C'mon 2007!

Man, am I ready for a new year. I'm not into numerology, but something tells me that 2006 and all of it's mathematical matches makes up for every unlucky number for me.

I quit my job, my mother had two very invasive surgeries, and then I faced what I thought was possible death or at least certain major injury when some airheaded waste of flesh ran a red light and T-boned me.

Quitting my job will turn out to be the best thing I ever did in my life, of that I am convinced. So, even as dramatic a turn that was for this stable soul, I am sure that everything will be alright. My mother endured a very intense first surgery in July that ultimately resulted in remarkable success, even to the subdued surprise of the surgeons themselves. If that weren't enough, it was to be the easiest of the two surgeries, so we as a family went into the second expecting disappointment. But again, miraculous results, so everything's good there. My accident (or perhaps more accurately described as "her accident"), while resulting in the total loss of a nice and dependable truck, provided me with very little pain and the slack-jawed gaze of those who have seen the photos of the involved vehicles.

All things considered, I can't complain. But then again.........

I have to sometimes stop and take a look back and just say, "damn".

God and I have talked about this. Well, I've talked. So far, He just listens, but that's good enough for me. For now. I can wait to see the promised land for answers. I'm in no hurry, seeing as if I someday get my halo and that condo on a cloud, I'll have blessed eternity to be filled in on the whys and how comes. Oh, and I'll get to see Hendrix jam with Coltrane and Mozart or maybe Stevie Ray Vaughan strum along with an anonymous lute player from the 1700s with Buddy Rich on drums. Like I said, I can wait, but I'm still curious.

All that aside, most of those close to me have understood that I've been a little "grinchy" this holiday season. I usually get into it to some degree, although I've tired of the perfunctory exercises in the last few years. Lights, tree, action. Yawn.

But I do normally enjoy certain routines of the season; walks in the neighborhood on foggy nights that give the Christmas lights a hazy glow through the mist. A "Merry Christmas" instead of a "thank you" from an elderly woman for whom I've held a door. A hug instead of a handshake from an old friend. I could go on, but it might defeat my grinchy point.

This season, I took my mother up to Santa Rosa to see a live show full of holiday music (and classic American standards) performed by her oldest friend's daughter, Elizabeth Pickard. I wouldn't mention her name except to have the four (or perhaps on a busy and bizarre Google day, seven) people that check in on this little blog commit it to memory so as not to miss out on being "in the know" when Beth's on some PBS show that folks talk about just to seem snooty enough even though they haven't donated any funds to support the programs they don't actually watch.

Man, that was kind of a long sentence and one in bad need of some sort of punctuation fairy. Sorry 'bout that. I try to keep this quick and easy so I can someday publish a "bathroom reader" edition of my writings. I love the so called "portable" collections of writings; Thoreau, Twain, Royko, even Rollins. I would call my first collected volume, "The Flushable Tony". Keep those Amazon accounts currents, faithful readers.

Anyway, back to the holiday show. Beth (yeah, I knew her in the familiar "Beth") was joined by her father in this presentation in a duet format, with a few solos sprinkled throughout. Holiday classics came to life for me and lit my little black heart. I actually got chills from time to time when certain notes were reached and I occasionally looked over my shoulder to make sure that I wasn't the only one grinning like Billy Bob Thornton in Slingblade.

Beth is an astounding singer, but every time I've seen her perform, it's been in a genre that wouldn't be my first choice on a menu on a given night. Those of you that know me realize that my first love is rock and roll, served heavy, with a little blues on the side. I'll take an appetizer of jazz from time to time with no argument (especially of the late '50s to mid '70s vintage), and a sprig of pre-70's country western makes for a nice accroutmeant. But then again, venturing off of the ol' familiar menu is good for the cultural palate, and this night caught me off guard.

I'd heard Beth sing from time to time at casual family and friends' gatherings and was duly impressed, but it wasn't until I caught Elizabeth Pickard live couple of years ago at the Empire Plush Room at the York Hotel in San Francisco that I realized the talent I'd rubbed elbows with. Go here to see the parade of Tony Award (not affiliated with Tony's Hazy Concert Memories) winners that regularly play this up-close-and-personal venue. On that night, even among three other very talented ladies, Beth had my eyebrows a full inch and a half above their normal perch.

That night in San Francisco, I was also pulled under the surface and into the supressed memories of my aural past. As the ladies moved into tunes that should have had me shrugging or even wincing, I actually found myself tapping my feet and bobbing my head in a most minimalist's manner, not wanting to acknowledge the fact the I was at all familiar with the songs. My curse was that while I was baptized in rock and roll, it seemed that my musical bloodline was a bit more confused. I strongly remember listening to Creedence, The Mamas and The Papas, and other late sixties and early seventies artists related to rock. But, in some sort of subliminal and perhaps a somewhat demonic manner, I was doused with the arsenic of Rogers and Hammerstein. I may have been able to suppress that memory, but coupled with the bamboo-under-fingernail Striesand drubbings, I was simply now a soldier in the "someday army" that would forever try to coerce those sporting mullets or hightop Reeboks that Guys and Dolls is a great fucking story with two characters that would make for uber cool metal band names (Nathan Detroit or Sky Masterson----I know, how cool would those be? Embrace your inner metal being, people!).

Back to Christmas of recent past. Beth's father Larry was striking in his suit as he strode along in what I guessed were much practiced steps in front of a mirror. He was visibly nervous but gave off a performer's confidence that, at least for this casual observer, spackled in the holes enough that the subtle touched up nuances of color almost instantly erased any missteps. Larry's casual acknowledgments of missed cues or forgotten lyrics with a smile accompanied by a severely sucked in breath brought us all into the moment and gave everyone an insider's feel to the performance. Looking a bit like a nattily attired and even more charming Kevin Spacey, albeit with more hair, he commanded the floor when it was appropriate and stepped into the shadows when his daughter stunned us with her solos.

To be perfectly honest, I made the trip out of convenience. When I first heard about the performance, my wife and I both planned on attending, but when we mistakenly thought that it would conflict with a birthday celebration for Mary's father, we begged off. Upon the realization that it was a Sunday evening gig, I was back in the fold. I can't begin or pretend to try to describe how glad I am that I was fortunate enough to be there that night.

I found myself further connecting as an adult with my mother's best and most long term friend Barbara (notice the author's avoidance of the phrase "oldest friend" that was used above). She is a wonderfully vibrant woman that defies her time on this globe both to the eye and one's intuition. And while her son, Justin, and I have been pleasantly familiar since childhood, during this short visit, I didn't see him as the kid I knew vaguely during my own childhood, but as a man that carries himself not only with dignity and self worth but also a humility that makes him ultimately approachable and real. It was also a treat to get to know Barbara's husband Brad a little better, man to man. From wine to beer, cigars to whiskey, and points that cover all corners of the Men's Discussion Blueprint and beyond, I found Brad to be easy to talk to without what could have been an awkward struggle to make smalltalk.

After the performance that night, my mother and I gave the players our regards. Beth got hugs from both of us and then we made our way over to Larry to congratulate him on a fine performance as well. While my mom was talking to him, I was trying to whip up something better than "great show" or "you guys were great". A hearty handshake between us had me explaining to Larry that I'd been feeling quite the grinch this season, but his and Beth's performance had me seeing things a bit differently. It came out so naturally that I surprised myself because anything I'd thought of up until that moment seemed contrived or rehearsed. Larry seemed to appreciate my sentiment and for that I was glad.

Retreating to Beth's condo after the show for a champagne toast and a round or two of cocktails cemented the good holiday vibes for me. Good conversation with healthy doses of laughter took us all up until it was time to retire for the evening. My mom and I drove back to our hotel raving not only about the show, but about the interpersonal connections we felt that night. We stopped at the gas station across from our hotel to get her a soda and me a Tall Boy Coors Light. Back in the room, as she watched the local news, I flipped through the free rags that I'd picked up in the lobby; God loves the whore that has to sell the advertising to float these colorful but sadly glorified throwaway tourist pamphlets. I drifted off to sleep with visions of Napa Valley golf courses and blues shows at the Luther Burbank Center For The Performing Arts.

The next day, we met Brad and Barbara for breakfast at a great place called Omelette Express in Santa Rosa. So what did I have? Bacon and eggs. I'm such a rebel, I know. After some good hot coffee on what was one of the region's coldest mornings of recent memory, Brad presented me with a cigar that he and Justin enjoy and a glass tube with some sort of gel that helps to keep your cigars moist and fresh. What a nice gesture, I thought. He also bought breakfast in order to display the fact that they were appreciative of the trip we made to see the show. Furthermore, Barbara gave my mom some audio books that she'd downloaded as we said our goodbyes out at the cars. An embarrassment of riches after such a wonderful weekend.

We exchanged contact info and my mom and I headed home. We both had a warm feeling in our hearts. My mom is always glad to spend time with her chum, and I was glad to get to know Brad and Justin a little better and on a different level.

It's funny; hearing some of those old Christmas standards on a store's Muzak system as I did my last minute Christmas shopping or on the soundtrack to some cheesy T.V. special had me thinking of Beth and Larry's version. I'll take that as a good thing.

This past weekend, Mary and I attended an annual dinner party thrown by friends and that also boosted my spirits for the season. Of course, Christmas day at my parents' was nice, so all in all, this Scrooge survived a potentially down season without a scratch.

Today is December 26th. I took down the tree and all the other signifiers of Christmas. The lights on the house will be down by noon tomorrow. As much as it turned out to be okay, it is over. I just helped it out the door a little early. I'll be happy to celebrate any holiday you want to throw at me in '07 (Groundhog's Day, Secretary's Day, Flag Day, even Boxing Day and I'll read up on Kwaanza too) if it means that there will be a job, no surgeries, and no Astro Vans ramming me in the driver's side door at 40mph.

Happy New Year, indeed.