OPINION: Give me a rock experience, I'll be F.I.N.E.
Dec. 9—A friend asked me the other day what I would want for Christmas, if I could have anything. I considered it a materialistic question, and I told her so.
I never wish for "things." I always prefer experiences, so unless the object is an experience in and of itself — handmade or commemorative, in other words — I have little use for it, and nowhere to put it. We've run out of room, and though it would be nice to have more storage space, I'd settle for a roof that didn't leak, hardwood or faux marble floors instead of carpet imbued with archaeological layers of cat puke, or walls not covered with crayon scribblings about 3 feet off the ground.
Actually, I wouldn't mind keeping the scribblings, but as for the rest of the dwelling has gone to seed to the point that we're embarrassed to invite over any of the few friends we have left. But I'm afraid this existence is my lot in what's left of my life. Although my husband has promised for years to "remodel" our hovel, he's more interested in parking himself the sofa for NCIS reruns, or lately, "Dead Like Me." He's figured out how to stream, and I'm not sure whether this is a blessing or a curse.
Chris and I are old, and the older I get, the less materialistic I am. Even with a remodel that likely won't happen, I wouldn't favor an expansion that would enable the arrival of more junk that our son would have no use for after we're gone. Chris, who does still want things — mainly expensive tools — says defensively, "Well, he can sell it!" But I'd prefer Cole not be saddled with that burden.
When I was a kid, we traveled three or four times a year to the Oklahoma City area to see both sets of grandparents. On the trip back to Fort Gibson, my father kept up an endless litany of griping about how those old folks — who were younger than I am now — would "fob off more crap" on him and my mother. Usually these were handmade items — little stools, embroidered towels, crocheted dish rags — but sometimes, they were useless knick-knacks, or larger items for which my parents would fruitlessly attempt to "find a spot." At some point, there were no spots left, but we kids didn't understand how he could be so ungrateful.
In my dotage, I finally understand: The grandparents were shedding themselves of things they no longer wanted or needed, and trying to tamp down the inevitable clutter that builds up over the years. They were reluctant to throw it away, so they assumed someone else would want it. My dad didn't, and in hindsight, I wouldn't, either. The one thing I do want is the one thing I inherited from my grandmother: a chifferobe in which I used to hide as a child. It's also the one thing my dad stubbornly refuses to give up, though he acknowledges it's mine. He says I can have it when he's through with it; he uses it to store his tools and accessories to reload shotgun shells, which I doubt he's touched in decades. He's 86, and I believe he expects to outlive me.
But if I don't want concrete objects, I don't have much use for abstractions, either. In my early days as a Catholic convert, I had high hopes that "people of goodwill" would triumph over the nasty pieces of work. But I no longer bother wishing for world peace or asking, as did the late Rodney King, "Can't we all get along?" I think it's been clear for several years now that we can't. To use a biblically rooted metaphor, I'm fairly sure that soon, a giant chasm is going to open up, and with or without a set of stone tablets, about a third of us are going to plunge into that gaping hole, and with that unhappy group will go the "golden calf." I'll leave it up to you to decide what — or whom — that calf might be.
Unless someone wants to foot the bill for another trip to Europe, my wish would be fairly humble. Being neither the glass half-full nor the glass half-empty type, but rather the "I think that's pee in the glass" type, I'm just hoping some of the old rockers last long enough for me to see them one more time, before I go deaf or kick the bucket myself. That's a rusty bucket, by the way, and I don't mean a type of chair. I mean the musicians who cranked out real rock in the '60s, '70s, '80s, and in some rare instances, the '90s.
The Stones are still around, and after three tries, I got to see them in October 2021. Aerosmith is one of the few others in that category, and many of my peers were shocked to learn I didn't get to see the Bad Boys from Boston until 2018, at the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival. But the festival atmosphere is different from arena concerts, so we bought tickets to see them July 2 during their residency in Vegas. Since Aerosmith is his favorite band, we were taking Cole and his girlfriend. In hopes of getting into the media pool, I bought a pair of metallic blue paisley boots, thinking they might impress the band. But Steven Tyler's little drug problem resurfaced after foot surgery, so he went back into rehab for the umpteenth time and they canceled their June and July gigs. We rebooked for Dec. 11, but Tyler came down with some undisclosed illness, so they canceled again. I'm waiting to see if the third time will be the charm — or if there will even be a third time. I don't regret the boots, though; even the gals in the water aerobics class at NSU love them.
Nor do I regret the apparently losing battle of procuring tickets to concerts featuring decrepit musicians; after all, they won't be with us forever. But as part of my own attempts at goodwill, I should warn you: If you are planning on getting tickets to such a concert, you should run it by me first so I can tell you whether we also plan to attend. As I've repeatedly said, Poindexter luck is always in, and it's always bad, and there's a good chance something will happen to the geezers before they hobble onto the stage. So, fair warning: We and some of our friends have tickets to Grand Funk Railroad next month, and to The Boss in February. You're welcome to take your chances.
