Everyone talks about how old the Rolling Stones are getting, but nobody does anything about it. Except, that is for a few friends of mine – we choose to relive a time when the world’s greatest rock ‘n’ roll band and we were all gathering no moss.

The year was 1975. The four of us were in colleges spread across the South, but our bonds had been forged in high school and in our love for rock ‘n’ roll music played at a decibel level high enough to un-nerve our parents and later to enrich our audiologists.

The best tickets to the Stones concert at the Omni that summer were being distributed to people who had lots of money or who had been in town when the seats went on sale. Falling in neither category, we were shut out of the Atlanta event, so we employed a recently-learned tactic in college: the midnight road trip!

Having learned Mick & Co. were playing the next night in Greensboro and, even more important, to a general admission audience, we knew we could rely on our youth to gain advantage.

Charging up I-85 and arriving shortly before 5 a.m. the day of the concert, Mike Egan, Charles Driebe and George Long and I attached ourselves to the front gate of the Greensboro Coliseum and held on for dear life the rest of the day as 15,000 more gathered behind us and tried every tactic to move up in line.

The four of us were already practicing our future careers: lawyers Mike and Charles spent the day deposing police, security and coliseum officials to map out the shortest route to the coliseum floor. I brought my reporter’s notebook and camera to record the event for posterity. George, already pre-med, was using his broken leg and hefty cast to deter others from entering our exclusive waiting area at the gate’s opening.

When the gates opened at 6 p.m., three of us sprinted through doorways, between railings, down stairs and over a six foot drop to land on the arena floor, where we locked our arms on the wooden barricade at the foot of the elevated stage. Catching our breaths, we turned around and were stunned to see an empty arena.

Suddenly we saw our Sympathy for the Devil strategy had worked: the next person to enter was Jumping Jack George, hobbling with his cast, with hundreds of impatient fans at his back. He jumped down the six foot drop as if he had a flexible cast and joined us at the front. We watched as within minutes the coliseum filled from bottom to top. Then I went to work with my camera, snapping close-up shots of the concert the four of us will never forget. Partly because we often get together, review the photos and relive the drama.

A few months ago, Charles called me to propose another Carolina road trip. This time to catch the Stones in Charlotte at the new outdoor stadium. Realizing we have grown old with the Stones, we relied on newer skills: weaseling. We were among the last to arrive at the stadium and negotiated our way to the photographers’ check-in. Charles flashed his cameras and his music editor’s credentials and I showed my publisher’s card. Charles approached the “bench.” “If you have any extra tickets …” he said to a media-herder, who shouted back, “There are no extra tickets.”

A few minutes later, a Stones official who heard us quietly and respectfully arguing our case walked up and offered us two tickets. They were on the second row. Just a slight step down from the seats in Greensboro 22 years earlier, but certainly a lot easier to attain.

Photo: Photo of Mick Jagger and Ron Wood, from our front row seat in Greensboro, NC in 1975.

My friend Charles Driebe Jr. was born a lawyer. The first time I met him, when he joined our eighth grade class, he would argue about anything and would stick to his positions – whether they were right or wrong – like a pit bulldog.

Although Charles has mellowed a bit in the past few years, he still exemplifies the old quote, “Often wrong, but never in doubt.” He is a fine lawyer and serves his clients well.

But as for his friends, well that’s another matter. It is a rare day indeed that one of Charles’ friends ever wins acknowledgment that we won an argument with him. If we do, we lord it over him for years and brag about it in front of others – to his great consternation.

One thing Charles won’t argue about is mayonnaise. He hates it. Back in high school, we started doing grown-up things like having dinner parties and guests would bring dishes. and before dinner could be served, he would carefully check each dish. If someone had made a casserole of questionable origin, he would lean down and sniff the concoction two or three times. Then he would squint his eyes, crinkle his nose, look skeptically at the maker of the dish and ask in his most prosecutorial voice, “Does this have any my-nez in it?” If a mayonnaise jar had so much as been opened in the same room while the dish was being prepared, Charles wouldn’t touch it, much to the dismay of the cook.

When it came to dinner parties, I was a one-trick pony. I always brought my family’s secret blue cheese salad. It is no ordinary blue cheese salad. The lettuce and vegetable medley might vary slightly, but the recipe for the dressing was brought 120 years ago from Kentucky by my great-grandmother and I proudly maintain the purity of the original formula. It has an oil and vinegar base, with a strong kick. It has always passed the Charles test and he was one of my salad’s biggest fans.

When Charles was engaged, he sent his fiancée to my house with orders to find out my secret formula so she could make the salad for him on a weekly basis when they got married. I don’t give out this recipe to anybody, but I was flattered with the level of honor Charles gave my concoction and I took her into my confidence. “There is one secret ingredient that I’ve never told anyone,” I told her very seriously. “And if I tell you, you have to promise never to tell anyone – and especially you can never, ever tell Charles.” Her eyes widened with excitement. “You don’t mean …” she said. “Yes,” I whispered. “Mayonnaise.”

After their first meal she called me to tell me that our secret was safe. At one point, she told me that she had decided to tinker with the formula by adding even more mayonnaise. The more she put in the more Charles liked the salad. One night she dumped in what she was afraid was a detectable amount of the secret ingredient, but after Charles had had seconds and thirds, he leaned back and announced that she could now make the salad better than I ever could.

For 25 years now, Charles has been eating this salad. I’ve let a few others in on the secret, usually after a few glasses of wine at Charles’ dinner parties, when he’s in the next room. Even my kids will lean over before meals at which Charles is a guest and ask in whispered tones, “Does Charles know yet?”

“No,” I’d assure them. And he never knew.

Until now.

When I was in fourth grade at Christ the King School our most exciting holiday tradition was Advent Angel in December. In late November, all of the names of the kids in the class were put into a bowl. We each pulled a name out and were sworn to secrecy as to whom we selected. Not even our teacher knew. During each weekday in December, each child would sneak into the back coat closet and leave a wrapped present for their selectee. At 2 every afternoon, our teacher would gather all the presents and carefully announce the name of each person who received a present that day from their advent angel.

For a bunch of fourth graders who spent the rest of the day studying math, geography, history and the Bible, this half-hour exchange was high drama. Some people were raking it in. Bill Kelly opened awesome presents every day: chocolate, baseball cards, plastic footballs and the like. We figured he scored big time by being selected by a girl who had a crush on him. We were right. Some of the girls would get a dime store locket or a ring. You can imagine the oohs and aahs from the girls’ side of the room. And the catcalls and accusations of being in love tossed around on the boys’ side.

We spent time during recess each day in investigative teams trying to pry information from other classmates as to the angels’ identities. The name of your angel was never revealed until the last day and then only if the angel chose to lift the veil of secrecy.

Now this was all fine and dandy, except for one thing. I wasn’t getting any presents. It wasn’t mandatory that you be graced each day, but surely a few times a week, your angel would toss you a crumb of some kind. Midway through the second week, the most-asked question on everyone’s mind was not what were they going to get, but would this be the day that I got anything.

I asked the teacher if it was possible that my name was not included in the bowl. She assured me that she had carefully checked every name before the drawing began. Soon I began to really hate the torturous half-hour of advent angels. Everyone would howl in unison when the last present was presented and I was empty-handed once again.

As the third week began the teacher suggested to the class that my angel should consider sending me a message that I was not forgotten.

Sure enough, on the playground the next day a classmate named Kathleen said my angel was saving up for a really big present on the last day. I tried to act humble in front of my classmates in the face of this great gift coming my way. “I’ll be happy with any present,” I would say. “As long as it’s not peppermint. I hate peppermint.”

Finally, the last day before Christmas vacation arrived. My present was saved for last. The tension in the room was as high as a sudden death championship basketball game. Finally, my present was pulled out of the box. A long cylindrical present wrapped beautifully and adorned with lots of ribbons. As I tore the paper off, my eyes widened in horror and I and the whole class said in unison, “Oh, no, peppermint!”

Ever since then I have declined to participate in any type of secret gift exchange programs, even as a adult. A few years ago I was pressured to join one office Secret Santa program and I inadvertently caused an office uproar that lasted for days. It was one of the most embarrassing moments of my life when I had to reveal that I was the Secret Santa everyone was discussing.

Now I have my own business. We have few rules but you can guess one of them – no Secret Santa programs.