Lucky Guy

I turn 65 today. Bring it on: the codger jokes, Medicare, Viagra, the whole smack. Yes, I have a spray bottle of Formula 401 somewhere.

I tossed about a few ideas for a birthday-selfie blog and rejected them. Then, ruminating last night over a cold mug o' Genny, it hit me.

I am a lucky guy.

One of the luckiest you will ever meet.

To wax on this entails some soap-boxy, self-aggrandizing chest thumping. Meh.

I've been able to do (and experience) things that other people dream about. Name your medium: print, recordings, live music, classrooms (yes, that is performing, too) television, radio, advertising, standup semi-comedy, emceeing, video, advertising, stage, interwebs. No films yet, even though I could assay a damn proper aging street bum right now.

And those silly game shows, which is all everyone seems to remember. How I wish there had been some world dilemma (without injury) that preempted those programs. But I would still get all the "cash and fabulous" prizes, as Jay Stewart pronounced.

What was more important was that while I cavorted on the tube, spewing reams of useless "knowledge," and shitty puns, Tommy Holleran was fighting for his life. My eighteen-month-old nephew lay in Yale-New Haven Hospital while a team of doctors excised an extra chamber from his walnut-sized heart. Nurses (one of whom was an ex-sweetheart) moved a TV in for him to watch Uncle Tim frolic. They told me that he was trying to point to me on the tube, but his arms were strapped to boards to keep his IVs in check.

What matters more?

Yes, it was a thrill to watch SNL 40 and see so many friends appear. Then came the slap of seeing those who have passed.

Ah, music. I remember the thrill of hearing my banging on the radio for the first time. I can listen to almost any station and hear other friends play and sing.

If you read my scribblings and FB effluvia, you know I have rediscovered my love for drumming. I have played huge venues, recorded with amazing people and have a sizable trove of war stories. But the other night in Lewisburg, PA, I played for some of the best few minutes of my life behind the tubs. The front man was the amazing Frank Wicher (who is, far and away, the most powerful and original performer I have met here). The tune was by Waylon Jennings. I am about as country as a bunch of wiseguys eating sfogliatelle at Rao's. Couldn't even name the song. We launched into it, and within eight bars, I was transported. The Groove was locked in. From there the song was bliss.

For me to feel this way, after the thousands of gigs I have played in my checkered career, is just magic.

Did I say, "Lucky?"

I have already heard from a ton of fACEbookers today. Many of these people are my heroes.

Yes, lucky.

I started a new life in Coal Country 2½ years ago. I've made (again) wonderful friends, found new family and am able to celebrate the town where my parents grew up. Yes, I miss real pizza, Portuguese rolls and Saint's.

I've been fairly healthy. My bike gets me around town, as soon as we escape the tundra. I pray for my friends, some of who are battling serious odds. I cannot bring myself to mention those who have gone before me.

But how am I luckiest? Easy, in tripartite fashion.

26 Minutes

An experiment.

4:06pm, February 16, 2015

I didn't see Her right away. The various musicians had been tumbling away for over a half-hour. A folksy duet got up and, alarmingly, assayed Santana's "Oye Como Va." A disaster.

I was told to bring my banjo. A command, really. A going-away party. At a restaurant, for a couple who was moving to New Jersey. Why?

She sat at Bear's table. Bear, all flanneled and matted and barely kempt, making me tell the rest of the table about the Grammy. For the forty-third time, I reminded him that many people appeared on the album, that each player doesn't get a trophy. Bear harrumphed and drank, as if I were lying.

She was at the far corner of the rectangular table, against a window. I spied Her, listening to my war stories. Did She lean Her head inward?

It was the way She sat. Head held proud. Chisled, but less-than-harsh features. Perfect, seamless hair, a longish pageboy. I imagined that she didn't have to style or sculpt--that the hair had its own mind and vigor. It parted itself and hung there by its will, limning the face. My memory tugged at me. Had there been a prior viewing?

I got up and played a couple of tunes. A too-long solo in "Foggy Mountain Breakdown" garnered strong applause. I couldn't see Her from the stage.

A promise-of-snow afternoon gave way to a leaden evening. After I played, I found a spot in a lonely corner of the room.

And looked at Her.

The night, lurking outside the window, outlined Her to better effect. She sat upright, listening intently. Small sips of a drink. She held her pose amazingly, not speaking. I imagined I was the only person to see Her among the hundred or so present. Unhindered, I watched.

I took the stage again a few tunes later, wanting it to be over so that I could return to my post. She hadn't moved. She was regal, perched as if she had a story that no one knew. I imagined Her as a wise, beneficent ruler.

She was my Queen.

Above Her head, silent, padded leviathans mimed their way through a football game. A running back's helmet was jostled fiercely via replay, as if he were tackled by a wall. Some people stopped by to talk to me. Did I really play with...? Yes, I said, I did.

As the set wound down, the songs became angrier, rockier. No need for a banjo. This sat fine with me. I angled closer to Her table. Do I dare approach? Speak? The decision bludgeoned me. She did not turn that fine head. Was that a ring on her left hand? The piece was thin and wiry.

Leaving time. She stood, moving upward with airy grace. Tall, willowy, in stately balance. Demure boots tucked into faded jeans. Not the big, buckly, industrial boots. No, not for her. Her parka boasted a furry trim. I imagined it being that white fur with black dots scampering about. Ermine?

I stood up to make way for Her, a member of Her court. The air became cleaner as She passed by me. She offered me the smallest of nods. I felt as if I should bow.

My eyes followed Her to the door. At the last possible moment, She turned and looked at me. Parentheses appeared at both sides of Her thin, parted lips. I saw her teeth, in proud array.

I think She mouthed something.

Then She was gone.

4:32pm

My Funny Valentines

This is a first for me—certainly a first on 14 February.

Sure, it's a mass valentine. But it's more. I got the idea after a brief setback in my life yesterday. Then I started making a list of women who have mattered in my life. This august group includes: friends, mates, crushes (many and varied), galpals, girlfriends, lovers (yikes!) and every scenario in between. This list comprises the only humanoids I've asked to view this incredible, gravitas-laden blog post.

We have shared titters, all-out laughter, stories, heartbreak, warmth—and sometimes tenderness, affection and love, in their many different guises. But one thread runs true throughout all of you Women of Substance: Every one of you has—in some way, shape or form—helped me. Pick your adverb: emotionally, financially, intimately, humorously, platonically.

At the onset of this idea, I thought I'd have a handful of gals with whom I wanted to share this. As I write, the total is 80+. And I'm not counting the few who have, sad to say, passed. Plus the ones with whom I've lost touch. Plus a new acquaintance whose location I have yet to track down. My detectives are on the case. Some I've known since childhood; others have only recently walked into my life.

You have been rocks, shoulders, dear hearts, ears, eyes and souls. I can easily pinpoint conversations, dates, drinks and fun with each of you. Some were just evanescent moments, jetting by quickly, but holding Alps of meaning.

What's the upshot? I'm a lucky guy. This exercise exists to thank you.

I hope that those of you with spouses, partners and significant others are cherished by your men, especially today. You are more than deserving. For every guy who fails his mate in this respect today: You are a colossal jerk.

For those you, like me, who are flying solo, I am with you, ready to deliver vicarious candy, flowers and hugs, as needed.

My apologies to those I may have omitted. To guys ready to bust my spheroids with man-card jokes, bugger off. This is between me and my women.

Of course, this is self-serving in that I am eliciting optional responses from all of you. Especially if you want to know why you are on this list. Private, chastely mushy emails can be sent to aceholleran@gmail.com  .

To each and every one of you ladies, as the song says, I wish you love.

Overstuffed

I don't know when it hit me. Maybe during the Stupor Bowl. Perhaps at halftime. Or the commercials. Or the game the NFL managed to sandwich in somewhere.

Then I saw a stat that a majority of viewers didn't tune in to see football, but rather to view ad spots and the "musical" halftime, which in itself was like a Hesse nightmare, with added hallucinogens.

Add Ms. Perry: Did anyone notice that the feline contraption on which she entered was actually powered by humans outside the animal on each leg? Oh please, when can we use CGI at halftime so as to lose the leg-bearers?

Face it: We live in a prepackaged, pitch-modulated, sani-wrapped, lip-synched, effects-driven Gehenna. And pretend we like it.

It's Madonna, doing Giles Stoat Boy at the Grammys. It's Brian Williams, now saying he had a petting session with Paulina Porizkova in the basement of Clooney's house on Lake Como. It's whatever Asshat of the Year (Decade?) Kanye West has to sat about anything.

The root of all this fakery? We have too much stuff. Walk with me, folks.

People compare phones the way they once did vehicles. Oh, that's not the 8G, only the 7? You Luddite. How big is your flat screen? How many BTUs is that grill? You're running Windows XP? Oh, the humanity.

We need more amps, watts, pixels and horsepower. A friend once entered my Saturn and blanched. "Roll-up windows?" he exclaimed. It was as if I had asked him to get outside and crank the motor, not the shotgun window.

Our vacuum cleaners don't suck enough. Our houses will smell like a Bumble Bee Factory during a blackout if we don't melt Scentalicious Mossy Grotto wax cubes in every room. Our pets expect tinned foie gras at every meal, perhaps enlivened by a confit of emu once in a while.

Don't buy those cornflakes at Aldi. They're not from Battle Creek, plus they cost $3 less. That's not America. Aldi? That's a German company. All those folks are about is wursts and thirsts. And—horrors!—you have to pay a quarter to use a shopping cart, which you get back at the end. So what if you can save 30% on something you use every day: food.

Haven't tried Old Sockhausen's peach-chutney-basil Olde Pilsner yet? Still drinking Genny Cream? You pinko. It's only $28.00 a six! It's made by unwashed, flannel-shirted millionaires in deepest Vermont. It must be good. It's fucking artisinal!

Yes, we need all this stuff.

And yet, we are slaves to advertising—and the mediocrity it shoves down our throats. "Ooh, I wish there was a Papa John's around here. I want some of his plasticene-cum-cardboard product." The guy's last name is Schnatter, fer crissakes. Applebee's, baby. In the neighborhood. What neighborhood? Welcome to the Half-vacant Stripmall section of Everytown, folks. Sandwiched between Dollar Colonel and Nails 'n' Tanz. But we've got reheated nacho-thyme-Elmer's potato skins fer ya ... neighbor.

I'd settle for a pair of boxer briefs that properly ensconces Mr. John Thomas. No one makes those. But Mack Weldon on the Interwebs will sell you a pair for $24.99. At that price, I expect an SI swimsuit model to assist me in donning said skivees.

Yes, Five Guys puts McKingdy's to shame. The Dollar Shave Club is my latest discovery. Buddy up with me, and I will share my cheapo hint for the perfect shave emollient. And it ain't from a can.

All this stuff leads us to buy into the schmaltzerei of awards shows, ersatz news and the inflation of Tom Brady's prophylactics.

Am I advocating moving to Schwabenland and getting free meds, schooling and cannabis? No. But sometimes, I think we are so in love with our stuff that we forget about each other.

However, that's another blog. Gonna try to post anew each Wednesday to help dispel winter doldrums, both mine and yours.

But I must run. Gotta set my DVR to record Swamp Surgeons, Downton Abbey and the special, two-hour Kardashians' Twister Party.

ADDENDUM: Faithful Acerazzi Bill Wilson contributed this tune from the great Delbert McClinton, with help from John Prine and Lyle Lovett.

See and hear, here.