Once a Rock Star, Always a Rock Star

 Friday night, 9p.m., downtown San Diego was collectively SOMF'd by Mick Jagger and The Rolling Stones. (Don't know what SOMF means? Never seen it used as a verb? Never admit it publicly, my friend. Your cool-q will drop by full percentage points...)

Ahh, Mick. Mick, Mick, Mick, Mick, Mick, Mick. Now there's a real motherfuckin' rock star. The man was bouncing all over the stage, going nuts, doing the lean-n-rock with Keith, pumping his fist, swiveling his hips, soaking up the stage lights, just going bonkers - singing his lungs out as if San Diego wasn't the 17th stop on the tour. He was electrifying. And yeah... he's 60-something.

I'm so sick of hearing about his age. So what? The man was born to rock. Born for it. You know that doesn't change, you don't turn sweater-wearing, cheese-sniffing curmudgeon at 60 - especially when your blood is pickled with the sweet fermentation of a real-life Rock 'n' Roll God (and about ten thousand gallons of single-malt scotch and a sandbox full of cocaine, but who's counting?).

He's royalty, people. The real thing. A legend. And the best part? He acts like it. I truly believe the world needs more rock stars - more purveyors of fun and freedom, embassadors of ball-grabbing, life-affirming good times - but I just don't think they make 'em like Mick anymore.

He's the One That Made It Out Alive. Who figured the gig out, and kept his shit together and made it out the other side to inspire future lead singers to something other than FlashinthePan-itis, suicide, or overdose. Without Mick, there would be no Jason Hill of Louis XIV. It's that singularly brash, charismatic, arrogant, sexy, "Yeah, I'm wearing sparkly pants and no shirt and a neck scarf and I look good and know it - wanna do me?" thing.

Let's get this straight: I'm no drooling spaztic fan. With the exception of a regrettable Shaun Cassidy phase, I've never been one for fanhood, for bedroom posters or waiting out in the rain for tickets. I'm too lazy. The fact I even went to The Stones concert was pure, sweet coincidence - and the fact that Jen's fabulous parental units Mary + Dave had an extra ticket and have previously enjoyed the Floor Show of Ridiculousness that occasionally occurs after I imbibe a couple of stiff drinks. (I think after this many years, they come to find it a little endearing. At least that's what I tell myself to stave off the humiliation.)

Yet here I am, slathering on the praise, stung with the fiery zeal of a convert: The Rolling Stones ROCK. This concert was so much fun that I'm still wired over it two days later. Even managed to blast through a grinding hangover - and awake this morning pumped up and vibrating with Stones songs rollicking through my head.

What's not to love? An entire stadium filled with people, on their feet dancing, everyone singing their lungs out - song after song after song. They felt it, too. It was energizing. It was healing. It was inspiring. It was as close to church as I ever want to get. All hail The Church of Rock-n-Roll.

Hey! Now there's a congregation where I wouldn't mind the tithing... I wish Shannon was awake. I think I may just have found us both brand new careers. THE VARMINT: Rock Profit... oops. I meant Prophet. Rock Prophet.


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I am a writer and lazy artist who loves travel, architecture and design. Right now, I'm into photography. My fabulous husband (a.k.a. The Varmint) and I are also the principals of a San Diego-based creative agency - and new parents to the divine Baby Mak. Read More >