— Henry David Thoreau
American author & poet
(1817-1862)
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Last month’s conversion of our newspaper’s computer system — including hardware, software and every ware — from an earlier generation to that which, in theory, is modern and improved gave redefined meaning to the familiar adage, “You can’t teach an old dawg new tricks.”
Apparently, one can.
Within our newsroom personnel, I figure the average age is about 105. Yet, our team of geriatric journalists did it. If we (the old dawgs) can learn new tricks (updated electronics), then just about anything is possible. Before long, man likely will walk on the moon.
But I use computers merely as an analogy. Last Sunday’s columnized tribute to our electronic prowess was quite enough. We’ll not continue the tale this week. Truth is, dozens of stories beg to be told of that two-week experience, but we’ll save them for another day ... perhaps a rainy one.
Today let’s approach another conversion involving an old dawg — my introduction to the world of musical productions. You know, those live stage performances where the actors break into song every three to six minutes; even the guys. Yes, the guys.
In the beginning of our marriage, which is a blessed 35 years long (no, I don’t know either how she’s endured it), I politely surrendered all opportunity to attend live musicals with my bride. They weren’t my cup of tea so my beloved often enjoyed such productions during Girls Night Out or other special occasions with her lady buds. I was good with it.
Yet, she wished upon me an ounce of culture, even upon the onset of my advancing years. Finally, I acquiesced. I don’t know what I was thinking. Perhaps I wasn’t. It is no longer important because Natural Order took care of the rest.
One might say, “I came. I saw. I conquered.” It would be a half-truth. I did attend my first musical. I did witness inspiring theatrics, the talented voices and the clever lines. But it conquered me.
“Cats” purred its way straight to my heart on this evening. Over the years, the feline caper was followed by “The Phantom of the Opera,” “Beauty and the Beast,” “Fame,” “Grease,” “Wicked” and a slew of others.
Please don’t share this next secret with any Bradley County male. But, I enjoyed every production. “Cats” and “Phantom” share the pedestal as my all-time favorites. I would see either again in a heartbeat. Of course, paying for the tickets might be another matter. They don’t give those little darlings away.
But for us, it’s always a fun evening that starts with dinner out, good conversation, plenty of laughs and then the big show.
One such outing came in Nashville where we saw “Wicked.” For you other males out in left field, it’s the story of the green witch from “The Wizard of Oz,” in her youth, and how she got to be ... green, and well, witchy. She’s not the one who was dive-bombed by the house, but her unpleasant sister — the one who rode the broom, enjoyed the company of flying monkeys and who melted to close out the show. The end of that movie was a sad commentary on water.
I’ve seen big audiences before, but this downtown auditorium was packed with about 500,000 other musical loyalists who favored lime skin, pointed hats and irritable dispositions. To say the lobby was jammed up and jelly tight would be an injustice to the name Smuckers. It was packed like prunes.
So I entertained those around us with timely questions to my wife. For example, as our army of sardines awaited the opening of those great chamber doors to The Emerald City, I told her I was looking forward to the big game, and that I hoped the Titans would pull it out.
“Huh?” she asked.
“The game,” I answered. “You told me you were ordering tickets online to the team’s new indoor stadium. I gotta say, I’ve never seen doors this big to the cheap seats. And this fancy lobby? Whoa! Who let the dogs out on that one? This carpet must have set’em back a pretty penny, and just so folks can spill their Cokes and drop their hot dogs on it?”
A couple of tiny, silver-haired ladies giggled to our right.
“And when did the women folk start spiffying up so much just for a football game?” A smirk from behind.
“And where’s all the Titans souvenirs? I haven’t seen the first T-shirt except for that booth way over there, and they’re just selling ‘Wizard of Oz’ stuff. What’s up with that? And where’s all the foam fingers?” A few chuckles to our left.
“Are the cheerleaders inside? And why aren’t they opening those doors? Kickoff’s in 15 minutes. They better have one heckuva lot of ushers ’cause it’s gonna be a stampede once those gates open. I wonder who’s singing the Anthem?”
Sufficiently embarrassed, my wife suggested, “Would you be a dear and just be seen and not heard?”
I pondered the question, and the light bulb turned on, “Oh, you mean like at home?”
She nodded.
Standing in silence for almost three minutes, I looked over to the first two little silver-hairs. “I bet this place has a scoreboard the size of Texas,” I projected.
One placed a white-gloved hand on my wife’s wrist and offered, “We are so sorry ...”
I never figured out what she meant.
