In July 2019, I had the privilege of seeing The Rolling Stones in concert as part of their No Filter tour. Now in 2021, concerts seem to be a distant memory, so I dusted off my write-up of the experience and am presenting it here in full. Hopefully it captures a bit of the live music experience that is so lacking from our current situation. Moreso, however, it provided me the oppurtunity to reflect on the meaning of going to a concert at all. I also wrote it as an homage to Hunter S. Thompson, the doctor of gonzo journalism. The piece’s writing, like the events that inspired it, were quite fun.

I drive through the crossfire of a hurricane in order to reach Jacksonville on a Friday night, and it seems somehow appropriate. Though I was born and raised in the Sunshine State and should really feel no surprise that a summer storm would materialize in the late afternoon as I drive through the most vacant and unpopulated section of north Florida, I still feel not a small amount of annoyance at the situation. Here I am, having left work at noon to drive across the state, and I’m met with ravenous lightning, an impossibly thick and hard blanket of rain, and enough Georgia license plates to give me an aneurism. It’s all fitting, though, that I fight through the weather to reach what for over 50 years has been a Mecca for rockers the world over: a Rolling Stones concert.

    The Rolling Stones, for much of my life, was not one of my favorite bands. I think that as a youth, I dismissed their classic blues and soul roots as cliche or boring. Ironically, I feel that their longevity kind of works against them in this regard. Take their main “rivals” and closest contemporaries The Beatles. They broke up in 1970, really as the Stones were in the midst of their creative peak that lasted for another few years. So in the minds of the current populace, the Four are forever young and Fab – a hip, eternally cool group that never makes any questionable artistic decisions, because they don’t exist any more. The Stones, on the other hand, have had lots of time to put out mediocre material, chase “modern” sounds, and continue to age. This has left a youth movement that for the past 30 years has seen the band as old has-beens who are the symbol of corporate Boomer “dad” rock.

 Yet the more music I listen to, the more I come to like them. The older I get, the more I come to like them too. These two caveats are related. Firstly, one of the biggest compliments that one can pay the Stones is that they have been around for so long, and their influence so pervasive, that many of their breakthroughs and signifiers have become completely incorporated into our modern conception of “rock” as a genre. So if my younger self were to slag them off because “they sound like any other rock band,” I would need to be corrected. It’s actually the other way around: most rock bands since have tried their hardest to sound like the Stones. From Aerosmith to Guns n’ Roses, from Jet to The Arctic Monkeys, all have in some way based their sound and style off of Mick & Keef and company. 

At the end of the day though, nobody does it quite like they do. The Stone sound is tough, yes, and sleazy, and campy, but it is also a weary sound, worn out by the hardships of life. There is a real edge in their music, born from their real-life hedonism but also from their sincere connection to the roots of blues and country. Their best recordings sound like they were laid down at the absolute end of the line, pulled together from the jaws of their own demons to somehow be enhanced by, and triumph over, the darkness. As such, as I live my life and experience personal ups and downs, late nights, and disappointments, their music resonates with me more, because I feel that weariness and defiance. NOTHING sounds better than the Rolling Stones after a night out, and whether that night ends surrounded by friends in laughter or you home alone contemplating into the night, they understand. And they have a lifetime of music to compliment everything in between.

All this is to say that as I hydroplane down I-10 through the Florida panhandle, I know that my safety and comfort are a small price to pay to see this concert. A friend has generously offered me two tickets gratis to see them in Jacksonville as part of their No Filter tour; I couldn’t say no. Seeing the Stones live is a feather in the cap of any true rock fan, and we are unfortunately approaching the limit of our ability to do so.

Eventually I make it to Jacksonville alive and rendezvous with my concert companion. Let’s call him “Adam.” Adam is one of the few people I know that genuinely appreciates how The Stones sound after one too many beers, so he was a no-brainer to invite along on this odyssey. 

And what an odyssey it becomes. It takes us close to half an hour to find an Uber — multiple driver cancelations and an ill-fated attempt to use Lyft should have clued us in to the fact that the greater Jax area is overrun by rock fans. But we fought through rain and traffic to make it here, and we will not permit something as inconsequential as an Uber surge stop us. Eventually we decide to shell out for an UberXL. Adam opines that this allows the two of us to stretch out our legs, a worthy consolation. Our driver Darrick is from Chicago as evidenced by the Bears decor inside his Grand Caravan. Darrick mentions that he gave a Patriots fan a ride earlier; this really is the crossroads of the world. Darrick also mentioned that he received our summons as he was returning from dinner with his family, whom he promptly dropped off at home to pick us up. Adam and I feel a little guilty about breaking up this working man’s family time, but after thanking him firmly we wordlessly decide that Darrick is a grown man and can make his own choices. More importantly, it was worth it for us to make the posted showtime.  

On the UberXL ride to TIAA Bank Stadium, I watch the city roll past the interstate.  Jacksonville as a city has always been an enigma to me. I haven’t spent any significant amount of time there, and that’s because it has never given me a reason to. As a lifelong Floridian, the city of Jacksonville seems to me the watered down version of every other city in the state. It lacks the glamorous style and Latin culture of Miami or the Gulf Coast beach lifestyle of Tampa. Orlando has the theme parks, Tallahassee has the Southern charm, and Pensacola has the rednecks. Jacksonville, on the other hand, seems to me to be a nondescript sprawl. The fact that the city incorporated the entirety of Duval County reeks of desperation: cow fields and undeveloped highway medians do not a town make. This knowledge marks the claim that Jacksonville is the “biggest city in the state” as utterly bogus. (In actuality, the Miami megalopolis has the highest population). I am sure that there is nothing in the city that I can’t get anywhere else. Except, apparently, the Rolling Stones.

    Eventually the stadium lights loom over the horizon, and the traffic increases dramatically. We come upon our exit and promptly hit an unmoving wall of vehicles. It seems that the “Greatest Rock and Roll Show on Earth” is sufficient to shutter a city. And when I mean shut down, I mean shut down. Traffic is at a stand still, vendors walk up and down between cars on the highway to hawk T-shirts, and every house in sight advertises parking for a reasonable $30. And they are all full.

    We sit at the exit for a solid ten minutes and do not move an inch. All the while the posted 7:30 show time creeps closer and closer; I don’t expect the band to be extremely prompt, but it begins to look as if we have another hour at least before reaching our destination. Darrick the Driver turns and reluctantly informs us that our probable best bet is to get out and walk. Adam and I agree, so we hop out of the side door and onto the asphalt of I-95. We have an exit, 6 lanes, and an overpass to cross. Luckily we are not alone. Similarly inconvenienced rockers of all shapes and sizes trek down the margin toward the promise of frivolity in the distance. 

I am surprised at how many people my age (“millennial”) there were in the crowd. I expected it to be mostly 40 and up, and while the Boomer crowd is well represented, this is truly a multigenerational affair. It makes sense: good music touches everyone, regardless of age. People like a good time, and that’s what this event promises to provide. As we cut through a wooded area nested between the spiral exit and the main road, I can’t help but think of Altamont Festival or a stadium show from the ‘80s, events that the Stones played over the decades. Ragged hippies and grizzled musos flocking over private land to convene in their own kind of sanctuary…a scene that keeps repeating itself…the wheel keeps turning but it don’t slow down…

Our first obstacle is the interstate itself: 6 lanes of zooming death machines bisected by a waist-high barrier. We stop on the white line and peer down the ribbon of asphalt as automobiles speed by in either direction. There is almost a wave of maliciousness coming off of the cars as they pass, like the drivers feel personally inconvenienced by us stranded concert-goers. They do not drive faster, but harder, and dare anyone to get in their way.

We are not so foolish. Adam and I bide our time as bald men and sunburnt women hustle across the highway. They hold their drinks high to shield them from the onslaught of motor vehicles; if they were to be flattened against hot county-owned pavement, at least their drinks will not be spilled. I do not take comfort in this caveat, as I am still not entirely sure how we will get across unscathed. No matter how quick I think I am, cars are quicker, and human beings even more unpredictable. But still: the stadium awaited, and the show must go on.

In what surely proves to be the most harrowing segment of our evening, we wait until there appears an acceptable gap in the traffic and launch. I scamper with all my might, determined to prevent my mother from receiving a death notice for her first-born. I vault over the median barrier and full-blown sprint to the other side. Before I know it, the road is behind me, and the stadium lights loom closer ahead. We had made it unscathed, though a bit sweatier.

Alive, Adam and I are increasingly surrounded by throngs of people. We have now entered the actual stadium grounds, and bear witness to all that the scene has to offer. There are the grizzled bikers, decked in black and denim, loose tattoos hanging on leathered skin. There are teens in tie-died shirts bestroon with Mardi Gras beads. There are families with young kids, the dad in a polo and jean shorts, holding his young son on his shoulders. And there are the musos, there to hear Keith and Ronnie weave their guitars, sporting their T-shirts from past tours. Of course a group of Christian evangelists screams at concert goers for supporting the devil’s music. They hold signs accusing all drinkers and smokers and “fags” of paving their own way to Hell. Thankfully no one seems to pay them much mind, and if anything their presence adds to the delightful chaos of the carnival.

The TIAA Bank complex is more than just a stadium: it includes the arena, of course, but also a full amphitheater on one end and seemingly miles of surrounding vendors and parking lots. The amphitheater is specifically for music concerts, but is closed for the night. This show is no mere concert, and the full 67,000-person capacity stadium is necessary to contain the masses` energy. We have to walk to the far side of the complex in order to pick up our physical tickets. It is a journey to be sure. On the way, as we move through the colorful throngs of people, I am stuck by a revelation. Jacksonville, precisely because of its very lack of a distinct personality, is in many ways the most Floridian city. It attracts a little bit of everyone: the redneck Panhandlers, the central Florida cowboys, the Gulf-Coasters, the Atlantic beachcombers, the Miamian hot shots. There are Hispanics, white people, black people. Jaguars fans, Bucs fans. No Dolphins fans. It is truly a microcosm of the entire state, and just as the St. John River flows north, it brings with it the rest of the great peninsula.

Finally we get our tickets in hand after a much easier process than it seems many others have to endure. (Endless thanks to you, Cassie, this entire piece is dedicated to you!) At long last, we are IN. We’ll be watching the show from a large deck over one end zone, directly across from the stage. A runway protrudes from center stage to about midfield, and the stage is flanked by absolutely massive screens. Two tents on the opposite side of our deck each contain food served buffet-style with a wet bar. The food is surprisingly tasty: the eclectic menu ranges from burger sliders and BBQ pork to egg rolls, mac & cheese, fruit, and an expansive baked dessert spread.

The drink situation, on the other hand, is a disaster. Everyone on the deck is entitled to two free beverages, but the set-up creates a bottleneck that is too much for the overstressed and surely underpayed bartenders to handle. Indeed, at any given time over the course of the night the majority of people on the deck are in the drink line. At the moment, we are concerned that our need for alcohol will prevent us from snagging an optimal vantage point, so we forsake the wait to stake claim to a perch by the railing.

The opening act is a group called The Revivalists. I’ve heard of them, but never gave them a chance beyond a cursory search on YouTube. Their recorded output is inoffensive rock-based MOR that perhaps carries a little Southern swagger, but the name belies a deeper sense of authenticity. I’m sorry to say that their live show follows suit, although they provide a not unpleasant atmosphere to the chaos of exploring the stadium, snarfing down popcorn, and generally getting in the mood for live music.

The sun sets over Jacksonville. Blue gives way to pink which gives way to grey as the advertised curtain time comes and goes. The buzz of the stadium lights accents a mounting tension in the air. Everyone knows it won’t be long. Finally, the stage lights flash on, the big lights dim, and the crowd erupts. Out come The Rolling Stones.

On stage left Keith strikes a rough opening chord, and the band launches into “Street Fighting Man.” Ronnie is on the right and Charlie Watts is centered behind the drum kit on a riser. The band is augmented by Darryl Jones on bass, Chuck Leavell on keys, two saxophones, and backup vocalists (male & female). Then, of course there’s Mick. He appears only when he is to begin singing — “Everywhere I go I hear the sound of marching, charging feet” — and is dressed in a tight open lime green jacket with black undershirt and tight black pants.
    Jagger’s choice of clothing is important to note, as he will change outfits three separate times over the course of the evening. Keep in mind that these men are all in their mid-to-late seventies, and it’s hilarious to think that he is still so committed to putting on a show that he’s donning costumes like a pop star.

The band powers through some requisite hits: “It’s Only Rock ‘n’ Roll (But I Like It),” “Tumbling Dice” (perhaps their best song), and “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.” Then things get a little more interesting as the screens display 3 choices for the next song: a) Ruby Tuesday, b) Monkey Man, or c) Dancing With Mr. D.. The crowd is also given a number to text in order to vote for our selection in real time. After a few moments, the band will play whichever earns the most votes. I select “Dancing With Mr. D.,” from their underrated 1973 album Goats Head Soup. It’s a good rocker, and the sort of deep cut this fan choice stuff is made for. Unfortunately, the majority of the assembled fans do not agree – they choose “Monkey Man,” from The Stones’ critically lauded 1969 release Let It Bleed. Fair, and while Let It Bleed is probably my least favorite of their ‘69-’72 classic run, “Monkey Man” is one of its nastiest rockers.

Now, I must admit that the band feels a little stiff. They don’t sound bad, but it seems like they, and perhaps the crowd, need to get warmed up.

And lubed up. Sometime during “You Can’t Always Get What You Want,” Adam and I agree that there is NO way we are going to see The Stones sober. So we commit to leave our spot and dive into the line. Propriety be damned – we look to redeem both drink tickets at once.

The band gives us a little break. As roadies assemble equipment onto a smaller side stage, the loudspeakers pump their ‘60s instrumental “2120 South Michigan Avenue.” The screens display vintage photographs of the band. It’s to signal that we are going back in time…but Adam and I are in the back of the line, and wondering just how much vintage Stones we are going to miss.

Fortunately, there is still plenty to see and plenty to hear. The guy next to me explains how he caught the Stones on their Still Life tour in ‘81, the Steel Wheels tour in ‘89, the Voodoo Lounge tour in ‘94, AND two years ago on their Zip Code tour. He wears a Still Life shirt. This is life for people, following their favorite bands and catching up with them when they come through town. It’s a way to track your life and orient your memories. And here I am, catching onto the tail end of the wave.

As we inch toward the promise of a buzz, the band strikes up an acoustic set.They do a swaying version of “Play With Fire,” reminding us how much their fey psychedelic period in the late ‘60s was still rooted in folk and the blues. Then, to my delight and roars of recognition from the crowd, they bash out the opening chords of “Sweet Virginia.” This rough and weepy number from Exile On Main St. is one of the best cuts from that legendary album, and perhaps my favorite Stones acoustic number. Nonetheless, I hardly ever hear it in public and none but true fans will know it. It is a bust out for sure, and the band draws it out. Mick honks away on his harmonica. The singers revel in every repetition of the refrain, as the crowd slurs along with them:
    “OH WONTCHA COME ON / COME DOWWWN / SWEET VIRGINIAAAIIIIAAAA!”
    After the last notes fade away into the now black night, there is another small break. We’ve missed the visuals on two songs, but the Jumbotron looms over us. We could see the boys in giant form as they strummed their building-high acoustic guitars, guitars carved with ornate western imagery. We could see every wrinkle and grey hair. Most of the time, I do not watch the screen. I prefer to watch the other people enjoying themselves. Or I prefer to stare upwards and contemplate the blurry boundary of the stadium lights fadinging away into the inky jet of the sky beyond.

And then something happens that I did not expect. Bongos. Then a maraca. Then a bouncing drumbeat. And we know: “Sympathy For the Devil.” Turn my head to the direction of the field, and see fire dancing on the rim of the video screens. I turn my head back to glance furtively at the bar, now only a handful of people away. I turn to my companion.

“Adam.” I grab him by the shoulers, and turn him to face me, look him dead in the eyes. “Will you hold my place? I want to go take a peek at the stage.”

An emotion passes through Adam’s eyes that communicated much: envy, frustration, understanding. Then he nods, “Yes.”  

With that, I forsake my spot in line and jump back down to the rail. (Of course, I’m confident that Adam will hold my spot, and the line moves so slowly that what could be the harm of me slipping back in after getting a quick peak?) My instincts were correct. The band is back on the main stage, and Mick is jiving down the walkway decked out in a gold sequin overcoat (with tails!) and a top hat to match. “Please allow me to introduce myself,” he sneers at the crowd. “I’m a man of wealth and taste.” 

By this point, they’ve shaken off the dust and play with swagger and a real propulsion. Then Keith steps up to center-stage and hits the first cutting note of “Sympathy For the Devil”’s solo, and it seers my soul. It has always been one of the best guitar solos ever, a jagged cut through the song that is pretty much the definitive lead guitar sound. Live it is even better, and Keith draws it out, moving up and down the neck, stoking the flames as his long cloak blows in the wind. A true priest of the dark arts. Once the crowd reaches a fever pitch, they slam back into the rest of the song, and I am satisfied.

I retreat back to the line, and slide in next to Adam. There are still several people in front of us before the bar. When I step next to him, I overhear two women behind us.

“Oh hell no, we are NOT going to wait any more.” At that declaration I feel a rising tension, an uneasiness about what was to come next. The couple in front of us reaches the bar. They cannot decide if they want beer or a cocktail, and my insides tighten as the riffs of “Honkey Tonk Women” boom across the field and I wait for them to figure it out; you’d think they would have used the past half an hour to determine their alcohol taste. Finally they settle on liquor, and take their serving. We are up. Suddenly, the women behind us swerve to our flank and cut in front of us: “Uh-uh, it’s our turn.”

Adam and I stand in shocked silence. Did they really just…cut us? I worry that it is because they thought that I was cutting them when I returned to the line, but surely they noticed me there during the prior 20 minutes? Even if I had been a random person disrespecting the sanctity of the line, would it have killed them to wait one extra minute? They were next!

As it is, there is little we can do. They are already ordering, and Adam and I are not confrontational people. In the grand scheme of things, we can wait for another couple minutes if the alternative is to get into a screaming match with clearly determined, self-centered people. So we let it slide. I feel terrible; I insisted on leaving to see the show as Adam dutifully held our spot in line, and my impatience inadvertently cost Adam valuable minutes. 

Well, too late now. We have reached the bar. No need to tally – we each order two Budweisers. We double-fist back to our vantage perch and rally our spirits back to the show.

After “Honkey Tonk Women” Mick introduces the band. First he does the ancillary musicians – the singers, the horns, the keys. Then Darryl Jones, who by this point may as well be a member of the band…

…Let us take a detour to run down the past 30 years of The Rolling Stones membership. In 1993, founding bassist Bill Wyman quit the band. His stated reasons were that he simply wanted a “normal life” away from the fame and constant rock star activity. In his stead, the band recruited Darryl Jones, who had previously played with Miles Davis in his ‘80s projects. However, Jones was not made a member of the band; he has been, and probably always will be, officially a sideman. This has always perplexed me – the bass guitar is so important to a rock band, it makes sense that you’d need that as a full part of the mix. Besides that, they replaced Brian Jones with Mick Taylor on guitar as an official member, then Taylor with Ronnie Wood. Why was this instance different? In the studio, both him and Wood play bass depending on the song, but he’s held it down live for 27 years. Is it a financial matter, and the rest of the band doesn’t want to split royalties 5 ways? That idea is disheartening, but knowing the often mercenary practices of the Stones’ business history, it’s not surprising. From what I understand Jones doesn’t really contribute creatively to songwriting, but more so plays what he is told. Even so, in a live setting each musician plays an essential part in the overall ebb and flow of the music, and his rock-solid rhythm and funky personality has been instrumental (no pun intended) to the band’s continued longevity. So I don’t know if I’m exactly a Darryl Jones stan, but I feel that he’s deservedly become a low-key fan favorite.

Back in the moment, each other band member is introduced to larger and larger applause. Ronnie Wood, “the young one,” quips Jagger. Next is Charlie Watts, who nods to the audience and does a quick and tight drum fill. He’s always been the coolest Stone. Finally, Mick’s “Glimmer Twin” himself, Keith Richards, who gets a standing ovation twice the size of anyone else as he steps to the mic. 

Keith slurs something to the crowd and snickers, and leads the group through two of his own numbers. The special place “Keith songs” have in the lore of Stones fans needs no explanation – it is the outlaw id of the band let loose. He starts with “Slipping Away,” from the late ‘80s comeback album Steel Wheels. It’s a surprising choice, a slower ballad but a groovy one, and he supports it with an equally surprising extended blues solo. Then he picks up the pace and bashes out “Before They Make Me Run,” probably the all-time greatest Keith song, a rough and tumble manifesto.

By this point the band is completely warmed up, as is the audience. The beer is beginning to hit, and for the first time that evening I feel the storied magic of the Stones show. “Miss You” is stretched out dramatically; Darryl Jones takes a bass solo and walks it through the park. As the rhythm pops along, I survey the assembled crowd and see heads bobbing, people dancing, cell phones flashing. The band slowly works back in, one by one, and builds back up to a rousing climax. Then eruptive applause dies down, and out of the second of silence Wood unspools the unmistakable sitar-cum-guitar riff of “Paint It Black.” This is where the stage-encompassing screens really come into play, as they portray drifting black and white images of smoke and twining hands, the lights and fire effects bumping along to the song’s hypnotic pounding beat. As overplayed as “Paint It Black” has become, hearing it loud and live with an amped up crowd allowed me to truly feel the sinister power of the tune; the snaking riff and incessant pounding culminates into a powerful trancelike show of dark majesty.

Now with audience firmly in hand, the band brings out the warhorses. “Gimme Shelter” has lost none of its apocalyptic power. Of course, original vocalist Merry Clayton is not present to duet with Jagger; one of the background vocalists stands in her very big shoes. It is impossible to completely replicate the energy of the original recording – Clayton’s performance on the 1971 track is one of the most powerful vocal performances of all time. I can only imagine how nervous this relatively no-name girl standing on stage in front of thousands and singing “Gimme Shelter” with the Rolling Stones. I would quake. Yet the song is given a respectable reading in the balmy Florida night, and I’m reminded of how great of a collaborator Mick Jagger is. Every time I’ve seen him sing with others, whether it be Christina Aguilera, Jack White, or an unknown backup singer, he always focuses on them and matches their energy. It’s an extremely supportive trait from one of the true superstars of the world, and it reinforces how committed the man is to putting on a great show song after song, night after night, year after year.

The band finishes up the set with “Start Me Up” (surprisingly not their first song) and “Jumpin’ Jack Flash.” After they take bows and vacate the stage, the audience remains standing. We know it’s not over; we know there is more to come. I see cell phones and lighters raised across the entire bowl. It’s an arch of light, bridging the Sixties to the Teens. I don’t know if rock is very rebellious any more; decades of commodification and repetition have ensured that the establishment is quite alright with rock n’ roll, no matter the length of the band’s hair. But it is still freeing. I stand with my phone aloft, screen lit with everyone else, and I feel both camaraderie with everyone else, and a heightened sense that certain moments can make all the toil and waiting worthwhile.

At last the band reappears for their encore. The roll through a raunchy read of “Brown Sugar,” then close out with – you guessed it – “Satisfaction.” Even though I knew that they’d end with their signature song, I still couldn’t help but beam as they rode out that signature riff into the night. 

Then that’s it. Mick bid us farewell and says that he’ll see us next time, whenever and wherever that may be. Adam and I linger for a few moments, soaking in the remaining atmosphere, reveling in the post-concert release. Finally we turn to make the weary trek down back out of the stadium, and follow the river of revellers into town to check out what post-show nightlight Jax has to offer.

Adam mentions a local brewery that he wants to hit, so we do a bit of urban exploring and come upon its naked-steel frame industrial exterior. It’s closed. Closed, on a Friday night, after a mega-concert?? In lieu of craft beer we find a Jaguars football bar, that is filled to the brim with similarly displaced rockers. I mean, this place is crowded – there are no seats available and we must elbow our way to the bar in order to purchase much needed libations. We make our way onto the brick porch exterior and post up in the corner next to some discarded barrels. There is a live band playing workman versions of the standard bar-band material – thankfully, no Stones numbers.

Over a couple rounds, Adam and I discuss each other’s personal lives. We discuss relationships and desires, shared memories and speculations, and look toward the future with vague hopeful longing.

Our night ended, we trudge back outside to order a ride. The crowd is dispersing but we remove ourselves a few blocks to make it easier for our Uber to locate us. It takes a long time, as the beleaguered drivers are understandably still busy. By this point I must admit to being exhausted – it has been a long day traversing the state and the city, let alone witnessing legends in the flesh. I sit down on the curb next to an abandoned hot dog stand. The streets are mostly quiet, with a few drunken shouts down random streets. A woman straggles by sporting a light-up tutu looking a little unsure of where to go, or why. As I rest my head on my arms, the night begins to become a little less solid, and before long the darkness creeps into my vision.

Adam rouses me to get into the Uber, and at some point we arrive at my friend’s apartment. She is already asleep when we arrive, but left a key for us. We are sleeping in the living room – Adam on a folding cot, me on the sleeper bed. We talk a bit, possibly a little too loud for our sleeping host, still keyed up from our night. It’s not long before we taper off; we cannot sustain our excitement in the face of exhaustion. I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling. 

I feel a sense of fulfillment, having positioned myself within the continuing tapestry of life experiences. It’s amazing that despite age and trends and mockery, the Stones continue to deliver. And now, I’ve been a part of it. I guess it’s true that a rollin’ stone don’t gather no moss, and I for one hope to keep rollin’ too…through the future, through the present, and through the past, darkly.