Last weekend was supposed to be the one. A glorious return to the home studio, a full-on jam session where three guys in their late 40s could crank the amps and pretend for a few hours that life wasn’t all bills, yard work, and Wal-Mart runs.
Instead? We got a masterclass in how middle-aged body-slams Dad Rock.
Jeff went down first, sick, but not the “I partied too hard” sick. More like the “I need tissues, soup, and a nap” sick. Meanwhile, my dog came home with fleas.
Where I Made My Mistake…
In a moment of over-cautious dad logic, I canceled the jam early. At first, I braced myself for a full-scale lice-remediation scenario: garbage bags over the couch, hazmat suits, and tossing half the house in the trash. Turns out, it was way simpler. Per the vet’s recommendation, we bathed her in Dawn dish soap, applied flea treatment, ran the vacuum, and just like that, the crisis was averted. Not very rock and roll, but she smelled fantastic.
My Saturday, though? Toast. And that gave Scott just enough time to make “other plans.” Boom. Weekend jam: canceled.
Scott’s P.I.B.E.
When trying to coordinate a weekend jam session, 97.234% of the time you’ll encounter Scott’s dreaded acronym: P.I.B.E. (Play It By Ear). It’s his default text reply whenever plans are in the works and he’s not entirely on board. In Scott-speak, that’s how you “commit.” In reality, it’s just code for, “This probably isn’t happening for me.”
Between Dadapalooza and P.I.B.E., scheduling Scott is basically a full-time job.
Scott’s Dadapalooza
Scott’s never satisfied with just a jam. If he’s making the trip, he wants the whole Dadapalooza experience, a multi-event festival crammed into a single afternoon. His dream itinerary usually looks something like this:
- Early afternoon target shooting. I’m an avid target shooter, and Scott likes to do a little plinking. The thing is, either jamming or target shooting could take up a whole day on its own. Both are exhausting. But Scott? He wants to mash them together like some kind of dad-rock Ironman.
- Beer and wing pit stop. We’ve got some of the best wings near where I live. Jiggers has cold beer and wings that are nothing short of phenomenal. Scott likes stopping after shooting for some wings and “just one beer.”
Here’s the problem: after a couple of beers and a basket (or two) of wings, most guys in their late 40s are headed straight for the couch and a nap. Not Scott. Nope, he’s just hitting his stride and finally ready to jam. Meanwhile, I’m propping myself up against the wall, stuffed with suds and fried chicken in dipping sauce, smelling like a buffalo blue cheese ale, and wondering if I’ll have the energy to make it through a jam session. And Jeff? By the time 8 PM rolls around, he’s ready to call it a night, because when you wake up at the ungodly hour of 5 AM, bedtime comes early. So there we are: Scott revving up, Jeff winding down, and me stuck in the middle, trying not to fall into a food coma.
Rock and Roll… or the ER?
And just so you don’t think this was a one-time fluke, let’s rewind to another “jam” a while back. Tom was so hyped for it, amped up like a kid on Christmas morning, that on the way to my house, he actually considered pulling into UPMC East. His heart was racing, panic set in, and for a moment, he thought it might be a heart attack.
But here’s the thing about Tom: he had the wherewithal to recognize it for what it was, anxiety, not the big one. He settled himself down, drove on, and made it to the jam. That’s Tom in a nutshell: always in the pocket, always in control.
Rock and roll in your 40s: where the line between adrenaline and urgent care is razor thin.
Shrugging It Off
Between Jeff’s 5 AM wake-ups, my slow-roll mornings, Scott’s Dadapalooza, Tom’s near-ER detour, and the Dawn dish soap flea remediation, it’s a miracle we ever play a note. These days, we’re not trashing hotel rooms. We’re trashing our group text with endless reschedule attempts.
The trick is not to get too worked up about it. We’ve all got jobs, families, and responsibilities that outweigh the jam. Sometimes life just says, “Not this time.”
Why It Still Matters
But here’s the thing: if we don’t fight for these sessions, they disappear. The months slip by, and suddenly the only time you touch your guitar is when you’re moving it to vacuum. That’s why, even with all the cancellations, the P.I.B.E.s, the flea baths, and the almost-heart-attacks, we keep trying to make it happen.
Because when it does, and when we actually get in a room, crank up the amps, laugh too loud, and play too sloppily? That’s when Dad Rock is alive and well.
Last weekend was a bust. But one of these weekends, we’ll pull it off. Beer, wings, amps, maybe even Scott’s 4 PM marathon schedule. And it’ll be glorious, assuming nobody needs to stop at the ER on the way over.