A running theme with my daughter, Madeleine, is the things she cannot do because she is two years old. For so many things she has to be five, six, even seven years old, sometimes just three. She tries to sit in the front seat of the car, “you have to be twelve,” and so on. I am frequently assigning numbers to activities out of reach. Then, this morning, I am walking, alone, in front of the Echo nightclub – on my way to Par Paint,* across the street – and I see an 8x11.5 sheet of white paper, taped to a light pole and blowing in the wind, advertising for a drummer. The thing that catches my eye is the prominent age restrictions, so precisely decided: Seeking drummer, age 20 to 31. Oh, no! I have already been 32! And what’s wrong with 32? Or 33? Or…never mind. I never wanted to be a drummer anyway. My daughter is a good drummer (no kidding) but she’s missing a zero. And she’s never heard of the other specs – the bands the flyer says you have to like, if you happen to be 20 to 31 years old. Meanwhile at The Echo, the nightclub has decided to fill some of what is probably downtime with all-ages country-music shows. Every Sunday, from 5 to 9 p.m. And free, too. We’re planning to go.
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