Don’t Stop Thinking About Tomorrow

            Fleetwood Mac was in town a couple of weeks ago. Did you go? Because Chuck and I did. And we had a wonderful evening. I mean, who wouldn’t love getting in touch with their inner-1976ish self while watching Stevie and Mick do their thing?

 

And so it was that we met up with our favorite concert-going friends, Jim and Teresa. First we dined al fresco at one of Gold River’s best, Jack’s Urban Eats; and then we headed to Arco Arena – I mean, Power Balance Pavilion – I mean, Sleep Train Arena — for the 7:30 start time.

 

The venue was perfect. Our seats could not have been better. The anticipatory excitement was contagious. The joie de vivre was palpable.  Chuck’s beer was icy cold. My wine was blissfully refreshing. This, my friends, was going to be an awesome concert!!

 

But…who were these people?

 

Because as I was checking out the crowd, I was accosted by the sight of an overabundance of Mom Jeans and Easy Spirit Comfort shoes.  At every turn I saw upper-arms-gone-flaccid and too-large-to-be-healthy paunches. I was overlooking a veritable sea of salt-and-pepper and shininess – as in graying hair and balding heads.

 

As I sat there assessing who would for the next three hours be my new BFF’s, I wondered to myself what the cumulative cost of HRT/Metamucil/Cialis was amongst all of us gathered together.

 

A heavy silence descended upon the four of us.  I leaned in and quietly said, “Pssssssst. You guys, doesn’t everybody look old?”

 

Jim replied, “Yeah, they do. And I bet they’re saying the same thing about us.”

 

Yikes! He was absolutely right. I looked around and realized that others around us were whispering the same exact thing about us. We were one of them. We were all in this together. That cold harsh reality warranted at least two or three quick gulps – I mean, sips – of wine.

 

Finally, the lights dimmed. Thousands upon thousands of liver-spotted hands clapped in unison. And out came, first,             . , followed by the venerable, iconic Stevie Nicks. And thus began an

 

 

 

 

Okay… so they sounded a tich raspier and they moved a skosh more slowly and vigilantly, but they still had the innate ability and talent to captivate and mesmerize.

 

They melodically beseeched us to go our own way. They sang to us about Rhiannon and Landslides, and the fact that children get older, times get tough, and that we might just be Second Hand News. And they lyrically urged us to Don’t Stop Thinking About Tomorrow.

 

But heck, I couldn’t stop thinking about yesterday! Because after listening to their words, you are back circa 1976

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Don’t Stop Thinking About Tomorrow

            Fleetwood Mac was in town a couple of weeks ago. Did you go? Because Chuck and I did. And we had a wonderful evening. I mean, who wouldn’t love getting in touch with their inner-1976ish self while watching Stevie and Mick do their thing?

 

And so it was that we met up with our favorite concert-going friends, Jim and Teresa. First we dined al fresco at one of Gold River’s best, Jack’s Urban Eats; and then we headed to Arco Arena – I mean, Power Balance Pavilion – I mean, Sleep Train Arena — for the 7:30 start time.

 

The venue was perfect. Our seats could not have been better. The anticipatory excitement was contagious. The joie de vivre was palpable.  Chuck’s beer was icy cold. My wine was blissfully refreshing. This, my friends, was going to be an awesome concert!!

 

But…who were these people?

 

Because as I was checking out the crowd, I was accosted by the sight of an overabundance of Mom Jeans and Easy Spirit Comfort shoes.  At every turn I saw upper-arms-gone-flaccid and too-large-to-be-healthy paunches. I was overlooking a veritable sea of salt-and-pepper and shininess – as in graying hair and balding heads.

 

As I sat there assessing who would for the next three hours be my new BFF’s, I wondered to myself what the cumulative cost of HRT/Metamucil/Cialis was amongst all of us gathered together.

 

A heavy silence descended upon the four of us.  I leaned in and quietly said, “Pssssssst. You guys, doesn’t everybody look old?”

 

Jim replied, “Yeah, they do. And I bet they’re saying the same thing about us.”

 

Yikes! He was absolutely right. I looked around and realized that others around us were whispering the same exact thing about us. We were one of them. We were all in this together. That cold harsh reality warranted at least two or three quick gulps – I mean, sips – of wine.

 

Finally, the lights dimmed. Thousands upon thousands of liver-spotted hands clapped in unison. And out came, first,             . , followed by the venerable, iconic Stevie Nicks. And thus began an

 

 

 

 

Okay… so they sounded a tich raspier and they moved a skosh more slowly and vigilantly, but they still had the innate ability and talent to captivate and mesmerize.

 

They melodically beseeched us to go our own way. They sang to us about Rhiannon and Landslides, and the fact that children get older, times get tough, and that we might just be Second Hand News. And they lyrically urged us to Don’t Stop Thinking About Tomorrow.

 

But heck, I couldn’t stop thinking about yesterday! Because after listening to their words, you are back circa 1976

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Don’t Stop Thinking About Tomorrow

            Fleetwood Mac was in town a couple of weeks ago. Did you go? Because Chuck and I did. And we had a wonderful evening. I mean, who wouldn’t love getting in touch with their inner-1976ish self while watching Stevie and Mick do their thing?

 

And so it was that we met up with our favorite concert-going friends, Jim and Teresa. First we dined al fresco at one of Gold River’s best, Jack’s Urban Eats; and then we headed to Arco Arena – I mean, Power Balance Pavilion – I mean, Sleep Train Arena — for the 7:30 start time.

 

The venue was perfect. Our seats could not have been better. The anticipatory excitement was contagious. The joie de vivre was palpable.  Chuck’s beer was icy cold. My wine was blissfully refreshing. This, my friends, was going to be an awesome concert!!

 

But…who were these people?

 

Because as I was checking out the crowd, I was accosted by the sight of an overabundance of Mom Jeans and Easy Spirit Comfort shoes.  At every turn I saw upper-arms-gone-flaccid and too-large-to-be-healthy paunches. I was overlooking a veritable sea of salt-and-pepper and shininess – as in graying hair and balding heads.

 

As I sat there assessing who would for the next three hours be my new BFF’s, I wondered to myself what the cumulative cost of HRT/Metamucil/Cialis was amongst all of us gathered together.

 

A heavy silence descended upon the four of us.  I leaned in and quietly said, “Pssssssst. You guys, doesn’t everybody look old?”

 

Jim replied, “Yeah, they do. And I bet they’re saying the same thing about us.”

 

Yikes! He was absolutely right. I looked around and realized that others around us were whispering the same exact thing about us. We were one of them. We were all in this together. That cold harsh reality warranted at least two or three quick gulps – I mean, sips – of wine.

 

Finally, the lights dimmed. Thousands upon thousands of liver-spotted hands clapped in unison. And out came, first,             . , followed by the venerable, iconic Stevie Nicks. And thus began an

 

 

 

 

Okay… so they sounded a tich raspier and they moved a skosh more slowly and vigilantly, but they still had the innate ability and talent to captivate and mesmerize.

 

They melodically beseeched us to go our own way. They sang to us about Rhiannon and Landslides, and the fact that children get older, times get tough, and that we might just be Second Hand News. And they lyrically urged us to Don’t Stop Thinking About Tomorrow.

 

But heck, I couldn’t stop thinking about yesterday! Because after listening to their words, you are back circa 1976

 

 

 

Don’t Stop Thinking About Tomorrow

            Fleetwood Mac was in town a couple of weeks ago. Did you go? Because Chuck and I did. And we had a wonderful evening. I mean, who wouldn’t love getting in touch with their inner-1976ish self while watching Stevie and Mick do their thing?

 

And so it was that we met up with our favorite concert-going friends, Jim and Teresa. First we dined al fresco at one of Gold River’s best, Jack’s Urban Eats; and then we headed to Arco Arena – I mean, Power Balance Pavilion – I mean, Sleep Train Arena — for the 7:30 start time.

 

The venue was perfect. Our seats could not have been better. The anticipatory excitement was contagious. The joie de vivre was palpable.  Chuck’s beer was icy cold. My wine was blissfully refreshing. This, my friends, was going to be an awesome concert!!

 

But…who were these people?

 

Because as I was checking out the crowd, I was accosted by the sight of an overabundance of Mom Jeans and Easy Spirit Comfort shoes.  At every turn I saw upper-arms-gone-flaccid and too-large-to-be-healthy paunches. I was overlooking a veritable sea of salt-and-pepper and shininess – as in graying hair and balding heads.

 

As I sat there assessing who would for the next three hours be my new BFF’s, I wondered to myself what the cumulative cost of HRT/Metamucil/Cialis was amongst all of us gathered together.

 

A heavy silence descended upon the four of us.  I leaned in and quietly said, “Pssssssst. You guys, doesn’t everybody look old?”

 

Jim replied, “Yeah, they do. And I bet they’re saying the same thing about us.”

 

Yikes! He was absolutely right. I looked around and realized that others around us were whispering the same exact thing about us. We were one of them. We were all in this together. That cold harsh reality warranted at least two or three quick gulps – I mean, sips – of wine.

 

Finally, the lights dimmed. Thousands upon thousands of liver-spotted hands clapped in unison. And out came, first,             . , followed by the venerable, iconic Stevie Nicks. And thus began an

 

 

 

 

Okay… so they sounded a tich raspier and they moved a skosh more slowly and vigilantly, but they still had the innate ability and talent to captivate and mesmerize.

 

They melodically beseeched us to go our own way. They sang to us about Rhiannon and Landslides, and the fact that children get older, times get tough, and that we might just be Second Hand News. And they lyrically urged us to Don’t Stop Thinking About Tomorrow.

 

But heck, I couldn’t stop thinking about yesterday! Because after listening to their words, you are back circa 1976

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Don’t Stop Thinking About Tomorrow

            Fleetwood Mac was in town a couple of weeks ago. Did you go? Because Chuck and I did. And we had a wonderful evening. I mean, who wouldn’t love getting in touch with their inner-1976ish self while watching Stevie and Mick do their thing?

 

And so it was that we met up with our favorite concert-going friends, Jim and Teresa. First we dined al fresco at one of Gold River’s best, Jack’s Urban Eats; and then we headed to Arco Arena – I mean, Power Balance Pavilion – I mean, Sleep Train Arena — for the 7:30 start time.

 

The venue was perfect. Our seats could not have been better. The anticipatory excitement was contagious. The joie de vivre was palpable.  Chuck’s beer was icy cold. My wine was blissfully refreshing. This, my friends, was going to be an awesome concert!!

 

But…who were these people?

 

Because as I was checking out the crowd, I was accosted by the sight of an overabundance of Mom Jeans and Easy Spirit Comfort shoes.  At every turn I saw upper-arms-gone-flaccid and too-large-to-be-healthy paunches. I was overlooking a veritable sea of salt-and-pepper and shininess – as in graying hair and balding heads.

 

As I sat there assessing who would for the next three hours be my new BFF’s, I wondered to myself what the cumulative cost of HRT/Metamucil/Cialis was amongst all of us gathered together.

 

A heavy silence descended upon the four of us.  I leaned in and quietly said, “Pssssssst. You guys, doesn’t everybody look old?”

 

Jim replied, “Yeah, they do. And I bet they’re saying the same thing about us.”

 

Yikes! He was absolutely right. I looked around and realized that others around us were whispering the same exact thing about us. We were one of them. We were all in this together. That cold harsh reality warranted at least two or three quick gulps – I mean, sips – of wine.

 

Finally, the lights dimmed. Thousands upon thousands of liver-spotted hands clapped in unison. And out came, first,             . , followed by the venerable, iconic Stevie Nicks. And thus began an

 

 

 

 

Okay… so they sounded a tich raspier and they moved a skosh more slowly and vigilantly, but they still had the innate ability and talent to captivate and mesmerize.

 

They melodically beseeched us to go our own way. They sang to us about Rhiannon and Landslides, and the fact that children get older, times get tough, and that we might just be Second Hand News. And they lyrically urged us to Don’t Stop Thinking About Tomorrow.

 

But heck, I couldn’t stop thinking about yesterday! Because after listening to their words, you are back circa 1976

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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