July 1

Oh, and I wish this
To turn back the clock and do over again
I was just wondering if you'd come along
Hold up my head when my head won't hold on
I'll do the same if the same is what you want
But if not I'll go
I will go alone
Oh, I need so
To stay in your arms see you smile hold you close
Oh, And it weighs on me
As heavy as stone and a bone chilling cold
I was just wondering if you'd come along
Just tell me you will


I’m exhausted.

I could blame my Thursday workout when I ran six miles, did P90X, and biked for roughly 20 miles. That night, I walked about 3 miles as well. I can’t blame Friday since I rested. Maybe today is at fault: I ran 9 miles, swam a 1.5-mile pyramid, and did yoga and ab work.

Nope.

Working out didn’t tire me.

Dave Matthews did. Concert number 13, I believe.

We headed to the show after dinner at the Capital Grille, a tony, overpriced steakhouse where middle-age hook-ups of people with 18-karat Big Ben watches and plunging cleavage of overly tanned and sagging breasts seemed de rigueur.

It was a clear dichotomy of where we were to where we were headed, a clash of society, indeed.

We walked through Old City, which is much more my style, to catch the ferry with several hundred other DMBandos for another night of sensual improvisational jamming.

I don’t think we’ve seen DMB since Rhode Island when we drove back through a blizzard only to learn Grace was gravely ill and needed hospitalization. That experience kind of soured me from following tours for a while.

But it was Mark’s 45th birthday, and we have not seen Dave since saxophonist Leroi Moore died in 2008. It was also one of the few times that I’ve seen Tim Reynolds perform. Plus, the band will not tour next year, the first time in their 20-year history. So it was time to return. Lucky for me, the setlist included some of my favorites: #41, Warehouse, The Stone, and Pig, which truly speaks the tenets of my life, my beliefs on seizing opportunities.

I danced most of the night beside college kids, middle-agers, adolescents, folks in their 60s, weeders who toked for two hours, even a balding elderly woman with a cane. I saw medics take out a young girl who got violently ill in the bathroom. I heard the couple next to me argue, with him storming out and leaving her behind. And I curiously watched a former colleague who stood two rows in front of me, clearly uncomfortable in this arena, rigid as a robot as his date shared a blunt with a stranger who I called “The Monkey”.

It was a hodge-podge of society, all collectively singing jazzy, bluesy, soulful songs of life and love. We actually cut out during the encore because my foot was angry and my eyes were tired.

But, two days later, the one body part that remained exhausted were my ears. It’s funny how, during my college days, I worked as entertainment editor of the college paper. And I went to every major concert to hit Philly, never worrying about my hearing.

Now, I go to one, and I feel as if nails are piercing through my head.

This reminds me of how quickly our lives change, how we can try to hold on to the past but our youth quickly slips away no matter what actions we take, no matter what reactions we feel.

We can waste our time simply wanting to turn back the clock. Or we can invest our time just trying to slow it down. I vote for the latter.