SHOOT ME LATER
My friend Mike said he wouldn’t mind being shot dead at the restaurant. We were at Barrio, Cleveland Heights. Mike said, “I’ve had a good life and I don’t want to suffer.” Mike is 68. His dad is 99 and suffering.
I would mind getting shot to death. I want to see my kids get married, see a grandkid, go to more simchas, play more simchas, see more Vulfpeck shows, play more nursing-home gigs, and sit on my porch.
Nursing homes? Nursing homes are cool — the ones I’ve played at. Nobody sits in doo doo, and the residents hear quality live music. (Pre-Covid, that is. I’ve played some outdoor gigs at nursing homes this summer.) I’ve jammed with talented musicians at nursing homes. They do their schtick in one room, and I’m in another, and then I crash their gig and join them on clarinet. I just jump in. I should ask before I sit in, but sometimes I forget.
Once I busted in on a pianist playing “Blue Rondo a la Turk.” I had no idea how that tune went, but I played anyway. I apologized later. He didn’t shoot me, but maybe he wanted to.
4 comments
How do you know the musicians didn’t assume you were a resident? Sorry, Bert, we’re getting up “there.” So’s Mike. Here’s hoping his senior years are not filled with any suffering. Wow! 99. No doubt his father has had plenty of challenges.
You can apply to one of the “cool” nursing homes, or at least add a porch to the front of your house and “watch the world go by.”
Teddy, how’s those grandkids coming?
You and your wife would never have to cook again, and you can run the business from your room in the nursing home.
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