Oh, What a Night!

 You may have noticed my posts are running few and far between again; part of this is because I don't have a ton of time to sit and write something I feel is worth reading; secondly, my life is actually pretty damn boring. We really don't do much.

But this past week, we finally did something...

We had a great time in Fargo this past Wednesday. I bought tickets for Jersey Boys way back in November 2021 and we waited through five long months of winter for this show. I figured going to an award-winning musical gave us something to look forward to--a little reward for making it through another crappy Minnesota winter.

Timing, as they say, is everything...

Sure enough, one of the biggest blizzards North Dakota has seen in years plowed through the state this week, suddenly putting our chances of seeing this production in major jeopardy. 

Well, this time we got lucky (mark it down because it doesn't happen often) and the snow kept to the west by about 50 miles. I got email confirmation on Tuesday that the show was on!

The show...

I suppose just about everyone knows the story of Jersey Boys: it tells the tale of The Four Seasons (Frankie Valli, Tommy DeVito, Nick Massi and Bob Gaudio); their rise to the top of the music world, their inevitable downfall (and rise to the top again!). When I was a kid I remember listening to the Four Seasons ("Sherry," "Big Girls Don't Cry," "Walk Like a Man") marvelling at their harmonies and loving the songs. About 30 years ago I bought their double CD greatest hits compilation and played it constantly. To be fair, I am biased. I love this group.

But back to Fargo...

We had a great pre-show dinner at Lucky's 13 (superb Bloody Mary's--a bit sweeter than how I make them, but delicious nonetheless). Then we were off to the Fargodome, which had been modified for Broadway into the Gate City Bank Theatre (I have to credit my daughter, Ava, for taking most of the following pictures; I rely on my memory to recall the experience, which I suppose is a bit old fashioned).

A goofy "vacation photo op." Fargo did not disappoint; it was as cold and windy as ever. Spring definitely was not in the air.

It was difficult to judge exactly how many theatergoers were in attendance; the Gate City Bank Theatre has a capacity of 3,500, so my best guess was close to 2,500. I am also guessing that quite a few folks simply could not make it to the show because of the heavy snow and high winds pummeling the rest of the state. Not only that, the interstate from Dickinson to Jamestown was closed. Travel was literally impossible.

Our seats were fantastic: main floor, six rows from the stage... and my daughter (who loves live theater) proceeded to complain because it was too crowded (life with a teenager... argh!). Luckily, once the house lights dimmed she forgot about it.

The show started about fifteen minutes late, but it was worth the wait. The musical itself was absolutely stellar. The four principle actors--all from Broadway--were flawless in their performances (honestly, the entire cast was terrific). And yes, they sang live (yes, I watched closely) and the backing band performed live (yes, I watched closely). I didn't hear a single clam the entire night. 

But one thing I wasn't expecting was the colorful vocabulary, even though we were warned about it before the show started; the language was even described as a "special effect," which made me chuckle: 

We were warned.

"Authentic, profane, Jersey vocabulary" is right. I could hear the pearl clutchers gasp toward the beginning of the show when Frankie's girlfriend berated him for taking a stage name "Vally." 

You can't end your name with a 'Y', Frankie. A 'Y' doesn't know what the fuck it wants. 'Am I a consonant? Am I a vowel? What the fuck am I?' You need to end your name with an 'I'. V-a-l-l-i. That says, 'I'm Frankie Valli. With an 'I'. If you don't like it, you can go fuck yourself." 

And the colorful language just kept a-coming. But I found it actually added to the story, rather than detract. It made the performances more authentic. After all, the real members of the Four Seasons were not exactly choirboys; most of them did jail time (more than once) and they all had ties with shady characters whose names also ended in vowels, if you know what I mean.

A very simple stage design. But with a show this good, an elaborate set wasn't needed. The band performed underneath the catwalk, hidden before the show by the black screens.

I was also pleasantly surprised that the musical didn't focus solely on Frankie Valli. Each member of the group got a fair shake in the spotlight, especially Bob Gaudio. 

Gaudio was the group's main songwriter and I believe his name is often shamefully overlooked on the list of great songwriters of the 20th century. The man was a hit making machine, and Jersey Boys does well to give him his due. (My son told me he was going to look up more music by him. I told him that was an excellent idea!)

In fact, during his final monologue, Gaudio's character says, "I like to look back on it all and think that none of this could have been possible . . . without me." That line got the biggest response of the evening; applause, shouts, hollers, whistles, the whole shebang.

After 2 1/2 hours, the show concluded with yet another huge hit, "Who Loves You" (the whole show was hit after hit after hit... to Bob Gaudio's credit!) and a well-deserved standing ovation. 

And yes, my crab apple daughter had a huge smile on her face. 😁

My Son Talks Weird

I blew out 52 candles on my birthday cake last month, but that didn’t make me feel old. Yeah, there’s a conspicuous bald spot in center of my scalp and deepening crow’s feet pecking at the corners of my eyes, but those are life’s battle scars. They don’t bother me at all.

Simply put, I don’t feel old. 

I hold fast to the hypothesis that age is just a number, but I must admit I’ve recently encountered subtle signposts in my life that point to the possibility I’m not a spring chicken anymore. This weighty prospect came courtesy of my kid.

My 12 year old son has become something of a "man of the world" in the past year. His knowledge of computers and video games is intimidating, he’s learned to make pancakes, bacon and scrambled eggs with the best of them, and his physical appearance is transforming into that of a handsome, strapping young gentleman. 

But there is a problem: I can’t understand a damn word he says. 

You see, my son talks weird. He speaks a foreign language indecipherable to ears older than 18 years. His swinging gibberish has given me reason to pause and reflect on a frightening prospect: just because I don’t feel old doesn’t mean I’m not. 

It started with lockdown in 2020. Tik-Tok became extremely popular, but my son wasn’t impressed. "It’s nothing but people throwing clout."

"Throwing clout?" I asked.

"Yeah, you know, they’re trying to get popular."

Curious phrases abound when I eavesdrop as he plays Xbox. Wearing a microphone headset and gripping plastic controllers his sweaty hands, periodic grunts of "Bruh!" or "Oh, straight fire!" or "I’m weak!" issue forth from his squeaky, cracking voice as he communicates with his friends online. 

In February 2020 we saw KISS. The show was met with descriptors like "Savage!" and "GOAT!" ...which I guess meant it was pretty good. (photo by author)

One afternoon I was sitting in my La-Z-Boy, revisiting an old Def Leppard album on the hi-fi when my son zipped past me en route to the refrigerator. As the Joe Elliott emphatically exalted rock of ages, my son bobbed his head to the rhythm and professed, "This music slaps."

"Hey, what’s wrong with it?" I asked defensively. In my world, no one disrespects Def Leppard.

"There’s nothing wrong with it, Dad. It’s lit!"

Lit? That’s good, right?

As our music discussion continued, I proudly claimed I could name the members of every ‘80s hair band, recite every album released in chronological order and recall the producer of each one (my close friends will confirm this is, sadly, true).

Rather than being impressed with this heap of useless knowledge, my son shrugged his shoulders matter-of-factly, and mumbled, "Weird flex, but okay."

What?

When I ask him what he’d like for lunch, I’m given a laid back, “Whatevs.”

More than once my son has walked out of the bathroom, "Dad, the toilet’s acting sus again." 

"It’s doing what?"

"It’s acting sus."

What the hell?

During one of his middle school football games, he excitedly told me one of his teammates "threw shade" at an opponent. Thankfully, no flags were thrown.

Speaking of school, his favorite subject is social studies because they discuss current events and it keeps him "woke." The kids are invited to share their insight on the day’s news, but if your "fam" doesn’t agree with your opinion, you might get "ghosted" in the cafeteria during lunch.

Sounds serious.

There are lots of cute girls in his class, but much to my relief he doesn’t have a “bae.” At least not yet.

Me and my rapscallion (photo by the wife)

I’m sure I’m not the only parent who wishes kids came with an owner’s manual (being a man, I probably wouldn’t read it, but still...). Certainly a primary responsibility of parenting is offering guidance to your child through this complicated world. Trying to be a good father, I started rehearsing a heartfelt conversation with my boy ("Son, you can’t keep speaking like a damn fool and expect a civilized human being to understand you. You’ve got to grow up at some point."). 

And then it hit me. 

I was abruptly met with a chilling reality from my own youth: I went through my adolescence navigating the vernacular of Valley Girls.

• "Grody to the max.”
• "Like, whatever."
• "Oh my god, like, gag me with a spoon."

The more I thought about it, the more indiscernible my own generation sounded: 

"Gnarly, dude!"  "Radical!" "Tubular!" "Eat my shorts!" "I’m gonna ralph."  "Take a chill pill." "That’s bogus." "Bite me!"

Yes, I confess I actually spoke that way in the '80s. In fact, some of those phrases still work their way into my daily lingo. After all, I was young once; maybe I never completely grew up? Maybe that teenage angst is still alive and well in my marrow? Maybe a drop of youth deep in my soul still oozes to the surface every time Def Leppard blasts through the living room stereo?

Like, totally. 

On second thought, I’m going to skip that sit down conversation with my boy. He can keep speaking his funky little dialect as long as he wants. I’m going to encourage him to stay young for as long as he can. That’s my fatherly advice.

Age really is just a number. I still feel pretty bodacious, dude.