Nothing Up My Sleeve
Jon Gallagher
Welcome
to 2009
I’ve
been called an old fart before and something tells me I’ll be called that again
- probably by the end of this
column. With that said, let me
save you the time. I’m an old
fart.
This
past New Year’s Eve was about as exciting for me as it gets. We drove into Peoria, grabbed some
Chinese food for everyone except me, stopped by an amazing place in Kickapoo
called “Ludy’s” to get a hamburger for me, and headed for the In-laws’ house
for a rollicking good time.
New
Year’s Eves from my past were fun.
As a teenager, I’d attend a party at the United Methodist Church in
Knoxville where we’d have a lock-in for the Youth Group. There were always ping-pong tournaments
set up along with tournaments for chess and checkers. One room was darkened and that’s where you could go to dance
except that no one who had dates ever attended a lock-in. Pizza was either frozen or made from
boxes of Chef Boyardee mixes, and the favored drink was Dr. Pepper.
In
my late teens, it seems that I’d spend the evening with my girlfriend at her
house, listening to WLS’ countdown of the top 100 songs of the year. At midnight, we’d kiss and I’d dodge
drunk drivers on my way back to Knoxville.
After
I got married, my wife and I would spend the evening with married friends from
the Quad Cities. We alternated
years of going there or hosting them at our place. Both of us got
divorced and none of the four of us have ever mentioned getting back together
on New Year’s Eve.
Since
my divorce and subsequent marriage, I’ve spent several of the last few years
doing magic on New Year’s Eve. I
arranged my schedule far enough in advance to be at parties, doing walk around
or close up magic, and still making it home in time for the dropping of the
ball. I decided to take this year
off, mainly because the only offers I had for evening were at least two hours
from home.
All
in all, New Year’s Eve has never been one of those times where excitement
abounds. I don’t drink, so going
out and getting sloshed is not an option.
Instead, this year was spent camped out in front of the TV watching Dick
Clark’s Rockin’ New Year’s Eve with Ryan Secrest.
I
thought Dick Clark was dead.
I
didn’t think that before I tuned into the program, but after seeing him I did.
Now
I realize that the poor guy had a stroke and has valiantly fought his way back,
but I’ve seen corpses that looked better than him. I’ll hand it to him for his courage and determination, but
if someone hadn’t told me, I would have sworn that he was already embalmed and
that his mouth and voice were both products of computer animation.
I
won’t say that he’s had a face lift or two, but I think that little dimple in
his chin used to be his belly button.
It was the lint that gave it away.
The
show featured musical guests, and I was particularly intrigued by two guest
groups. One was called the Pussy
Cat Dolls, and I’m not sure who the second group was, but I’m sure some alert
reader will be able to supply a name.
The
second group wasn’t quite sure who they were. Their lead singer looked like he was doing an impression of
Larry the Cable Guy (in costume, not voice), while the lead guitarist looked
like he fell off the album cover of an 80’s hair band. The bass player had long hair too, but
it was straight, not poofy like his counterpart on the other side of the lead
singer. The bass player looked
like a hold-over from the 90’s.
On drums, there was a guy who was either naked or just wearing gym
shorts. He had to show off the 1241
tattoos that covered his arms, torso, and legs. He reminded me of Charlie Manson, only not as laid
back. I’m not sure what song they
sang (or yelled or whatever it’s called) because I was too busy making fun of
them.
The
Pussy Cat Dolls were a different story.
These young ladies could get you in serious trouble if you’re not
careful. They have no musical
talent that I from what I can tell, and their lip-syncing ability looked like a
talent picked up from watching Japanese monster movies. They were more concerned about dancing
and making sure each move was perfectly in step with the other members. I know they weren’t really singing live
because they couldn’t have been.
They were so winded at the end of their song that I thought paramedics
were going to rush on stage to administer oxygen and CPR. Of course, the girls in the group were
good looking enough that any young (or old) red-blooded paramedic wouldn’t have
needed much encouragement to do the CPR, even if it wasn’t needed.
It
used to be that a musical group was formed in somebody’s garage and when one
member quit, someone always knew someone else who could play the same
instrument. I think that’s how the
Beatles did it.
Now,
the record companies get an idea for a “band” or group, decide the image, and
then go and hire people that fit the bill. I’m sure that’s how the Pussy Cat Dolls were formed, the
same as all the “boy bands” of the past decade like NSync, the Backstreet Boys,
and 98 Degrees. It sure takes the
fun out of it, both from a playing, and a listening point of view.
Back
to the show, I almost felt sorry for Ryan Secrest and Kellie Pickler (a former
American Idol contestant) as they froze their collective fannies off in single
digit temperatures in Times Square.
They pretended to have fun but I’m guessing that the 30-35 mile an hour
winds that were dropping the windchills into unfathomable negative numbers and
making ice crystals form in their eyes prevented them from having all that good
of a time.
While
channel surfing, we switched over to the NBC broadcast for a few minutes and
caught Sir Elton John performing live from London. Now there’s a musical act! This man has a string of hit records from here to the Knox
County line and could have turned the evening into a foot-stompin’,
toe-tappin’, dancin’-in-the-aisles party.
He could have rocked us with “Philadelphia Freedom,” or “Crocodile Rock.” He could have turned up the volume on
“The Bitch is Back,” or even “Club at the End of the Street.” Instead, he chose to help me remember
how late it was getting by crooning “Tiny Dancer.”
It
could have been worse. He could
have sent us all off to slumberland with “Can You Feel the Love Tonight.”
We
switched back to the ABC version soon after he had finished. My notes, hastily scribbled on the back
of one of my daughter’s drawings, look more like her chicken scratches than
anything I might have written.
There’s a slight chance I may have nodded off in here somewhere.
Finally,
the proposed Secretary of State and her hubby, along with the mayor of New York
City gathered round a large lever which started “the ball” on its descent. It reached the bottom, I kissed my
wife, and shuffled off to bed.
Next
year, I may just head for bed around nine or so. I’m not sure my heart can handle the excitement of another
New Year’s Eve like this one.
01/08/09