I had a super fun time last weekend when one of my best friends from L.A. came up to visit.
We went to the museum, the spa, and at the last minute, we decided to go see The Specials play at the Warfield.
I’m not usually one to see a show in a big venue, and I hate paying for shows. 99% of the time I’ll see my friends or husband’s bands play somewhere I can walk to and get in on the guest list. But I still had a good time.
It’s funny, after having kids and being less of a gal about town, I run into people, years later, doing the same exact thing.
I’ve been tangentially a part of a lot of different “scenes” over the years, whether it be skateboarders, punks, emos, mods, scooter people or garage rockers. And of course every single one of those scenes has 8000 different factions and cliques and permutations within. I don’t think I’ve ever really identified so heavily with one that I excluded all others. I don’t know. I’m my own weird Allison.
I suppose what I’m really saying is that when a forty-five-year-old man speaks with earnestness about how “the skinheads are taking over”, I find my head spinning and admittedly, feel a bit superior.
“My,” I say to my smug little self, “aren’t I so cool that my pre-frontal cortex is not muddled up by worrying about imagined problems of a microcosmic social scene. Tah-dah! I have the ability to discern whether or not I’m 14 and whether or not it’s 1983.”
Okay, yes, I am worried about whether or not my two-year-old will have a tantrum or poop her pants, and surely one could argue that worrying about imaginary skinheads or zombies or anything other than a crapping child is preferable.
But I’m also thinking about politics and climate change and taking in art from a multitude of different platforms and cultures and times. So yeah. Weird little me is smarter than the random mid-forties Mod. I know. I deserve an enormous medal for my incredible achievements in overcoming the completely nonsensical.
In other news, Jack told me today about all the dudes he knows who are joining the new start-up in Palo Alto, called “Up There”. When he told me the name I burst out laughing. He looked at me quizzically.
“I’m guessing they haven’t hired any women yet?” I asked, wiping the tears off my cheeks.
“Why do you ask?”
You’re kidding me right? “Up there” HAS ALWAYS, and ALWAYS WILL refer to the original “Up There”, the Up There from whence we all came, the Up There as in “Do you want to go home?”, “Yes, it’s killing me up there.” The Up There as in “Don’t worry, I have Midol in my purse.”
The “Cloud” cannot take over the primordial Up There.
Or maybe it will. Hell, I’m wrong about a lot of things. Years ago I was asked to do a story on these guys starting a little business called “Go Pro” that made waterproof cameras for action sports. I thought the owners were two of the world’s most idiotic surfer-cretins. I thought that the chance of them launching a successful business was absolutely nil. Shows what I know. They’re everywhere. They’re probably hanging 10 and smoking bowls while high fiving each other as they surf on their indoor wave pools filled with beluga caviar at this point.
So I could be very falsely confident that “Up There” is the most idiotic name ever. And jeez, maybe the skinheads are taking over. Watch out, I guess. Just in case.