Last weekend (it's lucky if I even post about things
a week after they happen) I experienced the ultimate middle-aged Saturday.
Kicked off by a piña colada with extra shot of
Barcardi. I see Dallas BBQ has not gone as far as Cheeseburger in Paradise's
"garnimals," but the plastic test tube now has photos of anthropomorphic
cocktails wearing sunglasses.
There was also a beer at Guy's because it happened
to be across the street from Best Buy Theater where I was seeing Adam Ant and
there was time to kill before the show. (I also got myself invited to the grand
opening party on Tuesday, but figured three visits to a Times Square restaurant
in two weeks was a bit much even for me).
I was never an Adam Ant fanatic (off the top of my
head I thought I only knew two songs, but when it came down to it there were at
least five times that–I'd forgotten about the Viva Le Rock era and the '90s
comeback) but a friend had scored free tickets, VIP section, no less. There
wasn't a lot of costumed attendees, so I appreciated this guy's face-painting
I wondered would Adam Ant show up civilian or like a
sexy pirate? Ok, totally the latter, though with a rocker touch and confusing
glasses and facial hair. Dude is 58 with a history of mental problems, so you
can cut him some slack.
The thing is, I can in no way figure out what he
actually looks like, and became a little obsessed this week with finding a
normal, representative photo of him from the last few years. The range is
enormous. Is he a pudgy gray-hair or LA biker-glam?
The only clear conclusion is that he's bald.
On the way outside I heard someone screaming my
name. It turned out to be a guy I haven't seen since 1999 and who I celebrated
my 27th birthday with when Depends were involved. He's now 44.
In sixth grade, the girl who I thought was the
prettiest in school, an eighth grader named Erin with strong cheekbones and a
dark-banged bob, did a dance in the talent show to Adam Ant's Strip using a
bunch of filmy scarves. And yet it did not seem sleazy at the time, at least
not in the way that girls whose parents let them be hookers for Halloween did.
(Also, a few years before this a group of friends and I wanted to do a bit in
total variety show style where we'd somehow simulate rowing a boat to Billy
Squier's The Stroke and it was nixed by our teacher.) I now imagine it being
this New Romantic take on those gymnastic ribbon routines. I've looked her up to
see how she turned out but she's apparently nonexistent, a common problem with
females because they all marry and change their names.