Last weekend I was at a sex conference because that’s pretty much what my life has become: lots of trips to sex conferences where I learn all about how much pornography is kinda like crack (it really kind of is, folks. I’ve seen the brain scans. It ain’t pretty) and also all about how incredibly bad I am at paying attention to long, drawn-out presentations about how much pornography is kinda like crack.

Imagine me at one of these conferences for a moment, would you? Just think of me…
the ADD star-child extraordinaire, sitting there during, say, hour six of nine. Imagine it’s the second day, and I’m trying with all my might to focus on slide 79 of a powerpoint presentation about comorbidity in addictive processes. Imagine that the presenter–a man in his early 50’s–has a kind, docile voice with a southern accent, soft and lulling. Imagine my eyes starting to shut–just a little. Imagine my head rocking forward with the gentle rhythm of a buoy, and then picture it snapping upright so violently it nearly knocks me out of my chair. Imagine me, desperate for relief, reaching into my bag to find my pill-bottle filled with Ritalin, only to discover that the medicine has run out.

This is what my life has become.

This is adulthood.

Adulthood is going to conferences and taking pills and Being Responsible like the big, responsible grown-up you have become. Adulthood is also deciding not to eventually just put your head down on the table to take a full-on, drool-on-your-arm nap in the middle of a conference.

And that is why I officially can’t be called an adult. Because I did that last thing. Blatantly. During hour seven.

The good news was that my sister Jenni and her husband Justin (whom I was staying with) happened to be going to a The Postal Service concert the same night the conference ended, and I was able to secure a ticket mainly because TPS had planned a show earlier in SLC on their tour, but ended up canceling so that Ben Gibbard didn’t diarrhea in his pants on stage. So they were back to play the show they missed. And there were still tickets. And I bought one. Online. Using Paypal. For which my password is… wait a minute. Stop trying to steal from me.

That day, I finished the conference, and then was picked up to be interviewed by Seth Adam Smith (more on that when I post the interview), and then I hopped in the car with Jenni and Justin like the big ol’ third wheel I am, and off we went to Saltair.

That’s Saltair in the background.
(I’m such a great photographer! This belongs in a freaking magazine.)

As we were walking around, Jenni (or was it Justin?) was like “Wow, the age demographic for Fun was so much different than the one for The Postal Service” and as I looked around, I realized what the difference was. “That’s because the demographic for The Postal Service is the demographic that knows the word ‘demographic.'”

I thought that was awfully clever. So I posted it on Facebook.

It wasn’t until I got home that I realized what a freaking elitist it made me look like. What I meant was that since The Postal Service released its album in 2003, and it is now 2013, we were all really, really old now. It was like being at a concert with all the moms you now see with little kids in target, except the moms were dressed up like youth and trying really hard not to look awkward as they danced and bobbed and sang along. It was a little sad. One lady even brought her kids. Yeah. That really happened.

It was probably wasn’t nearly as sad in the “we are old” department as the concert that Lolly went to earlier that week:

Oh oh oh oh oh. The right stuff!
(For those of you who are not old, the concert was New Kids on the Block. And Boyz 2 Men. Who were popular last century.)

I think it’s pretty clear that we are officially old now. Which is different than being an adult, obviously, because I fall asleep openly in professional conferences. And also I occasionally throw temper tantrums. And I still need to be put to bed at night. (Not joking.)

Two other funny things about this concert:

I could see the stage, when it wasn’t being obstructed by the guy in front of me whose hair was about ten inches high.

Photo? Sure:

Keep in mind that this camera was being held high above my head so that it could actually SEE THE STAGE over the massive WALL OF HAIR.

It took all my willpower not to use a credit card to try to shave it off.

And finally, in closing, this was the sign in the bathroom.

Yes. I’m often wont to wash my feet at concert venues. It’s just this thing I do.

Side story: I really wanted a picture of that sign in the bathroom, but at about the point I went to pull out my phone to snap a shot I was like “waaaaaait a minute there cowboy, your name is Josh Weed the Gay Mormon and you are currently in a men’s room. In Utah. Perhaps taking pictures in this particular spot is not the best idea??”
Thankfully, Justin the Straight Mormon was willing to do it. 
Because that’s what family’s for.