The Wise Guys discuss their performance of “Melancholy Baby” by Danny Klein, the loss of libido and, with it, sexual identity.
Meet the Five Wise Guys and hear what they’ve got on their minds — actors, writers, storytellers all — as they kibbitz about life in The Third Act. Five Wise Guys is the Project’s first TV show and features writer and TAP co-founder Sam Bittman; actor Jeff Kent; bookman and storyteller Matthew Tannenbaum; author and playwright Daniel Klein; and actor Bob Lohbauer as they ruminate on the realities of later life.
View all past episodes on the Five Wise Guys YouTube channel here.
In both pieces in this podcast, the poet reminds himself that what remains to him in life is powerful, rich and fulfilling.
At the Driveway Guitar Sales
At the driveway guitar sale I watch old men Heft various 60’s electrics And strike surly-lead-guitarist poses That would surely embarrass Their grandchildren They play snatches of Light My Fire and Riders on the Storm To accompany the Jim Morrisons Singing in their heads And I can see the faded blaze Of their rock and roll dreams In their eyes And the language of their Heavy slightly stooped bodies That says those doors are closed
It is much the same at car shows Where old men display The hot rods and T-Birds And souped-up Bel Airs That drove them nearly mad with longing When they were young And even though the cars Of their hearts’ desires Now park in their suburban garages I can sense a faint echo of disappointment Reverberating in the hearts that beat Beneath their Harley-Davidson t-shirts: But I’m not 16
And me? When this old man was young He wanted badly to be a poet To smoke Gauloises To drink Wild Turkey To swim the Hellespont And utter seismic profundities In casual conversation and Oh yes To write stirring poems And declaim them to a waiting world . . . Which didn’t exactly work out And although he does still wonder from time to time What it would have been like To be a young writer of great promise He is content these days to strum his ukulele To drive his battered old Toyota To pen verses that might occasionally Lay a patch of rubber, ignite a little flame
Afterwards We lie side by side Dozing under the white comforter In our white room My hand resting on her belly Hers on mine To make certain We do not float away Into the sunlight Streaming in through the window, Which is our primary work these days Of our eighth decade, Holding fast, Keeping each other here.