Happy Hour

They say that Jazz is dead.

I don't know, I was never alive when Jazz was alive.   Except for Coltrane and Davis, but I was too young.

But I was alive for Meatloaf and Styx.  And I remember and would sooner forget Paradise by the Dashboard Lights.

But I keep being reminded of Meatloaf and his ilk at happy hours.  Cover bands.  And its just so sad--I want to cry.  I want to cry at everything now.  My body is alive with 30 years of not crying.   And in case you don't know the math, that means the last time I really cried was in college.

Me:   Bless me father for it has been 30 years since my last cry.

Priest:  "Keep a stiff upper lip son.  Don't let other's see you.  And do 12 Hail Mary's and the Sign of the Cross.  But you can cry.   Just be discrete.  Let your freak flag fly."

Me:  Its a spiritual awakening?

Me:  Somebody please say "yes"

Reality: (crickets........crickets.....lol)

I have this image of Dr. Frankenstein (or was that Dr. Frankenfurter you Rocky Horror Fans, and you know who you are) trying to resurrect the dead body of Meatloaf with electric shock to no avail. Over and over.    Every Friday night after work.  At "happy" hours.  And even worse, how many fucking jazz singers from Brooke Thomas to Thomas Brooke want to cover "Summertime."   Gershwin would be rolling in his grave without the electric cattle prod.

For 50 somethings this music is a distant reminder of a bygone past.  And normally, I can do the Proust and remember things of the past, but this is just too sad.  And I know its just me.  This is just people working all week looking forward to Fridays after work.  Lining up the beer bottles and wine bottles like tombstones, ready to fall down like a row of dominoes.

Domino.  Love me all night Romeo.  Aaargh!

I wonder if Dr. Frankenstein would have any better luck resurrecting Van Morrison.  I don't care.  And I don't care about the Cardinals or the Cubs.  I mean I love you all, I really do, but it just hurts me to see you listening to all this dead music lining up the dead beer cans.   I feel like I should be doing something to help you.

I feel like I should be doing something to help myself.

But in the end, I hear the refrain:  "Let me sleep on it, baby baby let me sleep on it, I'll give you the answer in the morning."