Yesterday I chalked about going to
Fitzgerald's for the first time with a sixty handle.
It turned out not to be much of a problem because the median age at the
Los Lobos show had to be about sixty-seven. Last night felt more like a class
reunion for the Class of '77 than a rock concert.
I got to the club early and found the perfect spot to stand. Right next
to one of the support poles holding the roof up. It blocked the traffic and
gave my big ass something to lean on.
The usual concert T-shirt crowd was in attendance. There was a healthy
number of patchouli oil Deadhead types wandering around. You had the rockabilly
swing-dance greasers and greaser chicks. The tough-looking East L.A. Latino
crowd was represented as well.
The largest demographic at the famous west side roadhouse was the
worn-down white guy in the cheap Hawaiian shirt, Skechers with the cushioned
soles and arch support, and compression socks.
My left cankle, complete with the
discoloration and scar from where the metal plate was inserted, paled in
comparison to the battle wounds carried by the Los Lobos crowd. Canes, knee
braces, wrist casts, and limps were everywhere.
The one thing I noticed more than anything else though, was the smiles. I
watched Latinos and Caucasians sharing their passion for a band that has been
making music since just about everyone in attendance was a kid.
I saw buddies who have probably been busting each other's balls for
fifty years. Parents standing beside their grown children. Couples who survived
the hard years and now get to enjoy the golden ones together.
Then there was me. The guy who
came alone but was never really lonely. I ran into a dozen people I knew and
even caught a ride home from a dear friend.
It was just a happy crowd listening to an old East L.A. garage band.
People smiled and they danced as best they could. Nobody was fighting and nobody
was yelling about politics.
Sure, there were a couple of white liberals wearing "Abolish
ICE" T-shirts. I'm betting most of the Latinos in the room couldn't have
given two shits about their political statement. They were there for Los Lobos,
not looking for support from the dear old Oak Parker.
I don't know why I expected a shit ton of millennials to be hanging
around a ragged old nightclub listening to a band that peaked forty years ago. Maybe
I need to stop worrying about getting older and start hanging around people who
don't give a damn about being senior citizens.
That reminds me...
I need to check AARP and see what discounts turning sixty finally gets
me.
I'm not even sure what the median age of a Chalkhead is anymore. There
is one Chalkhead on here who changed my diaper. There are others I coached over
at Saint Cletus. Somehow, we have all ended up in the same place, sharing
another morning together.
This is our time. I am going to keep chalking about it and try to commit
as many acts of kindness as possible along the way.
Sunday Funday...
...the shadows are slowly growing
longer, football season is less than two months away, and life is still pretty
damn good.
Gusto,
astonishment, and acts of kindness, you beautiful Chalkheads.
