Every rock show attracts an older crowd, but the curious skewing of numbers at Guns N' Roses was a bit intimidating. I was afraid that if the crowds rocked out too hard so many hips would break that my ability to administer first aid would be taxed to the extreme, to say nothing of my fear of performing chest compressions on ladies who had boob jobs back in 1983 and now looked like skeletons smuggling Valencia oranges.
Or, in a few cases, some very droopy pumpkins.
A sea of men with salt-and-pepper hair down to their waists roamed the crowd below my overpriced VIP riser seats, many of them trailing ladies in leather miniskirts with teased '80s hair that stood a solid foot from their scalps, ready to hop on the hood of any nearby Corvette with an albino snake should the opportunity arise.
They say rock 'n' roll will never die, and in a terrifying way, that's real. Every song you ever heard is captured in the time you heard it, no matter how long you continue to drink from the wrong cup in that cave with the old Templar Knight. So when the opportunity arises to see a band no one thought would ever play together again after 1995, what happens is you get people like me who can still bend over to tie their shoes without assistance and a sea of others who can't eat hard cheese before bedtime. They were totally awesome when the songs came out originally, but now they're taking heart medicine while they do their shots.
Kevin Winter/Getty Images for Coachella
I see you, Richard Fortus.