jive turkeys and another year older

I turned a quarter-century old yesterday.

I wouldn't say that anything really feels different so far about being 25, except of course if you count that I now have a driver's license photo that actually looks like me and I also now know what it feels like to have Pabst Blue Ribbon come out of your nose. Thank the DMV for the first one, and the keg stand for the last one.

I have tales to spin for you from the party, including more details about the keg standing, some incidents involving dancing on a table and other sundry drunken party games. And those tales are coming. Soon.

First I have to tell you that Mr. Risky Business and I were second row, nose-hair distance at GPAC on Friday night to see Wynton Marsalis and the Jazz at Lincoln Center Orchestra. It was fabulous. RB commented when we got there that he hadn't dressed appropriately for the event because he didn't have enough white hair. It was definitely an older crowd, but particularly in the section where we were seated. I'd say we were the youngest by at least 10 or 15 years.

The couple sitting next to us on my side was just such a white-haired duo, and the husband was a little hard of hearing. Every once in a while after a piece had begun I'd hear her yelling in his ear what had just been said about the work. "They said this one was inspired by Monet. MONET! MONET!"

And frankly that, all by itself, was fairly chortle-worthy and I did get the church giggles more than once. But the best part, the very best part, was when the wife started clapping along. Clapping along because the musicians were clapping. Only this was notated clapping. Written out, in the music. In mixed meter.

And there she was next to me, having the best damn time, just a-clappin' right along. Dig it, lady. Dig it.


cheers,
elizabeth