported to raise the mood of the audience to a level of mystical ecstasy. Admirers of Liszt would swarm over him, fighting over his handkerchiefs and gloves. Fans would wear his portrait on brooches and cameos. Women would try to get locks of his hair, and whenever he broke a piano string, admirers would try to obtain it in order to make a bracelet. Some female admirers would even carry glass phials into which they poured his coffee dregs.“ –the benevolent geniuses at Wikipedia
I must have caught a mutation of the bug myself. Since then, I became obsessed to see Phoenix live, which is odd since I haven’t gone to see live music, for quite some time. For nearly two years they refused to cooperate–touring little, then touring anywhere but San Francisco. I may have even sent a few messages to their band manager in protest. Why were they avoiding my fair city? How could I snag their hankies if they insisted on hanging out in Europe all the time? That’s so French.
And then, a wee miracle. A friend offered me a ticket to Outside Lands, and I jumped on it without thinking.
After all, it was a single ticket. I was going to a humongous music festival:
a) By myself, and
b) As a grown-up.
I got a little nervous. What was I doing?
The spouse offered to drop me near the entrance. How long did I want to stay? Let’s see. How many trips to a porta-potty was I willing to endure?
Answer: two. And after giving birth twice, that means four hours, tops.
When I got to the festival grounds, I consulted the schedule, feeling old, wondering who the 39 other bands were. To buy myself a minute of think time, I wandered over to get an id bracelet. The security guard took one look at my driver’s license and blurted, “oh, my god!”
Dang. I am old.
He tried to smooth things over, like it was no big deal, but it was too late. The youth of America were staring at me, perhaps figuring the odds that I might know their parents.
I tried to blend into the crowd, meandering toward Jurassic Five. I guess they were making some sort of comeback on the music scene as well. I stepped politely over a number of glazed-eyed tokers and their hairy friends. Lurching twenty-year-olds grabbed the arms and shoulders of strangers nearby or, when they missed, fell face first into a carpet of crushed keg cups.
Along the way, I made peace with my age. It’s ok to be past the age of white crocheted pants over black undergarments. Or bear hats, fox tails, bad beards, and ginormous fake flowers dangling like hippie antennae.
Well, maybe I could still rock a bear hat.
And it was a relief not to have to find anyone in particular. In a crowd of 60,000, finding a friend entails spearing stuffed animals on ten-foot poles or clutching Hello Kitty balloon bouquets like overgrown toddlers, cursing vehemently at AT&T and Verizon in equal parts.
I felt like an anthropologist, watching the herds ebb and flow around crowd surf misfires.
As the music grew louder, though, the crowd ceased to exist. Jurassic Five were awesome, and I stood, transfixed.
When they finished, I stayed and walked against the crowd, filling in the empty pockets closer and closer to the stage as they opened in front of me. I itched for the center of the action, whichever band was up next. What is the point of listening to live music from the comfort of a seat, miles from the performers and their die-hard fans? How is that different to listening to Pandora at home? I mean, other than the sewage truck and the other 59,999 people between you and the performers. I like to be close enough that the drum and bass override my heart beat.
Then, by some divine intervention, Karen O sashayed out in her shiny, shiny suit.
I almost went home after her band played. If I start practicing now, I thought, maybe I could be a rock star before I kick the bucket.
In a delirious happy daze, I finally found my way to the other end of the festival, where Phoenix were about to take the stage. Since I was solo, I plowed into the tight fist of people, smiling sheepishly, apologizing profusely, thinking I could eventually make it to the very front. “Excuse me,” I said to a woman’s neck. She turned and accidentally gave me an Eskimo kiss. “Exactly where do you think I can go?” she asked, not unkindly. She was right. At that point it was literally impossible to move closer. Or get out, for that matter. I tried not to think about it.
I could barely see the stage or even the screen for a while, thanks to an extremely tall man next to me. He was the only grumpy person out of tens of thousands.
“Why aren’t your arms up?” an incredulous teenager asked him. “I guarantee you’d have the highest hands in the whole crowd.” Still, tall man stubbornly abstained.
Meanwhile, a few people to my right, a supremely enthusiastic fan gushed uncontrollably. “Oh man!” “Yeah!” He pumped his fist each time they played a first chord. “This song, too?!”
Smoke and more smoke and fog of all sorts poured out of machines and skies and people, climbing up the spotlights like animated streamers.
Now I remember: it is an extremely pleasant feeling to be in a big mob of people singing big happy songs. That’s something Pandora can’t give you.
Low points were few:
Initial lost feeling
Wondering if I would be crushed.
Well, everything else.
Plus, since the event took place in Golden Gate Park, city ordinance dictated that the festival shut down at 9:55 p.m. Perfect for mature music enthusiasts.
Since that day in August, my Lizstomania has mutated. Now it’s the Yeah Yeah Yeah’s station that makes my kids roll their eyes. Perhaps I should hold a vigil for their next visit.