It becomes more important to find a place on stage for your fan than your amp. Your gig clothes make you look like George Burns out for a round of golf. All your fans leave by 9:30 p.m. All you want from groupies is a foot massage and back rub. You love taking the elevator because you can sing along with most of your playlist. Instead of a fifth member, your band wants to spring for a roadie. You lost the directions to the gig, and then got lost (even though you've been there 10 times before). You need your glasses to see your amp settings. You've thrown out your back jumping off the stage. You feel like hell before the gig even starts. The waitress is your daughter. You stop the set because your ibuprofen fell behind the bass amp. Most of the crowd just sways in their seats. You find your drink tokens from last month's gig in your case, unused of course. (They don't charge you for club soda) You refuse to play without earplugs. You ask the club owner if you can start at 8:30 p.m. instead of 9:30 p.m. You check the TV schedule before booking a gig. Your gig stool has a back. You're related to at least one other member in the band. You don't let any one sit in, ever. You need a nap before the gig. After the third set, you bug the club owner to let you quit early. During the breaks, instead of going out to the van to get high, you now go out to the van to lay down and take a nap. You prefer a music stand with a light. You don't recover until Tuesday afternoon. You hope the host's speech lasts forever. You buy amps considering their weight and not their tone or cool factor. You feel guilty looking at hot women at the bar 'cause they're younger than your daughter. You can remember seven different club names for the same location. You have a hazy memory of the days when you could work 10 gigs in 7 days - and could physically make it with very little effort.