I am old enough to remember when the Berlin Wall came down, but more so, I remember how it was illustrated in a particularly topical episode of Alvin and the Chipmunks.
But mostly, I am old (and he is old) in comparison to how young we once were.
James and I had settled for an otherwise objectionable pub two blocks from the venue.
I eyeballed the small group waiting outside the theatre: a few chunky platform boots, a coat with far too many buckles to be practical, but at a glance, the crowd could have been there for Phantom of the Opera.
From his swing in the corner, my four-month-old baby listened intently, inserting the occasional series of shrieks and farts. I hadn’t had a chance to shower — and not just that day.
Looking in the mirror, I tried to remember when I had last washed my hair.
I was 18, and dating a fetching warehouse worker who drove a 1969 Pontiac and lived in a rented room with no windows. In 1999, I could have taken hours getting ready for a concert. In an interview with the New York Times, Manson talked about his intense relationship with his danderless cat, Lily White, calling her the center of his universe.
I could have spent weeks imagining the perfect ensemble and memorizing the album. “It’s the closest thing, I guess, to having a child,” he’s quoted as saying. I was running late for my pre-concert drinking appointment with James.
In the mosh pit, we waited to see if Manson’s stilt-clad body, slumped over an oversized podium, would recover from the performative shotgun blast that sent a surge of fake blood into the audience.
A sudden flood of light showed the girl in front of me. The blood hung wet in her blonde, braided buns, which were pinned up like horns on a teenaged cherub.
My then-sorta-boyfriend, a lanky acidhead with minimal literacy and really great cheekbones, puffed ‘Ivory’ pressed powder from my Cover Girl compact on his forehead, attempting to maintain a matte pallor in the sweats of a heavy leather trench.
When the gates opened, we rushed for the shade like vampires.
The bartenders, stuck in shirtsleeves and red vests, and seemed to grimace as the men loped off two-fisting plastic cups of red wine.