Looks Ain't Everything

After not going for a while, I decided to take in the concert at the bandshell on the Hollywood Broadwalk (it is a broadwalk--there aren't any boards--this is not Atlantic City). This has been one of my chief entertainments over the past year and a half. They have a different group (or individual) every Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday night. It is free and right on the ocean. The stage isn't fancy, but it fits the blue collar feel of Hollywood that our misguided mayor is always trying to upgrade. The last time I was there, I saw a group called, "Let It Be," a Beatles tribute group. They weren't too bad though they are better musicians than singers. I've also seen a Celtic rock group, known as The Volunteers, who are rough but unpolished. They certainly aren't The Glengarry Bhoys, especially since they lack the beautiful, redheaded violinist, Miranda. I mentioned that fact to the leader of The Volunteers, Henk Milne, after their show, and he said, "Aye, an it's a shame. We used to have the pretty girls." Didn't we all? But The Volunteers play both traditional and new songs, often combining them in a very effective and often moving way. I own one of their CDs, and it is worth having.

Anyway, the reason I mention this is that I went expecting a pretty good show as the singer (I will not name her for obvious reasons soon) was billed as a jazz singer who also did popular tunes. The band was warming up when I got there. She looked very promising and very hot. She had a smart black suit on and, with her shoulder-length blond hair, looked very sexy. They led off with "Oye Como Va," a real jazz favorite, which was mostly instruments. The first full song was Patsy Cline's "Crazy." She then did "Bye, Bye, Blackbird," and switched to disco with "Bad Girls." That was fitting because that's what she was--bad, and not in the good sense. Please bring Donna Summer down here. I couldn't quite figure out what was wrong. She had a clear, nice speaking voice, but when she started singing, something went wrong. She couldn't quite pronounce the words, and her voice moved into a key that wouldn't open any door. I kept wondering who it was she was trying to be. All through this, her favorite move was snapping her head from side to side, causing her perfect hair to fly around in a way that Miss Clairol would envy. She did have some nice dance moves and clapped her hands well. But that voice.

I've never left a concert that early before, not even in a rainstorm. It finally dawned on me whom she reminded me of (in all honesty, I had to call my daughter because I could not recall the name to save my life, but she had to ask her boyfriend because she couldn't get it out, either, which I'm glad to hear because I might have thought it was because I'm getting old--wow, what a sentence!). Imagine a female version of the person below. Yikes!

All the Sad Old Men

“I wouldn’t want to be that old. An old man is a nasty thing.”
--Ernest Hemingway from “A Clean, Well-Lighted Place”

Otro Loco Mas

There’s a certain cruel symmetry when fate finally makes you
what it is you’ve always pretended to be.
When the poser becomes the pose does the masquerade end?
I often walked the waterfront at night, alone, collar up,
head bent against the cold wind whipping across the lake,
watching myself in my mind’s eye, the solitary figure,
courting danger, emerging from the dark, shoulders broad,
fists clenched in anticipation of the sudden leap from shadows
the desperate demands of an unshaven, craven attacker,
shaking hands waving a gun or knife, voice trembling,
blood-shot eyes widening in brief recognition of the seriousness
of his choices as a lifetime of anger unleashes itself upon
his soon-to-be broken body, so unprepared for what it has wrought.
Somewhere, an old man escaped once more his punishment
for abandoning the boy who was cursed to be this raging man.
The situations changed, but the solitary nature of my journey
never changed. The search continued, sometimes relationships
were formed, but they only lasted for a short time: the yearning
continued. Hearing that the old man died did not bring closure
but left the gnawing, unanswered question as to who I am to fester
and fill me inside, until there was room for nothing else and no one else.
It was easier to stay aloof, cold, quiet, brooding, observing all,
touching nothing, except emptiness, embracing loneliness, living
in the darkness. When it was time to emerge, I did not know how.
The rage was replaced by nothing. Nada. No one reached out. Life
had passed by. The years sprinted ahead as I slowed down. I tried
to keep up, but I could not do it alone. Alone. What a horrible word.
What a horrible place to be. I am now who I always pretended to be.
I no longer seek the darkness. Please turn on the light. Just until dawn.

Carpe Diem

It is unproductive to live with regret. So, the best way to avoid it is to not leave things undone that you could do.

Cherish each moment you have with the one you love.

And, go dancing in the rain.