The B52's at the Waikoloa

It is not often that one finds themselves among a crowd of loud, drunken, aging hippies. And yet there I was, on a bus with 20 of them heading towards the Waikoloa Marriot on the Big Island in Hawaii where, in an hour, a massive gathering of middle-aged B 52’s fans would be converging to ring in the New Year.
I was amazed but not surprised that many on the bus were already inebriated. I watched as two women staggered towards the bus stop, drinks in hand, and saw them trip over each other as they both attempted to enter the bus, simultaneously. The tiny door was clearly not big enough for both of them and this was made clear when both became trapped and dropped their drinks on the laps of the couple in the front seat. I expected to see an angry husband leap up and begin shouting at the two drunks; instead, I saw the two begin shaking with laughter as they made room for the women.
We winded our way through the massive Waikoloa Resort complex, the entire bus joined in the butchering of Rock Lobster and Love Shack. We unloaded the bus and journeyed through what seemed like an endless series of lounges and lobbies, joined along the way by larger and larger crowds of loud middle-aged people all heading for the ballroom.
Jostled by hundreds of strangers, we made our way inside the ballroom. My sister and I had been separated from my parents, so we headed for the nearest Waikoloa staff member to be seated. He looked at our tickets, looked at us, smiled and said “Aren’t you the lucky ones.” Subconsciously, I knew what that meant. He led us through the back section and down a short flight of stairs, straight towards the stage. The seating section closest to the stage was lower than the rest of the ballroom which allowed everyone on either side to see my embarrassment as the guide led the two youngest people to the front row, where he indicated two seats.
Generally, I like to think of myself as a fan of classic rock and music from decades past. But I as I looked around the room to see those who shared similar taste, I found I did not like what I saw: hundreds of people, most of them old enough to be my parents, many of whom were holding drinks, drinking, or going to get drinks, all dressed in clothes they wore when they were my age.
The B52’s came out, the music started, and with it, dancing. At first it was just a few odd balls: one lady in particular caught my attention; she was seated far to my right, and was gyrating violently while her arms flailed above her head. She was then joined by three other women and two men, all of whom were shaking madly to the music. I turned around in my chair to see nearly all of the audience on their feet, dancing wildly to the melody of Rock Lobster.
As the strong smell of marijuana reached me, I decided that never again will there be fans of music quite like this; the boomers redefined what it meant to be a fan, what it meant to truly be devoted to music.
We left the concert shortly after midnight and walked back to our car instead of waiting for the bus. We were followed by a group of men with long graying hair kept back by headbands with psychedelic prints on them. What looked to be the oldest man tapped me on the shoulder and asked, “Do you have a light man?” I told him I didn’t smoke and he sighed, saying to his friend, “We’ve got a joint that’ll put you in the stratosphere but no f*****g light.”
I laughed at the appalled expressions on my parent’s faces and thought, ‘Never again.’