Chubby Checkers Comes to Town

A week ago tonight, I attended a concert in the park, something I haven’t done in years. The first entertainer was a young forty-something singer called Daniel Powter, a world-renown Canadian, who looked younger than his age. I wasn’t familiar with his music but my friend Susan was and I enjoyed the music. By the time his set finished, his voice should have been hoarse but he fooled me. He hadn’t strained it after all.

I haven’t been a teenager in well over a half-century plus, and have never been to a rock concert. I thought I would die from the all-encompassing electronic explosion of blare and boom. My eardrums complained, then gave up. The crowd hadn’t begun to swell yet and while we watched the stage and Daniel, the throng broadened and redoubled surrounding us.

After the first set, Sue and I fought the crowds, hip-to-hip and elbow-to-elbow to get to the food area. I settled on a Pizza Pizza Slice at a reasonable price. Sue bought large fries for five dollars—what I call highway robbery with a smile. As we struggled back to our chairs, the highly anticipated show we’d come for had already begun. I gawked up at the overhead screen with disappointment. Chubby Checkers had reverted back to the fellow we had first known as teenagers.

Wikipedia

“Crap, he’s put all that weight back on again.” I had no idea my mouth blurted aloud what my brain considered. Susan grinned and we both rubbernecked to sneak a peek at the stage but the masses had multiplied yet again. Our chairs were still where we’d left them. Whew. Fans danced on the grass and blocked our view of the stage without guilt. Between gyrating bodies, I managed a glimpse of Chubby and he looked nothing like his on-screen projection. On-stage, he sported the signature baby blue jean jacket, jeans and red T-shirt. My preview proved him slim, trim and fit. Overhead on the video, he appeared overweight by a good 40 pounds.

“I don’t understand why the difference?” My friend didn’t know the answer either. Daniel Powter hadn’t been replicated as heavier but the same. For a better view of the stage, Sue darted closer to the stage. I followed. She’d worn a fanny pack. Smart lady. I had my old lady carry-everything-I-hold-sacred bag over my shoulder. Can’t look cool shaking what my Momma gave me with my house on my back like a turtle. Now I know why they don’t dance—or can’t.

We were lost in a sea of gray hair and wrinkles, a few walkers, hearing aids, and toupees. A guy on crutches with a steel cage attached to one leg sashayed back and forth as he leaned against the barricade in front of the stage. Everyone and everything—and I mean everything—rocked and swayed, shook and wiggled like jelly. I wondered why all the people who can’t dance always make their way in front of everyone else to show off their best moves. Does that mean the good ones are behind me?

Yes, many young(er) concert-goers attended too. Some of them couldn’t dance either. I marvelled they even knew what The Twist was, let alone do it, or who CC was?

The night turned cool enough for a sweater. I had come prepared. The mosquitoes mustn‘t have liked the loud music because they were absent. Small mercies are always welcome. We danced and jiggled, stomped and clapped and sang for an hour. By then, with ear drums blown, my back screamed for a sit and I tried to quash the drum set hammering in my body. The end of the show was almost a relief. It’s a wonder the sound system hadn’t interfered with all the pacemakers and hearing-aids in the crowd.

“Look at him. He’s not even doing the real twist.”

I howled with laughter. “Neither are we, Sue.”

Fifty-three years ago, The Twist and Mr. Checkers had hit the charts. Fifty-three years? Already? For a seventy-one-year-old, he put on a fast-paced show. Of course he didn’t do The Twist quite the way he had all those summers ago but I can’t complain about the performance.

Chubby Checkers almost in my town. I was a kid again for almost an hour—long enough to break a hip but I did not. Why hadn’t I packed my camera? A senior moment perhaps.

~ * ~

If you have come this far, thank you for sticking with me. I have strived for 500 words, more or less, but today went over by more than 200+ words.

This is Awkward . . .

Most days I get breakfast, read the newspaper and putter around, or attack tasks / projects I can’t avoid. Lately, there have been a ton of those  and I’ve been buried under lots of paper. In spite of concentrating so hard, a few days ago, I noticed something different:  SILENCE.

I live in the basement level of the house I share with my daughter and her family. The dehumidifier is going all the time. Or at least it was.

The hot water tank in the laundry-room was replaced about a month ago. Because of the water spill during the switch, I moved the dehumidifier in there to dry up the wet cement floor (decided not to spend the extra money finishing the floor). I shut it down afterwards.

In the past few days, the temperature has been going up outside. Yesterday felt like 35 degrees Celsius. Duh, time to put the dehumidifier back on. I decided not to move it back into the dining / kitchen area and left it where it was—a good thing too.

My dehumidifier is either having an identity crisis or is on strike. I can’t remove the water container—not that it’s full anyway but I keep checking—it keeps icing up inside. When I unplug it, the ice thaws and leaks (on the cement floor, thank goodness). I wonder if a good swift kick might help.

I’m was used to the constant hum it makes; why did it take so long to realize I live in tomb-like silence? Have I forgotten I have a radio? What does that say about me? I am not deaf if that’s what you’re thinking. My problem is neither my hearing nor memory. How can anyone be so busy she doesn’t stop to put some music on?

Anyway, I’ve no alternative. We are expecting a hot, dry summer (as in where’s the rain?). I’m ready to eat nails because I need to go shopping and don’t want to. My dehumidifier is only three years new. Drat.

By the way, now that I think of it, silence is golden or haven’t you heard that somewhere too? My worry is after I swallow the nails I will be screaming and it’s all my dehumidifier’s fault thus breaking the golden silence.

Great Seats

“Let’s go to the th-ea-ta tonight.
You wear your best suit and I’ll wear my new wig.”

As the orchestra was tuning up, the audience was filling seats in the theatre. Eau de cologne and perfume filled the air. Occasionally, there was a hint of eau de mothballs. Might’ve been the best suit.

The musicians were many; the music engrossing. A music lover sitting on my daughter’s left was alone. He kept falling asleep until a drum roll woke him up. Or maybe it was a clash of cymbals. Could have been the sudden crash of discordant phrasing. The rest of the audience was attentive, admiring and amazed by the Philharmonic Orchestra last night.

The conductor, dressed in grey tails, looked deceivingly young. He was most energetic and very passionate. I learned a couple of things that had nothing to do with his musical ability. I could see he had buns of steel; perfectly rounded. He wore briefs and not boxers. Their outline was obvious. At least to me.

Seems I haven’t lost my eye for such things. I don’t just wear glasses to see. Some things I see extraordinarily well. Yes, of course we had great seats. How else could I pick up such detail? And at my age. I had no idea good music could still move me so. Did I mention he was most energetic? Kept me awake no problem. I liked the music too. It was mostly by Ravel whose music I am not that familiar with except for Bolero. That goes for a lot of the general population too, I believe.

Some NEW things I learned last night:

You really can teach an old dog new tricks.

That my daughter was bang on planning this wonderful surprise birthday dinner and theatre outing for me (just us two).

I had no idea she was so in tune, that she actually knew what would make me happy.

I can’t believe my daughter enjoyed the Philharmonic as much as I did.

After the theatre, she’d planned to take me to a Jazz Club I’ve been meaning to check out for years. We were too late. It was no more.

She’d made several alternate plans for after the theatre (I’d no idea she could prepare so well). We settled for Coffee Culture. It was most delightful and new to me.

Last night was the best date I have ever had. Yes. I mean EVER.

My daughter told me to bring a coat because I would need it. Thank goodness I listened to her. It got to be freezing out.

How blessed I am that my daughter turned out so well.

Orchestra conductors are not just smart musicians, they also have cute buns.

There may be snow on the mountain (well here and there) but there’s still fire down below.

I’m not feeling older, I’m feeling younger in spite of another birthday.