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It was a blisteringly hot August afternoon in Chicago’s Grant Park, and I was not doing OK.
I was at the annual Lollapalooza music festival with my 13-year-old son, Charlie. When I agreed to take him — it was his first festival experience, a big milestone for a music-loving kid — I didn’t anticipate it being so physically taxing. By midday, I’d been on my feet for five hours straight, and we weren’t even halfway done. We’d seen a half dozen bands, and my legs were wobbling like antique furniture. I was drenched in sweat, my ears were ringing, and I would’ve literally given away my 401(k) for a cold glass of water and a stool.
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Charlie, meanwhile, was enraptured. We were near the front of the stage for TV Girl, his favorite band (whom I hadn’t realized existed until that morning). He was dancing and singing along to every lyric, surrounded by thousands of blissed-out fans. I’m pretty sure I was the only one there in his 50s, and I was definitely the only one concerned with making sure his son stayed hydrated.
“Dad, stop it,” Charlie snarled at me as I tried to apply more sunscreen to his forehead.
That’s my job at the rock show now. I’m the middle-aged guy with the backpack filled with healthy snacks, hand sanitizer, antihistamines (for Charlie’s peanut allergy) and the receipt for parking that I reserved two months ago. I’m basically my son’s sherpa.
It wasn’t always like this. I went to my first Lollapalooza in 1992, when I was barely 20 years old. I couldn’t tell you with any certainty how I got there — I just crawled into some random dude’s car and hoped for the best. Once there, I flirted with girls dressed like train hobos, dove into the pulsating crowd during Pearl Jam’s set, and at some point lost my Doc Martens. I have no idea how they left my feet, but I remember walking out of the festival shoeless.
But that was then. In 1992, I was young and fearless and absolutely convinced I would never die. This is now. I'm in my early 50s, and acutely aware that death is possible, and I’m a prime candidate.
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