End of an Era?

Here's the scene last Saturday at the Grove of Anaheim as the legendary Don Rickles skewers some schmuck who had the bad/good fortune of sitting in the front row.  

Let me be clear from the get-go.  I have always loved Don Rickles.  From his days on the Tonight Show.  For Pete's sake, I had his record album called "Hello, Dummy" and I remember listening to it endlessly when I was a kid.  I've been privileged to see him perform multiple times over the years, mostly recently at this very same place just three years ago.

And this is why I am pained to write that last weekend's show just might be the last time I enjoy Don Rickles in person.  Sadly, gang, we're at that point in time.  Nothing and nobody are forever.  And I'm afraid that includes Mr. Warmth himself.

But, let's first dig into the bizarro venue that is the Grove of Anaheim which is mystically nestled in the far corner of the Angels Stadium parking lot.  I saw Don there in 2008 and, not knowing what to expect, I bought in the whole nine yards.  A supper club-like motif and I got suckered into a full-blown meal which was incredibly overpriced.  Is this what Mert and Marge from Michigan suffer through in Vegas?  For them, this might be fancy eats when compared to their usual big evening out at the local Sizzler. 

Back when, I wrote about my earlier Grove experience.  I reread that blog post and suffered through it all over again.  The waiter who disappeared for such long stretches that even milk cartons would have given up on him.  The dinner bill that included items and drinks that were served at other tables perhaps in other restaurants.  And the fact that we were ignored so long that we actually bussed the dirty dishes off our table all by ourselves.

Yeah, it was that glorious.  And, as I concluded that blog piece, I wrote that I would be happy to see Don Rickles in the Grove again.  Provided I eat ahead of time.

So, that was the plan last weekend.  Eat ahead of time...and elsewhere.  Except some gnarly traffic on the 5 Freeway turned the hour drive into two.  Okay, let's eat afterwards.  Let's just sit at our assigned table, have a smart cocktail, and wait for the laughs.

The only problem we had fallen once again into the waiters' edition of the Bermuda Triangle.  As we sat and longed for an adult beverage, folks around us were addressed, served, and acknowledged as human beings.   I suddenly felt like George and Marian Kirby from the old "Topper" TV series.

Except us.  There was no eye contact ever made with anybody holding a tray.  I wanted to lie down on the floor and act like one of those spike strips the cops lay down on the road to stop some criminal's getaway car.  Hello?  I realize that I look infinitely more classy than some of the other Orange County denizens around me.  But who the hell do I have to blow to get a gin and tonic in this place?

Well, apparently, even that was not an option.  I simply walked out to the bar in the lobby and fetched the cocktails myself. 

Naturally, in this Vegas-like show, we had the requisite opening act.  In this case, the "kid" getting the big break from Don Rickles was some "definitely nobody looking to be a semi-somebody" called Tony DeSare.    A little bit Sinatra, a little bit Michael Buble, and a whole lot of Liberace as he played some of his own music on the piano.

Tony was talented, inoffensive, and ultimately forgettable.  For the most part, the main function of these opening acts is to get you some background music that will accompany you and your party as you try to figure what are the wrong items on your dinner bill.  That is provided you even had been served anything in the first place.  Niftily, we didn't have that issue as we listened to Tony DeSare.  Oh, wait, he just mentioned this song is from his first CD.  Does that really mean there's more than one?

To the ominous strains of the worst gladiator movie you can ever see, Don Rickles made his triumphant entrance.  At the age of 85, he no longer bounds onstage.  Now he shuffles, toddles, and, with a stoop and a slouch more commonly seen in nursing homes and bocce courts, barely manages.

Indeed, his posture and gait was no different three years ago.  But, back then, his arrival was followed by a frenetic fifteen minutes of the most hilarious verbal artillery ever.  He even walked through the audience himself, looking to attack the Negro, the Pollock, the Mexican, and the Chinaman.  Yes, only Don Rickles can get away with such political incorrectness.

But, this time around, there was no foray into the wilds of the front rows.  He stayed onstage and pretty much waddled from one end to another.  Oh, sure, the salvos were being fired and most hit their marks.  But, to me, there was a level of energy missing.  Sure, you can get from here to there in a four cylinder vehicle, but Don was always at least cruising at six and sometimes eight.  He was working harder, but getting just a little less on the results side.

One of his usual pieces of shtick is to drop the microphone down on the stage as a sign of indignation.   He still does this, but now, in a running gag, he motions to his bandleader to come and pick it up off the floor.  He makes a joke out of the fact that he likely can't bend over.  But, indeed, he probably can't. 

Meanwhile, Don repeated a lot of the exact bits from the last performance three years ago.  They still work, yes.  But, having seen Joan Rivers recently still peppering her act with new and timely material, I expected just a soupcon more from Rickles.  Clearly, regardless of the sameness of it all, the audience was just happy to be there.  And, from my vantage point, so was Don Rickles. 

In 2008, there were celebrities in the mix.  Okay, B-listers like Jack Klugman and John Stamos, but, at least, they were there.  Last Saturday, Don read off his roster of guests in the house.  Who is that?  And who is that?  And what was that name?  The only one I recognized was the goofy LA Times sports columnist T.J. Simers who would show up for mass genocide if there was a salad bar included.

I exited the Grove amused and a little sad.  I know Don wants to work, but perhaps it is one day too many.   Personally, I would also like to remember him the way he was.  With Johnny Carson.  Or at the Westchester Premier Theater in Tarrytown or the Westbury Music Fair.  The memories of fun that will last a lifetime. 

But who knows?  Maybe I'll read about another Grove appearance scheduled for a year or two from now.  And I'd likely be moved to go again.  Or, perhaps, it's best to remember when. 

Yes, I don't know if I will see Don Rickles again.  I can tell you, with certainty, that I'm not likely to be served by a waiter at the Grove of Anaheim.  Ever.

Dinner last night:  Macaroni and cheese.