If a man truly loves a woman, he will do anything for her.
He will attempt to unclog a bathroom sink drain that has enough hair stuck way down in it from constant hair washing to build your own Sasquatch. He will kill a spider the size of a Buick armed only with a single ply tissue (I mean the man is armed with the tissue; the spider is usually unarmed).
He will leave the woman sleeping comfortably in bed at 6:37 a.m. while he takes the dog out and stands around shivering while the dog, which only seconds earlier was supremely desperate to get out, conducts a meticulous 20 minute inch-by-inch nasal survey of the entire front curb grass area before selecting precisely the right spot upon which to make weewee.
Yes, love will make a man do many things. But sometimes a man’s love is sorely tested by a woman. Here I am using the term “a woman” but what I refer to is “my wife.” Recently, out of the blue, she asked me to do something that was truly repugnant to me, something that violates one of the two fundamental moral principles by which I have lived my life (the other one is, never drink Tequila).
She asked me to go to a sing-a-long piano man concert. Yes , it was dueling pianos at the “New York, New York Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas (Due to the downturn in the economy the Treasure Island Casino is now being run by what looks like Somali pirates).
Now before my blog editor gets a lot of hate mail, let me stress that I think piano players are very talented entertainers who play some terrific songs like “Mandy,” for example. I’ve always liked that one. But too many piano players will stick to doing the entire catalogs of Billy Joel or Burt Bacharach which is what has caused my aversion.
Another Manilow song I like on a piano is “Can’t smile without you” ,which I actually sang to my son at his Bar Mitzvah. (Which is about as entertaining as a hoarse werewolf howling at the moon in a typhoon). And many times my doctor dear wife has very nearly fractured her left forefinger stabbing the car radio to make it stop playing “Copacabana.”
So here I find myself , standing in a Times Square themed bar, in the heart of a Nevada casino, breathing in tons of second hand smoke and stale beer smell with a host of adults that are all over half a century old, listening to two guys playing (what is now considered elevator music) on two baby grands as the audience tries what seems like a Guinness World’s Record flash mob of karaoke event to Meatloaf’s “Paradise by the dashboard lights”. Soon after, there were songs by Queen, Percy Sledge, Bob Dylan, ABBA, Bon Jovi, Simon and Garfunkel, Fleetwood Mac, Springsteen, The Stones, Kiss, The Monkees and the Bay City Rollers.
It wasn’t unit they started playing the Bee Gees, that I thought that the high squealing pitchyness would attract fruit bats and make my ears bleed, that I convinced my spouse to head back to the monastery like quiet sanctuary of our hotel room. I was almost undone as we were strolling away hand in hand , because you could hear back in the distance the catchy tunes of The Archies and The 1910 fruit Gum Company .
Anyway, it was all over in about 186 minutes, and I can honestly say that it was not the worst 185 minutes of my life, because I have had a colonoscopy. The important thing is, I did something that made my wife really, really happy, and I hope she appreciated it.
But if not, I also know that the next time she needs a big, hairy spider murdered in cold blood, she is on her own.