I've become one of those pathetic, lazy bloggers who post only when the moon is full and they feel the flood of smart-alecky inspiration that comes from that myth-laden astronomical phenomenon! Damn the wretched gibbous moon!

So what's up?

I went to see Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons last night at Proctor's. I can say, with the exception of a few younger children who were dragged by their parents, I was unequivocally the youngest person in the room. The youngest fan anyway, by at least 27 years--which is how much older my mother is than I, and I calculated she to be the second youngest.

But age didn't really matter last night. Little Frankie--now pushing 70-something--crooned his hits to us as if it were still 1962, when "Sherry" brought him chart-topping fame. His flawless falsetto brought everyone in the room back to their youths, and the sights, sounds, smells and general feelings that accompanied the nostalgia.

And then there was me. The woman sitting next to me, a jovial, aging baby boomer, at one point asked, "Aren't you a little young to remember this?"

"I grew up listening to a tape," came my reply. But just because I'd been born 40 years later and had listened to a tape, doesn't mean the music didn't hit me in the same way. If given a choice between the complex and epic lyrics of my own generation's music and Frankie Valli's simple "I can't take my eyes off of you," it's really not a tough decision. Maybe I am a traitor to my generation for saying so, but the music has this sense of originality that today's love songs severely lack. Forty years ago they put the words "baby" and "lover" and all those cheesy things in the songs because they wanted to. Nowadays, when bands like Fountains of Wayne are forced to use a certain number of those words per song per album. Takes the feeling right out of it.

Stepping down off my little soapbox now...

Oh what a night!