AS SPOTTED IN THE REARVIEW MIRROR

If nothing else, the past few weekends have proven a simple, unavoidable fact – I’m getting old.

Of course, I use the term “old” in a manner meant not to infer hobbled. It’s not the gray hairs, the semi-receding hairline nor difficulty in removing excess girth, but rather the degree to which I can’t run myself ragged to the degree that I’ve historically been used to. A full day of work on a Friday, for example, usually leads to a couch sitting session and a bottle of wine (or two, depending on the visual entertainment at hand), and a Saturday filled with the travails of low-fi documentary work usually means the lids begin to droop before the clock strikes midnight, despite whatever carnage I can throw at my vitals (to which I apologize to the Skmo for completely passing out before the usual attempt at a Tavern-style last call – my couch feels way too comfy these days).

I had bought tickets a few weeks back to M.I.A.’s gig last night at Philly’s UACA Hall, and with the mounting reception this Sri Lankan beaut is getting, it technically qualified as a must see despite it falling on a Sunday. An email that circulated over the weekend demanded attendees “get there early” due to the fact that the heralded one’s participation would be infringing on a semi-regular gig by Hollertronix.

Now one benefit of age I have yet to master is putting absolute faith in one’s instincts. I knew there was no way she would hit the stage at 9. I forsaw milling in a basement bar, filled to the brim with out-of-town scenesters, finding a wall for support, a bottle for comfort. My instincts are sharp, yet I choose not to listen. By the time M.I.A. hit the stage at 11:30, this here Wook spent more time counting down towards the comforts of home rather than enjoying what was, in retrospect, a most assured set. She rocks it, ya’ll, and despite my tenderness this morn, I’m glad I went. I may not feel young, but I'm trying not to feel so old.

On a side note, the UACA is a classic – a basement rec hall situated in the wilds of North Philly, a bunker for Ukranians with a full service bar and kitchen. The bottled selection was sparse, but for the record, I’ve never in my life seen such a fine selection of boxed wines on tap.