L. S. Kreeba, Write On

Do The 52: Live at Da Buzz

When Publisher Peter Rodgers and Editor Job Vigil of The Telegraph started picking on my tie, I’ll bet they had forgotten that I sometimes write for their paper. Never pick on someone who writes for your paper. Of course they wield the power of the veto, but I’m counting on Pat Dannatt to stick up for me.

Tammy and I almost didn’t go to Da Buzz for the concert on Valentine’s Day. It was very cold outside, and we got home late, and hey, it was just Chuck Salestrom and Job and Peter. So totally hometown. If they were real musicians, would two of them still be sorting through nasty letters to the editor every week?

Still, I had made two reservations that morning, so there was no turning back We got there five minutes late and rushed in to discover that my untypical foresight in making reservations had landed us in a softly luxurious loveseat right in front of the trio. In a full-to-capacity room of hard chairs around small tables, I felt a little too privileged, like we were sitting in someone else’s seat and would soon be told to get up and get out of their way. But it did say “Snells” on the little card, so we plunked down and cuddled.

Well, we didn’t cuddle quite yet. First Chuck had to rib us by asking if we’d come on my boat, and Peter had to make some wisecrack about “Do the 52,” and Job had to tell everyone that my white tie looked thirty years old.

“How do you spell T-H-R-I-F-T C-O-N-N-E-C-T-I-O-N?” I answered. Which immediately made them regret their jokes, because they’d just given me some free advertising, which drives newspaper people crazy. Yes, that’s Thrift Connection, 422 E. 6^th St. So there.

It wasn’t the last laugh. All through an evening of love songs, the jokes and bantering kept Tammy and me in stitches, and I promise you it wasn’t because we’d been drinking. Nope, cross our hearts we’re doing the whole 52 alcohol-free. They are just plain funny guys. Somewhere in the past month or two Job’s goatee had migrated to Chuck’s chin, picking up a little more gray on the way, but apparently none of anyone’s hair had migrated to Peter’s head.

When they played and sang, Peter’s brow furrowed in concentration, Job’s smile widened broadly and Chuck looked as contentedly relaxed as if this were even more fun than being the P.R. guy at the college. They were clearly enjoying themselves more anyone else in the room, perhaps because they knew we’d actually paid for this. They dedicated songs to their special gals, took turns leading off and sometimes sang in beautiful harmony. Job even impersonated Elvis, although he did feel the need to tell us who he was impersonating.

I was trying to figure out how they got started doing this, but I really don’t want to research it. I mean, if they can write opinions without researching them, so can I. (Oooooh. Now I bet they wish they hadn’t picked on my tie and my boat.) I’m thinking Peter said to Job, “If you want to be the editor-in-chief, you’ll have to sing with me.” And after Job had had a chance to think about it for a while, he said to his wife, “Well, I don’t know which would be most embarrassing, so I guess I’ll do both.” And she agreed with one caveat: “Just don’t ever play at Da Buzz.” And the next day Peter said, “Great. Let’s start by playing at Da Buzz.”

It’s not really a describable event. All sorts of music, including lots of oldies, some Gospel and one classical. Job’s wondrously fun ad libs on the piano, which in one Beatle’s song went on so hilariously long between Peter’s lines that we worried Peter would forget where he was. Chuck’s experienced bass guitar and oh-so-perfect harmonies. Peter’s deadpan comments about wishing they’d practiced more and stopped sooner.

The dessert bar was amazing, homemade by Job’s wife Gail. She certainly deserved to have a song dedicated to her. I don’t know which angel made our caramel hot chocolate, but it was heavenly.

All three signed my passport, perhaps the first thing they’ve ever been asked to autograph. On the way home I said to Tammy, “That has to be one the funnest evenings we’ve ever had in North Platte. “

“Let’s do it again,” she answered. And so we will. Watch the Community Calendar in plattepost.com for upcoming opportunities to join us.

When you “Do the 52,” expect to be totally entertained. Right here in our hometown.

Do the 52: The Caucus

At the entrance to the Ag building Saturday afternoon, I’m stunned to see all the cars. Then I see the sign: Bull Sale, February 9. “Oh,” I think to myself, “so that’s why everyone’s here.” But something’s wrong. I’ve been to bull sales, and no one comes in a sedan. Where are all the muddy pickup trucks and poop-stained stock trailers? So these are people who have come for the Democratic Caucus? I chuckle at the irony: Republicans probably think it’s a “bull” sale all right.

I push into the crowded room to be greeted by Dan McGuire of the raised eyebrows and surprised voice. “Are you really registered as a Democrat?” he asks. “Yup,” I laugh. In order to participate in the primaries, I have had to change from my usual “Independent” to “Democrat.”

I look around and see some big surprises. People are whispering, “Can you believe he’s here? Who knew?”Others are undoubtedly whispering about me. I wonder if that’s what it will be like when I enter heaven. “He’s here?”

After a few problems with the P.A. system, we hush and are asked to approve the temporary chairman. We roar our approval. He then goes to the podium and nominates himself to be the permanent chairman. We roar our approval. I feel like I’m in a third world country where the next thing we’ll do is abolish the Parliament. But this is FUN. This MATTERS!

Next, Obama supporters must move to the left side of the building, Clinton supporters to the right, uncommitted to the back. Like trying to separate the bananas from the peaches once the blender’s been going.

In a few moments, I’m hearing Dan speak. He’s using a little portable P.A. system to throw his full throated support behind Obama. It’s hard to hear, but the passion is there. He has clearly prepared for this, ticking off his points, interrupted by cheers. Apparently this is a procedural mix-up; he’s not supposed to be doing this quite yet. Oh well, it’s Dan, and we love Dan. What’s a little anarchy among friends? And as long as he’s speaking out of turn, why not invite someone else to do so? A representative from Clinton’s side of the room responds with her own prepared speech.

So now we count. I wish for my father-in-law, who can just stare at a vast herd of black cows and tell me how many there are. Instead, we hold our hands high and then put them down when the counters click their clickers and look us in the eye. That look in the eye is the most significant event of the afternoon. “You’ve been counted,” it says. “Your vote counted.” I will never forget that. I’m frantically looking for Tammy, who is late because of the Blue and Gold speech tournament. We need her vote. Please hurry, Tammy!

For some reason we need speeches again. Nominations for someone to represent Sen. Obama? Someone yells a name. Then someone yells my name. “Are they kidding?” I ask a couple next to me. “You’re allowed to decline,” they answer. Then another name. Shouted votes, and suddenly I’m walking to the front of the room completely unrehearsed to tell 500 people why I’m voting for Sen. Obama. “Dead Man Walking” flits through my mind. When I stand in front of the microphone, the chairman asks me to be brief. “You can count on it,” I mutter.

I’d love to take this opportunity to edit the remarks I made. To delete the inappropriate comment about pronouncing “nuclear” correctly. To insert a comment about how Obama chose to go from the top of the socioeconomic class at Harvard to the bottom of the socioeconomic ladder in Chicago. To provide some better sound bites for the  media to quote. But that’s not really the point. The real point is that for what it’s worth, I didn’t decline. There were far better spokespersons there, far better prepared. There were women and men whom we respect more, who have done more for our community, who are smarter, more thoughtful, have a better grasp of the issues. I saw many of them in the audience.

But my one voice matters. Your one voice matters. You may think you have nothing to say, you may think you are a very small fish in a very large sea, you may be shocked to discover that anyone cares what you think, you may make mistakes in how you say it. Say it anyway. Given the chance, speak. We’re faced with dozens of consequential issues right now locally, nationally and internationally. We need your voice. Agree or disagree with my position, but speak. Yes, you’re allowed to decline, but I say to you with all my heart: “DON’T.”

Obama wins by three votes. Tammy has come in at the very last second. The counter has looked her in the eye.

Afterward we re-mingle for soup, crackers and dessert. It turns out that Clinton’s supporters like a good bowl of chili as much as Obama’s do. And so we enjoy each other’s company, all mixed back together.

When you “Do the 52,” expect a few surprises. And don’t decline!