My Girlfriend’s Birthday…

This post is about my Trumpy Girlfriend Joan’s birthday celebration. Sort of. I had to sneak a peek in her wallet while she was in the shower to confirm her birth date. 28 September. You can’t forget your girlfriend’s birthday. Especially if she happens to be your only girlfriend.

I don’t cheat on Joan. But I do on occasion imagine myself cheating on her with a former girlfriend, plucked from my mental repository of Used-To-Be’s. I don’t remember them very well these days. My memory is an old sponge that’s crumbling away. Of course I don’t necessarily need to pick an old girlfriend to fantasize with. I can still recall one or two remarkably amorous brief encounters I had back in my wild days. I had quite a few of those. Most of those, unfortunately, have faded from my memory. Total immersion therapy might help me retrieve a dozen or more. I don’t believe the V.A. will cover the therapy sessions. I should’ve prepared myself better for my old age. Employed a degree of foresight. I once had a friend, Randy Andy was his name, who planned for his old age by video-taping his brief encounters. I often wonder what became of Randy.

Could be he’s incarcerated.

I’m not like Randy Andy. I’m not like old Gil, either.

Old Gil never stopped having brief encounters. He used to ride his bicycle through the hills of this upscale town. He’d stop off at one or another of his rental properties. Share a quickie with the old girl inside who happened to be his tenant. (I heard from his son, Mike, he had more than one old girlfriend he helped out.) They called him Old Gil the Old Goat. He only stopped playing around on his wife when he started forgetting where he left his bike. Maybe he never forgot Patty’s birthday. I don’t know. All I know he was a horny old Goat. He forgot who he was finally. Mike checked him into a home where he lingered a few weeks before giving up the ghost. Hundreds gathered at Gil’s memorial service, held at the Sausalito Yacht Club. Not long after, Patty died. Thousands gathered for her memorial service. She was a better person than old Gil. Me, I’m not much of a person but I’m still alive. I have only one girlfriend. I don’t play around on her. This doesn’t make me a better person than Gil, just different. When I die I’d rather forgo a memorial service. I’d just as soon go out like the Writer Ambrose Bierce. At seventy two years old, he joined Poncho Villa’s army and vanished without a trace. Some say he was executed. I’ll skip the firing squad and just ride my donkey into the sunset. Maybe get a job watering tequila cactus..

So I ask Joan, “whaddaya want for your Birthday?”

She says she wants a trip to Hawaii. A big dinner at The Buckeye, the priciest joint in Sausalito. Or an automatic sprinkler system for her garden. So I ask her, “whaddaya really want for your birthday?”

She says, “I just told you what I want for my birthday.”

I got her three bottles of wine I snagged from my free booze sample job. She can add those to the 150 or so bottles of wine she’s got stored around her house. I got her a bag of red licorice from the dollar store cuz I know she likes red licorice. And some other things from the dollar store. Finally I got her a gift card from The Home Store since I know she’s been looking at lamps there. What else? Odds and ends. A pack of cheese ends. Lucky I got her the gift card…

A Gloomy Boomer thumb note: Put plenty on the gift card and include the receipt. That way you can buy the birthday card at the Dollar Store and throw in a bag of red licorice. Works out as long as you put plenty of money on the gift card…

So I’m ripping open the bag of red licorice. She’s staring at her gift card. She says, “You know they don’t sell a sprinkler system at The Home Store.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m saying you could’ve got me a sprinkler system at Home Depo for 89 dollars.”

I put almost twice that much on her Home Store Gift Card.

“But that’s okay,” she says. “I’m not complaining. I love the Home Store.”

I chew a piece of red licorice.

They’re little ones. Two inches long.

The Schmaltz King Of Rock And Roll

So I made it through the Gifting part of Joan’s birthday. Not too big a hit on my meager savings. I coulda bought her a sprinkler system for half what I spent on the gift card. But I’d need to install it for her. Which, in the end, woulda cost me way more than the Gift Card in time and extra addeds. So the Gift Card purchase worked out all the way around. I don’t gotta put out any more effort. I can sit on my ass at her dining room table over the weekend. Earplugged to my laptop. Chew red licorice, sip Vodka and watch Anti-Trump YouTube videos. While she’s busy in her breakfast nook gorging on Fox News. It’s a perfect world.

I’m feeling so satisfied I forgot all about the “Going Out” part of her Birthday.

I’m watching The Secretary Of War make a fool of himself before the assembled Generals of our country. This is priceless. A circus buffoon lecturing the collective brains of the U.S. Military. He’s got on these goofy brown shoes. Tight tan blue suite. Dorky face. He’s even stupider in person I hear. Anyway, I’m enjoying the show when somebody nudges my shoulder. It’s Joan. “I’m trying to talk to you,” she says. “Will you take off the earplugs, please!”

“Okay, okay,” I say, freezing the screen. “What is it?”

“I want to show it to you on my notepad.”

Okay so I follow her into the breakfast nook. Fox News blaring in there. But then she turns it down. This is serious when she turns down Fox News. She holds up her notebook for me to see:

“It’s the final show at the Creekside Park,” she says. “I’d really like to go. We could eat at the Pizza place above the park. Then watch the show. It’s the last show of the season.”

She’s referring to the San Anselmo Free Concert series. Every town of any size in Marin County puts on these free outdoor concerts during the summer. I’m looking at her; she’s looking at me. I’m thinking, this works out in my favor. First off, the concert is free. Second, the Pizza Joint, located above the park, is “relatively” cheap. What this means is simple: taking Joan out for her Birthday aint gonna cost me a huge chunk of change. I’m feeling good. I like simple things. Almost as much as I like cheap things. A two-fer is like…like a perfect world!

“Who’s playing?” I ask her.

“They’re called Super Diamond. It’s the last concert of the series. They’re supposed to be really good.”

“What kind of music?”

“You know, one of those Tribute Bands.”

For who?”

“Who do you think! Super Diamond!”

“You mean…Neil Diamond?”

“Of course!”

“You like Neil Diamond?’

“Of course.” She gives me a dreamy-eyed look. “I love that song ‘America.'”

“How’s that one go?”

“Oh don’t be silly. You know that song.”

It dawns on me she’s talking about one of the songs from that movie he did. The only movie Neil Diamond ever did. 1980 it came out. The Jazz Singer. The Al Jolson remake. Bad sappy-ass movie. A bag of Schmaltz from the Schmaltz King Of Rock And Roll. But how’s Joan a fan? She’s actually fairly sophisticated in her musical tastes. James Brown and David Bowie tops her best ever list.

Hmmmmm…I’m thinking about it, I’m thinking the song AMERICA kind of does make sense. Joan loving it, I mean. Because it’s super patriotic. A song a Trump supporter would like.

“I love that song,” she says.

“Okay.”

“So you want to go to the concert?”

“Sure, sure…why not.”

“We could go early. Eat at the Pizza place. Then go to the concert.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

I’m back at the dinning room table. Staring at the frozen screen on my laptop. I need to resume my video. But Neil Diamond is in my head. I’m thinking of Neil Diamond. I’m trying to get my head around Neil Diamond. I grew up with him. But I was never a Neil Diamond fan. The Schmaltz King Of Rock And Roll. But thinking of Neil Diamond forces you to think of Neil Diamond. It’s hard to get your head around where he starts and where he finishes. It feels kind of odd, actually, thinking about Neil Diamond. He’s like a “recovered memory” or a hint of one. Something about you and him you can’t recall. Then you begin to remember. You don’t especially want to remember yet you’re remembering. Abruptly it dawns on you. The full awful truth of it. You actually like Neil Diamond!

How can that be???

Saturday at the Creekside Park Concert

The Creekside Park is a tree-shaded grass and dirt amphitheater. You drop down a flight of wooden stairs from San Anselmo’s main street. And there you are. Feeling like an old Hippie. A well-tended creek gurgles under a perfect stone bridge, like a bridge from an old roman town. Every bed rock of this creek is watched over by an official old Hippie. I grew up in Santa Cruz. The land of old Hippies. The first time I ever saw San Anselmo I felt I’d been here before. Until it dawned on me this is not Capitola.

It’s more like Marin County’s CAPITOLA.

The Pizza Dude’s Restaurant

The dude who invented the concert series. I forget his name. Call him the Pizza Dude. He owns the pizza restaurant at the top of the stairs. Located at the end of San Anselmo’s promenade. This guy, he’s maybe in his early fifties. He figured out how to supercharge the tourism during the peak summer season. Put on a free Saturday evening concert at the park. Rope in the other restaurants on the main street. Along with local businesses. Book local acts. Boom! Crowd shows up for the music and his Pizza Joint is jam packed. Not only is it packed. Customers are eating really really good pizza. Joan’s from New Jersey. She’s hard to please when it comes to Pizza. Word-of-Mouth kicks in. The Pizza Dude’s business is thriving all year long.

We’re sitting at the tiny bar at the Pizza Dude’s restaurant. We got here early and the joint is already filling up. I’m drinking craft beer and gobbling mushroom and sausage pizza. Joan is drinking White Wine and nibbling pizza. Avoiding the crusts. The reason I’m drinking craft beer is elementary. Joan’s Sauvignon Blanc costs 17 dollars a glass while craft beer cost 8. Plus a craft beer is three times as large so I only gotta drink one to Joan’s two. This is how I survive taking Joan to dinner.

The guy next to me at the bar seems friendly enough. “How ya doing?” I ask.

“Great!”

He’s eating a hot Italian sandwich, watching the game on the wall.

“You here for Neil Diamond?” I ask.

“Oh, yeah. Love the Diamond.”

Dude looks to be in his mid thirties.

“I grew up with Neil Diamond,” I tell him. “When I was a kid, mid-sixties, Diamond was cool. Then late sixties, early seventies, he turned into a joke. I mean, he wasn’t cool anymore. Writing songs for Barbara Streisand and shit. Even singing with her. Then something happened. I don’t know exactly what. He got cool again. Been thinking about it. About what happened. Can’t figure it.”

The Thirty something dude is chewing his sandwich. Watching the game on the wall. Hasn’t heard a word I’ve been saying. Abruptly, he gets up and leaves. Not cuz of me. I’m not even on his radar.

I’m staring at his plate. At his half-eaten Hot Italian sandwich.

“Do you want my crust,” Joan asks. I usually eat her pizza crust cuz she always leaves it on her plate. I’m brainwashed from my mother demanding I always clean my plate cuz poor kids are starving. Plus I like Pizza crust.

The Pizza Dude’s crust is really good. I’m looking at the leftover crust on Joan’s plate. I’m looking over at the thirty-something dudes leftover hot Italian sandwich.

The sandwich looks better.

Another Old Couple

I’m nibbling on Joan’s pizza crust. A couple about our age grabs the empty table right behind us. They nod at me and smile.

“You guys here for Neil Diamond?” I ask.

“Oh, definitely,” the man says.

The lady, who looks a lot like the man, says, “We love Neil Diamond!”

“I grew up with Neil Diamond,” I say.

“So did we.”

“He was great,” I say. “Then he got schmaltzy. I don’t know what happened.”

“We think he’s great,” The man says.

“He’s always been great,” the woman says.

I occurs to me Neil Diamond is not playing at the Creekside park. Rather, Super Diamond, a Neil Diamond Tribute Band, is playing at the Creekside park.

“Have you heard these guys before?” I ask.

The lady nods. “We love Super Diamond.”

“They sound just like Neil Diamond,” the man says.

“Not exactly,” the woman says.

“That’s right,” the man says. “They have their own special sound. But it’s all about Neil Diamond.”

The man looks at the woman. The woman nods.

They’re in perfect agreement.

The Concert

The capacity for the Creekside Amphitheater is approximately 1,000 people. We get there early and unfold our chairs. Still light out, maybe a couple hundred people gathered and staked out on their blanketed spots. I’m thinking, okay, this’ll be easy.

I can handle this for an hour and a half.

But I’m not thinking correctly. This is not a normal Creekside free concert.

It’s a Neil Diamond thing.

By dark the Amphitheater is jammed packed, maybe three thousand people. People tumbling over us. Jumping up and swaying. Screaming along to the songs. I shoulda known it was gonna get bad when the Super Diamond singer opened the show with this line of wisdom:

“There are two kinds of people in the world. Those who love Neil Diamond. And those who Looooooove Neil Diamond.”

Lucky we brought along a wine thermos. I polished off most of a bottle. At one point Joan had to go to the bathroom. She was gone a long time. When she got back finally she looked scared, like she’d witnessed a stabbing. “You wouldn’t believe how crowded it is out there,” she said. “I didn’t think I would make it back. They’re like…animals!”

SWEET CAROLINE goes on and on for several choruses. Everybody’s standing up, jumping around, screaming. Joan grabs my arm. “This woman keeps knocking into me!”

Two old broads behind me. Nudging me to get up and sing along.

They’re around my age, but spry.

“Stand up and join us!” the one with the big mouth shouts. “Don’t ya wanna sing!”

“I don’t need to sing along!” I shout back. “I’m old. I know all his songs. I grew up with him.”

“We’re old too!!!” they both scream.

“We’re British,” the big mouth shouts. “We Love Neil!”

Then it happened.

My epiphany.

I mean, my Neil Diamond epiphany.

I’d been wondering why Neil Diamond is so popular these days. A schmaltzy has-been resurrected into a Pop Hipster. Then, with the next song, I’m reminded how he was always hip at his core. It only took a hip movie director to brush away the schmaltz and reveal the Diamond with a cool groove.

Super Diamond launched into the song. I recognize the song. Not because it was a hit back in the sixties. Because it became a hit again in the nineties. Thanks to that movie that revived John Travolta’s career!

I jump up and turn to the two old British Broads.

“Remember this one!” I scream. “It’s from Pulp Fiction!”

The old gal with the big mouth grins.

“Yaaaaaaa!”

Leave it to Quentin Tarantino to bring out the essential Neil Diamond.

But then the song ends.

There’s a pause.

Super Diamonds launches into Song Sung Blue.

Everybody singing along…

And just like that we’re back into the Schmaltz!!!!

The Triumph Of Neilness

The phrase “the triumph of Neilness” is a critical description of the 1972 live album Hot August Night by singer-songwriter Neil Diamond. Music critic Rob Sheffield coined the term in the 2004 Rolling Stone Album Guide. The term captures the essence of Neil Diamond’s musical persona, which is characterized by a unique blend of schmaltz, drama, and pure pop spectacle.

Back at Joan’s Pad

I’m sitting at my spot at the dining room table. Earplugged to my laptop.

Joan’s in the Breakfast nook, watching Fox News. The host is giving his take on the Great Leader’s speech to the assembled Generals. Before plugging in I caught snippets of the Fox Host’s insane take. Trump’s speech was inspiring, says Brian Kilmeade. Take Brian’s opinion to the bank if you want to lose your savings. This is the same Fox Host who said Homeless People should receive “Involuntary lethal Injections.”

In spite of Joan’s Fox News insanity, I’m feeling pretty good. I don’t know why exactly. Maybe it’s the Neil Diamond thing. He has a way of bringing people together. Joan and me, we don’t have a lot in common. I’m a Bernie Sanders Socialist. She’s a fascist. A Trumpy Fascist. Which is like saying you’re a Fascist with a highly stupid and inept leader. A Mussolini Fascist would at least make some kind of sense. At least the Duce made the trains run on time.

I’m scrolling around the internet when I look up at Joan.

“I’m going to bed,” she says.

“Oh, yeah?”

“I’m tired. That woman kept knocking into me.”

“Did you like the concert?”

“Oh, of course. They were great.”

“Happy Birthday.”

“Thank you.”

“Love you, baby.”

“Love you too.”

I’m watching her climb the stairs. She climbs with effort. Sixty-nine years old. The woman worked like a dog her whole life. Paid her taxes. Cared for her elderly parents. Always tried to do the right thing. Pity she’s a Trumpy. Nothing I can do about it. It is what it is. We do have one or two things in common, now I’m thinking about it. Maybe one of them’s a Neil Diamond song. He has a way of bringing people together.

I’m not ready for bed. Something’s still bugging me. I’m scrolling around the You Tube. Engrossed in the Neil Diamond thing.. I watch Paul Simon induct Neil into the Rock And Roll Hall of fame. He gives a good speech. Sez Neil Diamond was known as the Jewish Elvis Presley; but in many Synagogues throughout the land Elvis Presley was known as the Bogus Neil Diamond. Leave it to Paul Simon to hit the nail on the head. Then I chance on to the Last Waltz Movie. The Band’s last concert, filmed by Martin Scorsese. All the Rock Music elite up there on stage. Joni Mitchell, Neil Young, Bob Dylan, The Band, Van Morrison. And Schmaltzy Diamond gets up there and puts them all to shame with his one song, “Dry Your Eyes.” It’s a revealing moment. I’m getting tired. Tired of the Neil Diamond thing. Then, surprise, I find what I’m looking for. A song. The song that said what needed to be said for me. About why I like Neil Diamond. And it’s not just the song, which happens to be my favorite of his. But what he says about singing and songwriting…and being Neil Diamond.