Does Concord bore you? Are you one of those young people we’ve been reading about who’s leaving Concord and other Granite state cities in droves, abandoning us old folks here with our rascal scooters, shuttered store fronts and memories of halcyon days of yore? Recent statistics warn that by 2025, Concord will be a city populated solely by pre-schoolers and grandparents, and there’ll be a diaper shortage to rival the Dionne Quintuplet Diaper Rationing Scare of 1934.

But I think Concord’s getting a bum rap. I’ve always wondered if there’s a lot more here than meets the eye. Armed with a modest amount of cash and a clear calendar, I set out to discover what a guy can do on a Saturday night in Concord, from dusk till dawn, taking in everything to do within the city limits. I start my journey where most journeys begin - at the movies.

Red River is Concord’s answer to big city independent movie theaters, a cinematic art house where the words, “blockbuster,” “Will Smith” and “family-sized Zagnut” aren’t used. Plush seats, adult beverages, gourmet snacks and the best popcorn in the city, Red River shows an eclectic mix of films ranging from Oscar winners (The King’s Speech, Black Swan) to brooding reflections on the human psyche (Moon, Blue Valentine) to the downright bizarre. I’m still recovering from the time I saw a subtitled animated Japanese film about a ham-eating talking fish-child named Ponyo.

Tonight’s fare is a dark comedy that takes place on the western coast of present-day Ireland. The Guard stars Brendan Gleeson and Don Cheadle as police officers partnering to quash a major drug deal; the film involves murder, bribery, snappy one-liners, criminal philosophers and lots of drinking. A perfect way to begin my exploration of Concord.

The movie lets out just after seven, and I head to Old Europe, one of Concord’s newer restaurants. Grabbing a seat outside on this beautiful fall evening, I watch people stroll along Main Street as the State House’s golden dome shines in the balmy night air. And then Carmine arrives, and things are about to change.

Carmine Tomas is a Concord resident and a man of many talents. He practices law in Boston, races cars on the weekends, plays the piano, cooks a mean chicken marsala and once grew a mustache for an office contest so real and so thick that he looked like Super Mario Brother incarnate. We plot our strategy over a plate of mussels and salted meats. This is the picture of civility – two grown men sharing a meal and wine at an open-air café, talking about how many bars they can visit until last call at 1 AM.

Our next destination is the Concord City Auditorium to see the Granite State Orchestra. We’re fifteen minutes late and wander upstairs to the balcony. It wasn’t our intent to sneak into the symphony, but with no one selling tickets, we just found seats and enjoyed the show.

Billed as “An Evening with Classical Overtones,” the Granite State Orchestra (aka, GSO), led by conductor Robert C. Babb, is great. I don’t know an oboe from Gluck’s “Orfeo ed Euridice,” but I do know great live music when I hear it. Within minutes Carmine and I are transfixed by Larry Veal, tonight’s cello soloist, who’s mesmerizing the almost-full Audi with Boccherini’s Cello Concert #9 in B flat, major.

I’ve been to the Audi a few times before, here to witness my daughter and her dance pals perform syncopated donkey hop dance moves to such kid-friendly recital classics as “It’s Raining Men,” “My Humps” and “More than a Woman.” Tonight’s a nice change to that routine.

This isn’t the only highbrow event in town tonight, mind you. We could have gone to the Capital Center to catch Frederica von Stade sing opera standards, but I figured I’d be von snoring within minutes, so here we are.

The GSO ends the evening with Mozart’s Symphony #36. Conductor Babb leaves no gesture untried as his white hair bobs and weaves with his gesticulating shoulders, his hands frenetically waving up and down, his baton pointing out directions only he and his tuxedo-clad musicians understand. Who cares where the poco adagio transitions into the menuetto because it’s all a perfect cascade of string, French horns and kettle drums.

Carmine and I high-tail it out of there for what one might call the “less cultured” stops on this Concord sojourn.

Main Street and the surrounding blocks boast more than their fair share of restaurants and bars. Within walking distance of the State Capital, there are no fewer than ten drinking and victual establishments, and we plan on visiting them all in the next three hours.

We begin at the Barley House, a bar and restaurant that serves up great burgers and beers. I spy my wife’s nephew, Trevor, near the bar, who, after hearing about our quest, gives some advice. “Stay away from Tandy’s. The clientele can get a little, you know, rough,” Trevor says as he walks away smiling.

We do everything but run to Tandy’s Top Shelf, down the block from the Barley House. We pay our $5 cover and enter. The bar’s about half-full. There’s an odd energy down here, like we’re one plastic cup of watery keg beer away from an Anchorman-style brawl, complete with tritons, weighted nets and brickbats. It’s like the bar scene from Star Wars without the blue aardvark playing the space bassoon. Carmine and I keep to ourselves, wondering if eye contact will be frowned upon. A young lady approaches, a shot glass in her hand. “Hi, I’m Becky from Pretty Girl Promotions. We have one last shot of Jim Beam left – you guys wanna share it?” Going Dutch with a shot of whiskey in this place may be grounds for an instant full nelson, so I take a furtive sip and pass it along. Mouth and throat on fire, I move to the door and Carmine joins me.

Before heading towards more bars, we take a short interlude to True Brew Barista where the proprietors have invited us to a private, small gathering. Carmine and I use the secret knock, enter and share some laughs and double shots of espresso with Rob and Steph and their coterie of cohorts. This coffee should keep me going the rest of the night. I’m sure of it.

The clock’s approaching midnight, giving us about an hour remaining before the city’s last call.

We sidle up to the empty bar at Margarita’s and order. It’s always a bad sign when the bartender’s vacuuming – it lends an air of, “I need to leave and let my cat out” to the surroundings. We oblige by rushing though our drinks and heading to Penuche’s Ale House, around the corner. We barrel down the stairs into a world I’d not seen in a while. The dance floor is teeming, and the band is rocking! We grab a beer and join the fun.

The drummer sees me approach and gives me a friendly nod, perhaps thinking I’m the bass player’s dad here to drive them all home after the gig. They launch into Johnny Cash’s “Folsom County Blues,” and the patrons dance with gusto. I spot my neighbor DJ, in his knit cap, grooving with a well-dressed pride of cougars. The band reaches a fever pitch, Carmine and I do our best white man overbite moves, and DJ gives me a high five. But it’s getting late and there are other peaks to conquer. Besides, when you’re older than the cougars, it’s probably time to leave. And Carmine’s starting to get a slightly crazy look in his eyes.

It’s around 12:45, and there is no way we’ll make it everywhere on our list. We head to the Green Martini to assess the situation, and it’s here that my grand plan starts to disintegrate. I’m not sure if it was that last beer, the rapid change of venues or the fact that on most Saturday nights for the past decade, I’d be closer to a morning bowl of oatmeal than another late-night beer at this point.

I’d planned to spend the next four hours with a driver from Concord Cab, taking in the wee small hours from the passenger seat, but it’s time to leave. I beg the cabbie for a ride home, say good night to Carmine and collapse on a couch in my basement where I’ll sleep for a solid ten hours.

My Dusk to Dawn plan was a bust, but not completely. I found culture, live music, good food, a range of atmospheres - from festive to menacing - and Carmine and I learned that espresso, tequila and keg beer are not smart ingredients for rational planning. It’s not a bad idea – the “Concord after Dark” experience. I promise you’ll have a blast, and you may even be home before the sun rises. And your definition of boring just may change.