Mosh pit parents

When I am 60 I hope I am as much of a fox as Stevie Nicks. Or Lindsey Buckingham, for that matter. Stevie rocked her tambourine and long blond hair like it was still the 70's (although I hear she now keeps a PT on staff to help with an old shoulder injury that sometimes gets in the way of the tambourine shaking...possibly the hair shaking, too) and Lindsey was jumping around the stage with the energy of a middle schooler at his first dance. Growing up, Dad and I used to listen to the greatest hits album on the way up to the cabin so I was pumped to see them live with him, too. (Camera phone pic at the concert)

Aside from the amazing music, Mom was convinced that security thought we were terrorists. She was in top form, let me tell you. It started when I was the last one through the gate. She asked what took me so long and I told her they had to do an extensive search of my purse because they thought I had contraband. Her eyes got huge and she said, "Caley! What did you have in your purse? Why would you bring contraband to a concert?" It took about five minutes to convince her I was kidding, there was no contraband, there never had been, and security never accused me of having any.

Eventually we made our way to section 219 where our seats were waiting for us in the top row of the upper level. A venue worker stopped us and said in a hushed voice, "How many are there in your group?"
"Four! There are four!" I said, getting excited as I saw him reach for his pocket to pull out what I hoped were tickets for better seats. Mom gasped and took a step back.
I was right. The next thing he said was, "I have four seats in the lower level, do you want them?" Mom, however, was wrong because apparently she thought we had been randomly selected for an extensive security screening which may or may not involve a strip search in a room with bars on the windows. Somehow she has international flying confused with concert going.

Sitting in our lower level row 14 seats I couldn't help but enjoy the view of the woman in front of me with a sleeveless denim shirt and the most magnificent mullet I've seen outside of rural Minnesota in a long time. The guy rocking out with his sleeves cut off, two beers, and a gas station hat was the only one who had the potential to eclipse her. In the middle of one of their head banging dances I felt a tap on my shoulder. "Psst. Caley."
"You don't have to whisper, Mom. It's Fleetwood Mac."
"Oh, well, is that the mosh pit?" she asked, pointing to the floor seats where the largely baby boomer crowd was sitting (key word: sitting) and singing along with Stevie.
"No, Mom, there is no mosh pit here."
"Well why not?"
"It isn't like an orchestra pit. There isn't one built in..."

The final highlight of the night happened when I snuck out of my seat to hit the bathroom and passed a girl being detained by the cops. "It isn't like it's fucking poison. What's the big fucking deal?" I'm still not sure if she was talking about the band, Poison, or some kind of illegal substance that was in the purse one of the cops was holding for her but either way, it was the perfect end to the night.