I am so excited! Our new granddaughter-in-law is already what I have always wanted to be: a girl singer in a touring rock band. Well, maybe not the girl thing, but ever since I spent my Sunday School offering of a dollar to buy my first record, a 45 rpm single of Sonny James’ “Young Love”, I have secretly dreamed of headlining a rock and roll show. I could have done it too if I hadn’t been unfairly held back by the inability to know a musical key from a wash tub.
But before we get to the wedding of our grandson, Alec, and his bride, Arielle, I have a few questions you, Gentle Reader, who may also be a closet rock star, can answer. First, whatever happened to the Roll in Rock and Roll? Remember Bill Haley and the Comets or Jerry Lee Lewis or Little Richard, etc.? We used to have rock and roll stars. Now all we have are rock stars. Have we lost the art of rolling? What is rolling anyway? For that matter, what is rocking? I think I used to know the answers to these fundamental youthful behaviors. Now about all I can dimly recall is loud music, conversations about hair and the vague impression of a concert venue filled with strange smelling smoke.
Well, if you have any thoughts on these issues, as the Tappet Brothers used to say, put them on the back of a $20.00 bill and send them to me. For now, let’s get back to our grandchildren’s wedding which was living proof of how men have allowed their once dominant position in such matters to be cast into the dustbin of ancient history.
For example, I am fairly confident our grandson, who is also a fine heavy metal musician, would have been completely okay with a ceremony that involved a large club and a couple of animal skins. The whole thing would have taken ten minutes and cost only some sweat and maybe a broken bone or two. Au contraire mon ami. When Alec asked for Arielle’s lovely hand in marriage it came with a female retinue of mothers, grandmothers, sisters, aunts and a multitude of feminine wedding enthusiasts. JPeg Ranch, the wedding venue, was transformed from a bucolic backwater to a bastion of bustling estrogen-driven frenzy.
The quiet emptiness of The Ranch was filled with potted plants, satin drapery and netting, twinkling lights of several varieties, enough chairs and tables to accommodate the Light Brigade, fountains, food, cakes, libations mit tender, coolers, a bonfire, a DJ, two large white tents that would have made Lawrence of Arabia proud and even a bishop’s stand for me to stand in as I performed the official duties. This campaign resembled the D-Day Landing. If General Eisenhower had had these women, he could have forgone Omar Bradley. And have I mentioned the pink and blue porta potties?
Well, it was a glorious and happy event and even as a grumpy old Grandpa I loved it, especially when Arielle channeled her inner Janis Joplin and sang Me and Bobby McGee. Maybe there’s hope for me yet. After all, any reasonably competent journeyman can be a judge, but to have grandchildren who are rock (and roll) stars, now that is a real accomplishment!