I mean, there does come a time, you just don’t always know that the time is now. Or really, probably passed a while ago and you just didn’t notice. But the time does come when spontaneity just can’t be quite so spontaneous.

Anyway, Randy and I used to be at least a little adventurous.

One time, when driving between Kansas City and Wichita, we decided to veer right and go to Denver. About an 8 hour drive. We ended up changing course in the morning and went to Colorado Springs to see Pike’s Peak.

Colorado Springs was under fog that day. I went into a convenience store and asked the clerk where Pike’s Peak was and he sort of rolled his eyes and pointed out the window. “Right outside?”

Well, you couldn’t see shit. So, I bought a postcard. I’ve still never seen Pike’s Peak.

I was pregnant with our son, Joey, when we made that trip over 26 years ago.

We used to do stuff like that regularly. And then those times slowed down a bit. Then stopped. I can’t remember the last time we took an impromptu trip.

The trip we took last night wasn’t impromptu, really, but we only decided last weekend to drive to Lexington, KY and see Southern Culture On The Skids at a venue called The Burl.

Our first mistake was not finding out in advance that the seating isn’t seating.

Standing room only? Yeah, we can’t do that shit. My fucking knee hurts. His fucking back hurts. And fuck standing for 3 hours even if they don’t hurt. I am not anti-standing, but I don’t want to take a 3 hour bath either and I love baths. I don’t love standing.

The Burl is more of a complex than a typical venue. There was a food place, a building filled with video games, a roof top bar, a brewery, and a building with a bar and a stage. There was seating on the deck outside and we found a place there. So we could hear the music, but not so much see anything.

The good news is, we’ve seen this band before. In fact, we’ve seen them 3 times in less than a year. We know what they look like.

We took an Uber from our hotel. Randy found a Motel 6 for under a hundred bucks a night. We stayed at much nicer place because I paid my dues at the Motel 6. I’m not doing that anymore. I think our Uber driver was practicing being the wheels for getaways because damn. I drive too fast. I know I do, but I have nothing on that Uber driver. I’m glad we were only 5 miles from the venue.

Sitting outside allowed us to see other things we might have missed. Like the low-rent limo trolling through the parking lot.

I wish I had taken a picture of this, but I did not. There was this limo driving around the parking lot. It was a little rusty and completely janky. There were clouds of exhaust fumes and the muffler needed some attention. There were fairy lights behind the tinted glass and the driver had the music cranked. There was a sign on the door that said “Need a ride? Flag me down!”.

I have never wanted to ride in a limousine more in my life.

Also, the bathrooms were filled with graffiti.

I am not complaining. I love graffiti. I am fascinated by graffiti. If I get stopped by a train and all the cars are not covered in graffiti, then I am kind of salty.

It’s just this one bit of graffiti that I took exception to.

Crunchy is a whore?

No. No, crunchy is peanut butter. Or maybe potato chips. Or a word one might use to describe the music they are listening to if one is sort of pretentious.

But crunchy is never a whore.

I was on board with the “fuck trump” sentiment though.

Because fuck trump.

We ended up leaving before the show was over. Not because they weren’t awesome because they were. It’s just that we were tired, and those chairs were really hard.

Also, room service was available at the hotel I picked. But only until 11.

Okay, I am out of touch. It is really cool to reach an age where you can just excuse all sorts of ignorance with “I’m old and out of touch”.

That only works because it is absolutely true.

By the way, I do not include malignant ignorance or ignorance that includes maligning or minimizing anyone. 

Anyway, I learned something not long ago about my hometown of Cincinnati. I learned that there is a men’s club here called Cincy Jacks.

I have since learned there are similar clubs all over the place, but like I said “old and out of touch”. 

Cincy Jacks is a club for people with a penis and they gather there to masturbate. As a group.

I am not judging this. Whatever grown consenting people want to do together is not my business. Whatever flips their flopper, you know?

I’m just having a hard time considering what a similar club would look like for people without a penis.

I know I am making a big assumption here, so please have some patience, but a few variations aside, I assume most men masturbate in a similar fashion.

For all that is holy, I know that is a generalization. I talked about this very thing on Twitter and when I suggested that men mostly masturbate in the same way, I was told in no uncertain terms how insensitive and wrong I am. And I should possibly be stoned to death. And not in a good way.

It would be a different club for women.

“So, hey. Do you have a Maytag washer, circa 1989 to 1992 that is slightly off balance during the spin cycle?”

“I’m going to need a GI Joe with a kung fu grip and a rubber mallet.”

“You don’t happen to have a video of Chipper Smith at prom in 1981 dancing to The Greeks Don’t Want No Freaks by the Eagles do you?”

I’m just saying, I don’t think there is a magical place where we could all get what we needed. Also, I don’t know many women who would want to make that a group sport anyway.

I mean, even if they had a hot, sexy bank of Maytags, I don’t think I’d participate.

I haven’t worked up enough nerve to even join a book club.