MUSICAL
CHAIRS
A
mong my earliest recollections of childhood was kindergarten at Evergreen School in Plainfield, New Jersey. I vividly recall “nap time” in the afternoon, when the teacher summoned us to get our small nap rugs out of our cubby holes. The lights were dimmed, and we all drifted off, dreaming whatever small people of that age dream about. An ice cream cone, perhaps. Naps were good. I eschewed them for the next 60 years or so, but nowadays I find naps again pleasurable. Curiously, I still dream about ice cream. Häagen Dazs’ Vanilla Swiss Almond . . . maybe with a splash of Kahlua. I recall playing “musical chairs,” the game in which we’d all circle around a group of chairs with one less chair than there were children. Cheerful, lively music played while we trotted
to sit on fast enough was eliminated. He or she was the “loser.” It was excellent social interaction, with faster fannies prevailing, but I loathed that dopey game. I often feigned a tummy ache or other malady to keep from having to participate. If I were forced to play, I’d make sure I was eliminated early, so I’d be able to grab some crayons and color—or do some other creative activity that foretold my penchant for art and design. I’ve always been one to “march to the beat of a different drummer,” and I admired others in our culture that did so as well. Those who dared to color outside the lines include Frank Sinatra, Muhammad Ali, and Katherine Hepburn. I saw a sign on a client’s desk once that read, “Anyone or anything that’s any good – is different.” I loved that. A scrap of paper taped to my computer reads,
Most of my contemporaries had gotten married, raised families, and – in some cases – endured divorces or remarried. It seemed they had a place to sit, while I continued to excel at coloring or playing “Uncle Bud” outside the lines. around in a circle. When the music suddenly stopped, we’d scramble to plant ourselves on an empty chair. Whoever couldn’t find an empty chair 34 • MAINE SENIORS
“He hangs on the edge of insanity and brilliance.” I don’t know about insanity or brilliance—but “edgy” is where I’m comfortable and where I strive to be.
By the time 1998 came around, I was pushing 50 with a short stick. Like a fine wine, I thought I’d aged well. I was certainly more full-bodied, with a hint of spice—even if it’s Old Spice. But after many years of wanton and carefree bachelorhood, I’d often reflect on that game of musical chairs. Most of my contemporaries had gotten married, raised families, and— in some cases—endured divorces or remarried. It seemed they had a place to sit, while I continued to excel at coloring or playing “Uncle Bud” outside the lines. I was the instigator of insanity. The master of mayhem. My calling card read, “fun and games at all costs.” It was once suggested that John Candy could well have shadowed me to develop his title role in Uncle Buck. Around this time, journalist Bill Geist wrote The Big 5-Oh! Jimmy Buffet wrote A Pirate Looks at Fifty. Billy Crystal turned 50 that year, as did Samuel L. Jackson, Stevie Nicks, Bryant Gumble, and Al Gore. I certainly wasn’t alone. Legends Sports Bar in Long Beach, California, was a place where I’d always had a place to sit. It was our Cheers, and surely everyone was glad when I went there. But alas, as I approached 50, I found the waitresses didn’t think I was quite as cute anymore. Instead of unbridled laughter in the aftermath of my hilarious anecdotes and fetching another round, they’d roll their eyes
PHOTOS: (ABOVE) COSMA / ADOBESTOCK;; (RIGHT) COURTESY BUDDY DOYLE
By Buddy Doyle
