The 80’s and 90’s were good years to be young. When I was in high school, each year, from May to September, my friend’s and my preferred activity was getting drunk going to concerts at Red Rocks. It almost didn’t matter which band was playing; simply being there was a blast. Back then, we were allowed to wait in line at the gates, overnight, while passing bottles of beer and unknown Everclear-based punch concoctions around. The official rule was “no glass,” so we’d get an empty gallon-sized milk jug (or two) to fill with whatever we could pilfer from our parents’ liquor cabinets. Some combinations were more successful-tasting than others, but each did the trick.
Usually, we’d pass out for a couple of hours before sunrise, awake, and hold one another’s place in line while taking turns to pee and splash water on our faces in the disgusting bathrooms. Some peoople would be clever enough to have a friend meet them that morning with donuts and we’d gladly pay $3 (often, in quarters, because that’s how we rolled), for a single bite.
Red Rocks would open its gates around 11:00a.m., and we’d all run in to claim our spots in general seating, which were the best seats in the house if you were there early enough (hence camping out the night before).
Most concerts didn’t begin until close to sundown, so we had all day to drink, soak up a tan in our bikini tops, maintain a semblance of sobriety by consuming hot dogs and crappy fake-cheese nachos, and “mingle,” which is lady-talk for cruising while hoping to fall briefly in love.
This was the way in which I saw Billy Idol for the first time (years before he wanted to Rebel Yell with me), U2, Howard Jones, The Kinks, Power Station, Depeche Mode, and more. Seriously, if you’ve never been, and have an opportunity to see a concert at Red Rocks, it’s the best place for one, EVER. Oh and in case you’re wondering, the reason Metallica isn’t on that list is because I didn’t like them until the 90’s and then, they played at McNichol’s Arena and Mile High, both of which are now closed.
High school. Fun times.
There was one day in high school that wasn’t that much fun, although the memory remains burned in my retinas forever. It was the day after a Red Rocks concert, and my two brothers and I were staying at my mom’s house for the weekend.
She had a new boyfriend. At first, she tried to pass him off as 30 years old, but after he and I figured out that one another looked familiar, and ended up knowing some of the same kids from rival high schools, I figured out that he wasn’t much older than I was. Still, not my type. I mean, hello, he was having sex with my mother, and if there’s a bigger turn-off in a dude than that, I’d like to know what it is. And if you just thought of one? Feel free not to answer, because I just thought about it and am totally okay with not knowing.
Anyway, mom’s new boyfriend and she decided to take us to “the beach.” When you grow up in south Denver, “the beach” is one of two reservoirs. The one closest to us was Cherry Creek reservoir, and it was fun enough. It’s where I learned to waterski and to sail, although my sailing teacher later drowned, in a sailing accident, so I’ve since questioned the skills he taught me and don’t usually brag about having taken a class or claim to know anything about sailing.
It was fun to go to the reservoir. Plus, there was always a chance of sneaking away from mom while she groped her new manchild boyfriend, with hope of finding a manchild boyfriend of my own. Preferably one who had beer. I digress.
In order for you to understand the magnitude of the horror we were about to witness on this particular day, I need to let you know just a tiny bit about the area in which I grew up. To say that it was suburban and whitebread and a bit on the conservative side is a gross understatement but we’ll go with that, knowing that it’s enough that you realize that it was in no way edgy, urban, hip, or progressive.
Styling in my mom’s two-toned 280ZX with the T-Tops off, blasting music to make sure everybody knew how cool we were was just the warm-up. We had arrived. So we unpacked coolers, towels, and Baby Oil (because God forbid we protect our skin with sun block back then), and trudged up to find a good spot to lay down our towels and commence with the fun.
In fairly typical 80’s style, my mom’s boyfriend wore his mullet proudly, accompanied by plaid shorts and an un-buttoned white oxford shirt, probably to remind my mom what a sexy young stud she had found herself.
At one point, while balancing all of our shit, he must have decided he was hot or something, as he took off his shorts.
He was wearing a thong. At Cherry Creek Reservoir. With my mom.
Aaaand, because he was wearing his stupid oxford shirt still, it hung just enough over his man thong that you couldn’t see the little triangle above the butt-floss, so he looked naked.
The rest of the afternoon was less than fun because rather than trolling for boys and beer, I pretended to sleep with a shirt over my head in case any of my friends were there.
The moral? Man thongs are not cool. Ever. And if you’re a mom and your boyfriend shows up in one? Leave him there. He can call a taxi, and that shit will scar your children for life. Trust me.
This has been a Finish the Sentence Friday post. Today’s sentence is “I went to a concert…”
Your hosts: Janine: Janine’s Confessions of a Mommyaholic
Kate: Can I get another bottle of whine?
Stephanie: Mommy, for Real
Me (Kristi): Finding Ninee