I suppose some of my readers may know who Neal Diamond is as well as some of his songs from the 70’s and early 80’s (he apparently began songwriting in the 60’s after he was smart and dropped out of college pre – med), but my guess is that knowledge is becoming less and less common now.
Admittedly, I am aware of him, and I’ve heard his songs, respect his song writing ability and his success in life. Most certainly I am impressed that his third marriage is to some hot woman 30 years or more his junior. Way to go Neal!  However, I would not pay the money to go see him in concert, especially now that he is 73 or so, but more importantly, I wouldn’t have gone even when he was in his heyday. Out of the blue, a few years ago, my father invited me to fly to the old homestead, and then sit in a rented limousine with his sweet lady friend and another couple their age with lots of drinks to loosen up the atmosphere on the way to a Neal Diamond concert in Chicago.. Turns out another couple turned down the tickets as well as my sister and her hubbie, and desperate not to waste the tickets, he called me.

Now I love fun as much as the next guy, and I appreciate his friends, but I knew I would need a prescription for Phenergan for the trip and well, the amount of alcohol I would require to be numb to the pain would likely put me six feet under.
So, loving the air I still breathe, I respectively declined.
I heard about the great concert multiple times thereafter, how he was the best ever and he is an amazing entertainer for his age. I bet his young wife says that too as she drives her Bentley around town shopping for jewelry.
All kidding aside, I am happy for my father and his friends, glad they had a great time, but at the same time, pleased that I didn’t go. Figured I wouldn’t hear about Neal Diamond again.

Unfortunately, my father suffered a stroke that summer, so I’ve been flying back to his home during his recovery, and I must say, his recovery, strength and stubbornness is impressive. But the last several times, I’ve been the designated driver, happily to do so of course, for his friends and lady friend to go out to eat and their favorite establishments. I learned the recurrent theme of how they were all going to rent a large Winnebago and travel around the country together, and which person of the group would have which job, you know, cook, sanitation engineer etc. Turns out I was unaware I was elected the Winnebago doctor for these nice old geezers.

Anyway, this last time I was the designated driver for five of these seven people to the Elks club for dinner and entertainment.

I love entertainment.

The place was packed and the average age was 65, with many in their 80’s and 90’s I suppose; a smattering of younger people hoping the evening would end soon.
I enjoyed talking to my father’s friends around the table, and I admire them and what they have accomplished in their lives, but I was losing my voice trying to yell at them across the table so they could hear me.
My anxiety heightened because my medical skills were attuned to things like, well, abnormal breathing patterns, difficulty with chewing, especially when talking with loose dentures, and unsteady walking after too many martinis, chest and throat clutching and the like. Especially after a stroke. I went over repeatedly in my mind who in that large room would need me to perform the Heimlich to dislodge the large piece of steak stuck in their larynx, or CPR if they started to dance.
Yes, dance.

I love to dance.

But it didn’t happen for me that night.
The entertainment was an overweight man, maybe 70, I don’t know, with a very nice black hairpiece that was lopsided on his baldpate and I think he forgot to button three of his buttons, allowing some grey scraggly hairs to pop out strategically. His helper played music in a disk player at the side and he either sang or lip-synced the remainder of the night, depending on the tune.
Then it happened: He started to sing, Neal Diamond’s Cracklin’ Rosie  and the crowd erupted in applause and food spit out across multiple adjoining tables, not ours of course, as people screamed with pleasure. Neal Diamond!
And then he ‘sang’  Forever in Blue Jeans, Kentucky Woman, and then, of course, I am I Said.
And with  the song, I  am I said,  the crowd sang along:
LA’s fine, the sun shines most the time.
And the feeling is lay back.
Palm trees grow and rents are low
But you know I keep thinkin about…
I got up from the table several times to stretch and catch some fresh air outside the kitchen by the grease dumper in the zero degree temperature. Felt so wonderful deep in my lungs, and the hacking cough felt so satisfying. I was alive! After reading every poster in the Elks club with regard to the last 10 years of Grand Masters and initiation fees, and the next fish fry bingo, I returned to our table, just in time to see our entertainer lose his hairpiece then gracefully catch in mid air and plop it back on perfectly right before his 5th encore of yes, you guessed it: Sweet Caroline!

It was great to see the happy crowd, dancing deliriously to Mr. Neal, but I’m sorry, I just couldn’t  feel the rhythm enough to get out there. It didn’t happen. Too busy looking for Heimlich and CPR potentials. So I got back up and watched some TV and found myself wishing I was in one of those  states like Washington or Colorado so I could go out and smoke a joint legally and maybe I could feel the Neal Diamond ecstasy like they did with no worries, man. Just kidding. I don’t smoke the stuff. Just sayin.

But after 5 hours in the Elks club, it ended, after several more encores of Neal, and my party of friends were able to ambulate to the car safely, and I was pleased to drive them all safely home.
It was great to see they had such a nice time. Really, they’re nice people and my father has wonderful friends.

But the after effect of this adventure, is that I hope I never hear a Neal Diamond song in my life. Never

© SRCarson