The First Hollywood Bowl of the Summer - "Looks Like We Made It"

No one really knows just how bad the last six months have been for me.

Both physically and mentally.

Thanks to some funky joints, attending an event has become something akin to the Secret Service planning a Presidential visit.  What will the access be like?  Are there stairs?  Is there an elevator handy?   What about a bannister?

I hate this.

Friends of mine like to ramble on about getting old and their advancing senior years.  But. hell, I'm the one dealing with it right now.  And, other than these freakin' knees, I'm not old, damnit!

Meanwhile, since tearing my left meniscus last December, I have been looking to this date with much trepidation.  Tuesday, July 3.

The very first Hollywood Bowl event of Summer 2012.

Up the hill and up the hill some more.

Up the stairs.  Then down the stairs.

Up the stairs again.  Then down the stairs.

Up the stairs.  Down the stairs.

And down the steep incline of the Bowl and down the slope some more.

The last two months of therapy and training were focused solely on this single evening.  I've had trouble there previously when it was just my traditionally crummy right knee.  Now I had a bum left one.   How would I manage this?  And do it in a fashion that didn't make me long like one of the countless 80-year-olds who are bussed into the Bowl by their assisted living center on any given summer night?

On the two days prior, I made my final preparations for "the trek."  On Monday, I saw my wonderful personal trainer Christina.  She worked on strengthening exercises for both legs.  They actually felt tired on my way home.  That was a good thing.  Out of fatigue can come renewed vigor.

On the afternoon of "the trek,"  I had a session with my terrific physical therapist Susie.  She massaged my left knee for about ten minutes.  Then I stood on one leg for two minutes each.  With eyes closed.  Try it, folks.  It ain't easy.  Then some ice and about ten minutes with an ultrasound massage.  

I wasn't Rocky ready to go fifteen rounds with Apollo Creed, but I was at least ready to tackle the rigors of the Hollywood Bowl.

As the always magnificent fireworks display ended the evening, I felt a sense of independence myself.  

I went to the Bowl and I had survived.  Heck, Donna Summer didn't.  

Oh, it was a little slow going at times.  The downward slope leaving the Bowl is a lot more pronounced than I remembered it was.  Lots of undue pressure on a recovering patella that was already strapped up for comfort.  But, at my snail's pace, I was still moving faster than some of the folks around me with tennis balls on their walkers.

I was thankful for the much older crowd.  But, then again, the main entertainment event of the night was Barry Manilow, decked out in a sports jacket I swear used to be a slipcover on my grandmother's sofa.  69 years old and not looking a day over 70. 

Yes, like us all, Barry has aged.  Well, at least, on the birth certificate.  There has been some work done.  The facial skin is tighter than the most professionally made bed down at St. John's Hospital.  When he sings, it doesn't look like his mouth is even moving.  Most likely, it can't.  His voice is now paper thin and the last time he hit some notes, Ronald Reagan was still coherent. And when he attempted some dance moves...well, Barry, please call me for the phone numbers of my team, Susie and Christina.

Nobody really cared though.  Like Paul McCartney who can no longer sing anymore, Barry Manilow is getting by completely on sensory perception.  When he opens his mouth now to barely eke out a tune, all the audience hears are those record albums that are embedded in their memory banks.  From the days when they were playing his hits on a 8-track player while catching frisbees on the college quad lawn.  Or making out in a car on prom night and trying to make sure that the mullets of you and your date didn't get mussed up.

To these folks, Barry Manilow sounded just like he did in 1978.

I've seen him before and, despite the aging process, Barry still puts on a top notch show.  A little Vegas lounge-like, but, nevertheless, this all goes down so smoothly.  Musical macaroni and cheese.  A perfectly comfortable evening.  And, regardless of how he sounds, you are wonderfully content to hear these standards play out one after another.  And he still has the power to move women who themselves are moving a little slower as well.   When he played out his four-tissue rendition of "Weekend in New England," some of these gals swooned out loud when he asked "when can I touch you again."  Er, ladies, you do know that he's not singing to you directly, right?  And you do know that...

Oh, never mind.

They didn't care.  And neither did the rest of us.

A great start to the Hollywood Bowl summer season.  And, for me, I could have cared less what the entertainment was.

As Barry sang during the night....

"Looks like we made it!"

Dinner last night:  Meatball hero at the Dodger game.