Well, almost ever.
Peter, the girls, and I drove down to Long Island to our friends' block party, where we met up with lots of fun old friends. Then I hopped the LIRR (sans family) to Manhattan to meet my brother and his fiancee to have dinner and see The Cure at Radio City.
The block party was just taking off when I had to leave to catch my train, and I hoped to God The Cure would be worth it. I hate it when you waste hours of your life on a mediocre show. Better to just stick with the Ipod.
But The Cure wailed for three solid hours in which I was transported into another time and another space. Robert Smith may be slightly puffy, but his voice still has the same endearing desperate quality it always did. It was a helluva show. (Take that, Brett Michaels!)
My brother's fiancee, a lovely and accomplished person, said, "Those guys have incredible stamina for old people." I said, "How old do you think they are?" She said, "Robert Smith must be 50!"
Is 50 old?
Turns out Robert Smith is not 50. He's 49, but still? Is 50 old? Is it? I mean, I'm not 50, but if I'm lucky, it's on the horizon.
And, as for ancient Robert Smith and the boys, they performed this 3-hour act after playing Madison Square Garden the night before. My fit 30-something brother, who works out in a gym most mornings and made cracks about some of the audience "getting ready to collect Social Security," had to sit down during the third hour.
"I worked today," he said. "I'm exhausted."
Oh, yeah? So who you calling old?