Dear Disgruntled Devotee

If I knew who you were, I could perhaps tailor my sardonic response to your 6/26 comments, but I will do my best flying blind. First off, if it’s quantity you want, its quantity you got. I have nothing better to do today. And I agree wholeheartedly that TMZ is kicking my ass. I cannot complete with a professional news organization like that. I realize that I’ve not done a great job in the celebrity reporting as of late. I hope to improve but now I have smaller fish to fry.

Clearly, I value my reader’s input. Many look to me for guidance in their daily lives. I recently received a missive from The Exec. He’s in a bit of a quandary about the effects of aging. Although I’ve long thought of him as a relic, he’s finally starting to see the light himself. In my next post, I hope to offer him some comfort in his golden years. I’m even willing to consider advice from my readers. However, please keep in mind, when it comes to this blog, I’m The Decider.

Now, in The Exec’s own words:

Dear Mr. Detritus,

As became obvious from your recent 50th birthday bash, you’re an aficionado of the pop music scene. Or the closest thing to an expert in our circle, and never mind our circle isn’t so big we couldn’t stand comfortably around the same commode together. Plus, you’re a writer, and you’re wise. Okay, you’re a writer. Or at least you have this “Detritus” thing.

It doesn’t matter. I’m desperate. My life has turned all Portland on me, subsumed by this constant existential drizzle. And you need to tell me whether I’m really all wet.

My crisis began three weeks ago. It was the night #1 and I, along with our lovely wives, joined 46, 496 of our closest friends at McAfee Coliseum in Oakland for the one of the first concerts on the much ballyhooed Police reunion tour.

You know the Police, right? It’s the band that gave us Sting. Mrs. Exec loves Sting. I do too. So I wasn’t predisposed to having a bad time at his gig. In fact, the night began as a very pleasant time. We got to the parking lot. We popped the tailgate. We drank a nice rose. In an exhibition of his multitudinous domestic skills, #1 made some tasty chicken Caesar-salad wraps.

And then we hiked into the stadium. As we winnowed our way through the throngs to our seats, a front-band was playing. I’m not sure who they were, but they were knocking out a kick-ass set of I can only describe as “LOUD NOISE.”

We took our seats—seats for which we paid $100. Each. They were in Section 227, code for “nosebleed.” And we sat under a big concrete eve. I don’t know much about music. But I know enough that sound and bare concrete are not the best of friends. Am I right?

The Police began their performance. I think it was them. We were too far away to tell, not even from the Jumbotrons. And then the band, the Police I think they were, started belting out such familiar favs as “DEAFENING NOISE,” followed by “MORE DEAFENING NOISE,” ensued by “STILL MORE DEAFENING NOISE.”

I became outraged. I stormed out of my seat to the mezzanine, partly out of indignation, but partly out of self-preservation, too. The old tympanic membranes ain’t what they used to be, and I’m certain I was at risk of complete cochlear dysfunction.

Turns out the mezzanine served as a show of its own. A couple of women bought me a beer. One of them happened to know our pal, the hotelier. I learned from a college boy who came out for butt break that if you want to be chick magnet, flash a pack of Marlboro Lights at a concert like this. One coquette after another approached him. “Hi, can I bum a cigarette?” They bummed. They bolted. He bummed.

The storm cloud had formed. I was dismal. I was cranky. I can’t put a kind face on my cranky anymore. So everyone else knew I was cranky, too. My mood put a damper on the long ride home.

#1 insisted he had a delightful time. Mrs. #1 did, too. As did Mrs. Exec. I felt as alone as Bush-for-third-term supporter. But here’s the moment the existential crisis really took hold: Mrs. Exec scolded me for being…”old.” Old? Me? A boomer. Old?

To be fair, there were other people who didn’t have the time of their life at this show. One review carried this headline: “Sting stunk—and so did the rest of the Police.” Attached were a skein of comment reader comments. A goodly number of them were from people who thought the concert sucked as much as I did.

Our seats were bad. The acoustics were worse.

But is that really the bottom line here?

I don’t know. Which is why I’m turning to you. I need some answers. Surely, you must have them.

Could four people sitting in the same row of the same section possibly have had such different experiences? If the Police had played in a forest with no one to hear them would they have been so loud? Should I have simply sat there, allowing the Police to commit auditory assault on me? Is it better to pretend to be having a good time rather than face the fact that we paid so much money to have a bad one?

Most of all, answer me this: Have I crossed some Rubicon—into a life stage that won’t allow me to have a good time under the circumstances that, in fact, defined our generation?

Now that you’re over 50 yourself, you must surely understand.

Help

Your friend,

The Exec