Tonawanda News — Sometimes we overdose on the quadrennial attention paid to things like televised biathlon, and the activity of riding a lunch tray down a ramp with a 600 foot drop in elevation, in whatever that sport is called, skeleton. Yeah, skeleton.
So I go to my voluminous e-mail pile, to see what my friends admit to doing, and note I’m being invited to things, like art gallery openings and CD debut parties.
I am Exhibit A in that old aphorism about not judging it by its cover. Age 63, white, male, lumpy, built for sitting on a couch, that’s me. Shabby but clean is what I aspire to (I’ve given up on anything of a higher sartorial aspiration), when I dress up. Take one look at me and assume all I can do is spout opinion on the Sabres, beer and more about the Sabres.
And yet — a friend invited me to her gallery opening of photography and print-making. She’s taking over an Allentown restaurant for a night and she wants me there.
Two weeks ago I was in a party of seven at a recital of avant garde poetry and dance in UB’s Black Box Theater, and next month I seem to be going to a CD release party. The chanteuse, a renowned local jazz singer, cut an album, or whatever they call it these days, and wants me there to help celebrate.
The take-away? Women want me. Not to clean their gutters, to share their artistic triumphs. At places where drinking is encouraged. And I’ll meet their friends, and egad, their friends will meet me.
This heady schedule accompanies a calendar full of appointments, not in doctors’ offices but in local concert halls, galleries and restaurants. I expected to be, by this age, one of those overweight guys in a plaid shirt, wandering around in a room paneled in pine and offering miscellaneous sotto voce gripes about personal health, the state of the world and what’s wrong with young people. Hasn’t happened yet.