This weekend has already been a 9 out of 10 on the eventful scale. Between quitting my job and spending my last tearful day at work, dancing the chicken dance at my friend Erica’s wedding, having one of my pugs fall in the pool and nearly drown, hoping to convince my in-laws that the Sherwin-Williams “pulsating blue” (yes, that’s really the name) color we’ve painted our house is gloriously contemporary rather than heinous . . .. there’s probably a ton of crap I’m forgetting about . . . but we drove to Orlando last night to see Weezer play at the Hard Rock Cafe. We had balcony seats because I’m too old to stand for three hours and get body slammed. I always watch the intense stage set up with interest, roadies scurrying everywhere, sound checking, and I’m thinking “This is more involved than a fucking library show!” (more on that topic some day). I saw this one guy kicking a soccer ball around, thinking “Why isn’t that one helping?” and then realized, duhrrr, it’s Rivers Cuomo warming up for the show. I brought binoculars so I could gaze upon my pop rock heroes from my nosebleed aerie. They played a “memory medley” of their material going back in time until they reached the Blue Album, which they played straight through. They were glossy pros, fixing any jiggy sound issues after about one song, then it was pure, bouncy blast Weezer, just like the CD‘s — almost too canned with no jamming improvisational breaks. The crowd was an interesting mix of 20-30-40-50 somethings, with a few 10 year olds thrown in for good measure. (The mom in our row had to keep taking her daughter to the bathroom, causing my grumpy old ass to kick over my supersized $10 gin and tonic into my purse where I had set it down to pick up my binoculars.) During an intermission (no, I have never seen this before), this long-haired middle aged dude (oh, wait, I’m married to a long haired middle aged dude) saw us looking sleepy, fading, way past our bedtime, and said, ” You two are mature concert goers,” and produced some footage of a Springsteen concert on his phone that he no doubt thought would impress us and revive our spirits. The Boss has never quite done it for me, and what the hell is this about Mature Concert Goers ?! — look around, Sir, there are way more mature people and actual white heads — go bother them with your Dancing In the Dark footage. So anyway, blah blah, by the time Weezer got to “Say It Ain’t So,” my sleepiness was gone, I was half out of my chair punching the air, thanking the spirits of music that this quirky, loud, power nerd blend of feedback and bubblegum is still around, playing passionately, grabbing us by the throats the way they did 15 years ago. Even though they’d done this a million times, they performed authentically. You rock, Weezer, yeaaaaaaaaah! Makin’ the W-sign with my hand and holding my lighter and all that! When in doubt about what to do, just write, play, paint, sew, drive, build your passion, and you’ll be okay. (Yeah, so I think Bruce already said this eloquently in Dancing In the Dark.) You’ll be living.