2003-10-17 @ 11:11 p.m.
|Never give a bipolar cookies, punch, brownies and diet coke, all within an hour of each other. I am more wired than a Radio Shack outlet. Somebody'll have to get a dart gun to take me down tonight. The reason? I went to a party.
Well, sort of. Not party...crazy dancing, Dave Matthews Band, pot smoking, hot sex in the upstairs bedroom party. But a party at a senior citizen's complex. Yeah, I do lead an exciting life.
The apartment manager at my mom's senior complex had gotten crunched out of a job he's held for 20 years. Not fired exactly, but transferred from a nice, idyllic senior complex to a drug ridden, inner city ghetto complex, where he is locked into his office for protection. So the seniors, who all love him to pieces, threw him a shindig.
I had resisted going. I knew it would be sad, but I know the guy. He's part of our piano bar crowd and dates one of my mom's friends (she's 61 and he's 45, my age -- hey!). But my mom is relentless, so I finally decided to go about 4 p.m.
I immediately felt like I had made a mistake when I went in. Seniors from wall to wall. Walkers. Wheel chairs. They were serving cookies, brownies, and wine. Yee-ha!
Finally found a table and my mom introduced me to this little old apple faced lady. "This is Mary, she's 102!" The little old lady sort of crinkled her nose up. "No I'm not, I'm only 100." (you freakin' bitch). Oh wait, I added the freakin' bitch part. But she could have been thinking that, since being mistaken for 102 years old when you're only 100 is pretty rough.
So I sat there and watched person after person talk about her, right in front of her, like she wasn't there. "Mary's 102 years old, you know". And she kept wrinkling her nose. My mom did it several times. One lady, who must be worse at math than me, even asked her if she was born in 1900. And the woman, God bless her, sweetly corrected her and was more alert than most of the people in the room. Could probably hear better than them too.
After the senior shindig, it was off to a late evening at the piano bar. The place has sort of become like Cheers for me. I love music of course, and I especially love, when people start getting up to sing after 9 p.m.
We have our regulars. A quirky blonde who sings show tunes. A retired Irish Catholic cop, who has a wonderful lilting tenor voice. A local Jewish business owner, who has the most incredible bass voice and can bust windows with sheer volume. Fortunately with volume comes talent, and I could listen to "Summertime" and "Oklahoma" every Friday to infinity, when it comes to his singing.
One night though, last summer, the Irish Catholic cop, who is friendly with my Mom (as is the Jewish business owner), came over, leaned down and opined "that a Yid, shouldn't be singing Irish songs".
Now, what was that? These two guys sing together all the time up at the piano. The cop didn't like that the Jewish business owner was singing, "When Irish Eyes are Smiling" I guess. But its funny. I kind of remember, the "Mick" singing "Sunrise, Sunset" from "Fiddler on the Roof" earlier in the evening. Now what was that all about? Did he get permission?
Are songs now divided into categories?
Irish people sing songs about drinking and potatoes. Jewish people are stuck with "Dreidle, Dreidle, Dreidle". I guess African Americans might have to go with "Bess, You is my Woman", although I think George Gershwin was Jewish, so we might have to get a vote from the Ethnic Song Singing Committee.
Geeze people, do we have to segregate everything? How totally stupid is that? If we do, can we at least make sure I get the "Beatles" catalog?
Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty