You Senile Old Fool

I performed a show in Terre Haute last week, one of many the past month. For those of you who may be unaware of the cyclic nature of this wacky business, this is post-prom season, and as Show-business is often feast or famine, in the idiosyncratic slang of my Southern forebears, we get while the gettin's good.

The post-prom or "lock-in" was an ingenious idea someone came up with to literally save student lives. You see, it is traditional for students to hit the town after graduation ceremonies and party hearty. Unfortunately, many do not survive this experience. When I went to school in the 1970's we lost quite a few students to after-graduation accidents. Of those who do survive the celebration, a large percentage, their inhibitions and libidos unlocked by liquor, found themselves asking that timeless question, "What do you mean you're WHAT? How did that happen?"

So the concept of the post prom lock in is simple: You secure a venue, provide entertainment and activities for the kids, and lock them up all night. At 6 AM, you release them, presumably too exhausted to commit mayhem upon themselves or others. It seems to work.

The lovely benefit is that the organizers need student-friendly entertainment--me. This is one of my busiest times of year. Since they hold these events late at night, I usually perform at 2 AM, 4AM all kinds of ungodly hours, which means if I plan it well, I can do two or three shows a night. Over the course of 20 years, I've learned to plan it very well.

The problem is these days I'm fifty years old. So late hours, long drives, and weeks of repeated shows takes a toll. Which brings us back to tne Terre Haute show, as I was leaving for this show, i grabbed one of my two pairs of dress shoes. Wife and I keep our shoes in an amalgamated pile by the door. I have two pairs: one Armani, for performances, and one Geoffrey Beene, for lesser formal occasions. I grabbed the Armanis. I thought.

I arrived at the venue, unloaded, set up the show, and got dressed into my suit. I don't drive to a show in my suit as this causes wrinkles in both the suit and me, plus it's uncomfortable. This is when I noticed I had grabbed one each of the Armani and the Beene. The right shoe was Armani, but the left shoe was Beene. At least both shoes were black, and I had one for each foot (rather than say, two left feet) but the styles of the shoes were completely different --one pointy toed and the other round--and if you looked, you would notice.

What was a chap to do? I went on with the show--a two hour show--and hoped nobody noticed. The show went well and nobody said anything. But when details like this slips your mind, it's definitely time for a vacation.

Of course one thing about getting older I find very nice; you really don't care what other people think of you. A least not as much. I remember when I was younger thinking that old people must have no sense of self-awareness. They would dress oddly, say whatever popped into their minds, and had terrible taste in music, movies and literature. Now I know that if you live long enough, you witness horrors, and you eventually arrive at a point where you don't think the opinion of anyone younger matters, so you do whatever the hell you want to do; whatever it takes to overwrite the horror stories that go on in your head. If it's watching stupid movies, or making silly jokes, or collecting matchbook covers, or traveling around the country looking at the world's largest gumballs, so be it--the laughter of inexperienced youngsters fall on your rapidly-deteriorating ears. And the reason old folks laugh to themselves so much is because we know all you young smart alecs who are laughing at us will be hobbling around in our funny-looking shoes one day, wondering what the heck THOSE youngsters are laughing at. Go ahead and shake your cane at them and yell--you've earned it.