The other night Matt and I went out…on a monday night…til 1:30 in the morning. Yes, that's right. We are officially of an age and station in life where that statement can possibly raise some eyebrows. It certainly raised ours. Things have been pretty non-stop around the Lombard household lately, so we figured why not willingly venture to the bowels Hollywood to see the mash-up artist/DJ Girl Talk? You know, dance a little, drink a little, let loose? Well, when we got to the Palladium (which I hadn't been to since the Red Hot Chili Peppers played there in 1989) the floor was so jammed with an eager, already sweaty, twenty-something crowd, that we headed straight for the balcony. The good ol' balcony where two working parents in their late 30's with two small children who will be up at 6:45am can safely watch a show. It was like we were some over-protective chaperones watching a bunch of kids get their groove on at the school dance. 

 

Once the music started, I got pretty into it. It's pretty amazing to watch this guy mix a million disparate musical parts right there on stage with his laptop, which is why we really wanted to go in the first place. All the folks around me were certainly into it, recording most of the show on their cellphones for I don't know what purpose. Oh right, maybe they have a blog. But at one point I looked back and there was Matt swaying from side to side with his head down, both index fingers pressed firmly into his ears. "It's too loud for me to really enjoy it," he yelled. I think our concert/club days are numbered. 

 

But as we left (probably way before it was over), we tried once more to feel as though we still belonged to this massive group of sweaty hipsters. Then I looked at the time, 1am, and like two Cinderellas, which I'm sure Matt will be happy to be compared to, we rushed our little selves home.

By the next morning, as I blearily poured cereal for two hungry little boys, I still thought it was worth it.