Steve Martin, Martin Short, and Nicky Sanders Save the World

Maybe You Can Too

This past week I did something I didn’t think I’d ever do.

Actually, I saw someone I didn’t think I’d ever see. Two people actually. And then a third I didn’t even know existed.

My wife and I went to see Steve Martin and Martin Short in Baltimore¹. The duo is currently on a tour called, “You Won’t Believe What They Look Like Today!” The tour continues well into the Christmas season, and it looks like they are teaming up again next spring with another one. If you can make it to see them, you should. Here’s a list of where they’ll be.

There is no way to overstate how glad I am that we went. Our one regret lies in the fact that we dropped $42 on two drinks and a box of popcorn. It is what it is, and we’ve chosen to let this imprudent financial choice slide. Each time I overpay for concessions at events in the future, I hope it reminds me of this show.

To be sure, this afternoon will always be a cherished memory.

I think it’s worth noting that world events in the days just prior to the Martin and Short performance weighed on me. It’s been hard to ignore the state of world affairs. Russia is still attacking Ukraine. Israel is at war with Hamas, and perhaps in a ghost war with Iran and a few others.

Meanwhile, in the United States, it looks like we’re gearing up for a Presidential race where the GOP might be running a convicted felon and the Democrats will be running a candidate who has difficulty with multi-syllabic words.

On October 25, a gunman killed 18 people and injured many more in what is just the most recent mass shooting event in our country. This one hit a little close to home for people in my social circle. A woman with whom I went to college lost her brother and nephew in the massacre. I didn’t know them personally, but someone I know is grieving the loss of murdered loved ones, and I can’t help but feel a sense of personal grief with them.

There is a lot to grieve in our world today, and these things were at the very least weighing on my subconscious. I can’t help but wonder to what extent these things affect me and my day-to-day outlook on humanity.

As I drove the 20 minutes from my home to the theater, I was in need of some hope; some light in a darkening world.

The Steve Martin and Martin Short show came at just the right moment for me.

My wife and I purchased the tickets months ago. When the show date finally arrived, I was in good need of a laugh.

It was a Facebook ad that alerted me to the fact that there was going to be a show. Dedicated readers will recall that I spent an inordinate amount of time and money on concerts and world travel this year. There’s a reason for this and it’s not an accident. I’ve jumped into this with intention.

When a picture of the white-haired Steve Martin and goofy-faced Martin Short scrolled up my Facebook newsfeed early last summer, they jumped out at me as two people who are a part of my time in history, and people I wanted to see. I’d been laughing at their work for decades. For me, they fit the definition of people I’d be sad to have passed up. So, I texted my wife and we soon had tickets.

The show was exactly what you might have expected from the two of them. It was self-deprecating humor. Martin made reference to how old he is, and that from a looks perspective, he’s been preparing for old age since his 20s. Short was ever his over-played self, feigning self-aggrandizement in ways only he could, and always at the expense of Martin. I laughed as I’d expected to.

I’d expected to laugh. I mean, that’s why I wanted to go to the show.

To laugh!

What I didn’t expect was to learn some things about myself.

First, I learned something about why I love my wife.

Have you ever told somebody you loved them only for them to ask you, “Why?” Poets are pretty good in these circumstances. They’ll burst forth with words to explain why they’re in love with the object of their affection.

I’m not a poet. When my wife asks me why I love her, I don’t muster much more than, “Uh…just because…” as I pound my chest and grunt. There’s not much poetry in most of my responses.

But as we sat there LOLing at Martin and Short, I saw something happening between the two of us. Something that felt like some sort of line in a love poem if I knew how to write poetry.

Each time the comedians on the stage would drop the perfect punch-line and the crowd exploded with laughter, I noticed out in my peripheral vision that Joy would look at me. Even without looking back, I could see the sparkle in the corners of her eyes and the white of her perfect smile. I just wanted to stare at her and take in her beauty. But that would have been awkward.

She kept doing it! I didn’t know if I was supposed to look back at her every time, or just some of the time or what. But I couldn’t stop. Each time she looked the sparkles in her eyes worked their way into my heart. I realized she was looking at me to see if I was laughing too. It was as if she was looking to be sure I was having the same enjoyment she was. God as my witness, when Joy laughed, she looked over at me every time. She wanted to experience the laughs with me. Not just sitting beside me. Her enjoyment was about us.

That’s her life. That’s who she is. She’s the person who isn’t enjoying something unless she’s sure others are enjoying it too. As I sat there laughing next to and with her, I gave in and looked back. As I did, I could see the glimmer of a laugh-induced tear collect in the crowfoot of her eye.

Those crowfeet. They’re not usually visible, only appearing when Joy smiles, perched just atop her large, perfectly round smile-cheeks. (Her dad has the same kind. Puffy and perfect at the top of a smile.) The smile-wrinkles are just these days beginning to show, having developed over the decades of beaming at others. With others. She, doing her part to make our lives in this world better, more meaningful and joy-filled, always checking our reaction to be sure her attempts to love well have hit their mark. For a fleeting moment I remembered the days earlier in our marriage when the tears weren’t always laughter-induced. I was tempted to feel regret for not having recognized this part of Joy for the entirety of our relationship.

Instead, I decided to forgive myself and rest in the fact that I’m still learning how good I have it, and better to live into the moments from this point forward rather than sit in a state of remorse.

Granted, sitting in my seat experiencing hilarious revelry made that decision easier.

We laughed until our cheeks hurt and then kept on laughing.

Martin Short had stripped off his clothes to reveal himself in a white bodysuit with square-shaped abdominals as well as the outline of a penis drawn with a permanent magic marker. How could I sit in a state of remorse with that going on?

I checked my watch in hopes that not too much time had passed. All the same, I was anxious to see how Martin would make use of the banjo which had been sitting in a stand on stage.

When he finally placed the leather strap of the banjo over his shoulder he was joined by a band called The Steep Canyon Rangers. Fans of Martin would be able to tell you this is nothing new. He’s worked with them for years.

I’ll be honest. I didn’t know anything about them or even that Martin traveled with them. I thought they were just some moderately talented musicians hired to accentuate Martin as he played his banjo to the delight of the audience.

For sure, they did this and slipped effortlessly into the comedic theme of the evening, musically bantering with Martin as he “reminded” them they were there to back him up as the star of the show. They then “reminded” Martin that they were the Grammy Award-Winning progressive bluegrass band and he’d do well to step back and let them do their thing.

They played together for a while. And then at just the right moment, as we were beginning to appreciate the talent of the band, Martin exited the stage and let them do their thing.

I grew up somewhat biased against bluegrass. My grandmother was a violinist and always spoke of bluegrass and country music with a certain amount of disdain. She didn’t approve of the way fiddlers bent, stretched and slurred the notes on the violin as opposed to the clear, crisp and “appropriate” sounds of classical music. “The twang drives me nuts!” She’d tell us. It was somewhat of an odd opinion for her to have, given that she grew up in the sticks of rural Virginia where I’m sure she was exposed to bluegrass fiddlin’, stand-up bass and banjo strummin’, and likely even a bit of moonshine-jug tootin’. It’s almost as if she was trying to eschew something of her childhood, perhaps looking for something more refined in her adult life. I don’t know. Maybe I’m thinking too much about it.

It was an opinion my mother would take on, and one that would find its way into my worldview as well.

But then I’d fallen for a girl whose father – the one with the puffy smile-cheeks – loved bluegrass. He had little appreciation for classical music. “It’s boring. It puts me to sleep.” He’d protest.

He’s wrong. Classical isn’t boring. But when I found I didn’t have any reason to not appreciate bluegrass, I learned to find enjoyment in it.

The members of Steep Canyon went to work on their instruments. They picked and plucked their bass, their banjos, their mandolin, and guitars of various sizes with a measured ferocity, the tempo controlled by the fast, steady beat of a snare drum. As we listened we could feel the rhythm one might associate with a 19th century steam engine chugging down the railway. The instruments played together creating a clocklike feel which would serve as the background for the star of the show, the fiddler.

According to a Google search I’d conduct later, the fiddler was Nicky Sanders. He started playing the violin at age 5 and would eventually study at the Berkeley School of Music in Boston. I mean, he was good. As his bandmates rolled us all along with the tempo, Sanders showed us what a fiddle can do to musical notes. He bent, pulled, stretched and slurred notes in ways I don’t think I’d imagined. All the while he danced up and down the stage, bouncing around and spinning in circles. The horsehair on his bow started to fray, with strands of it getting carried away by the wind he generated through his movement.

As Sanders bounced around the stage I could feel the smile on his heart. His fiddling was his of sharing joy.

On a night I went to enjoy some comedy (which I did) I left having my heart filled in ways I didn’t expect. Sometimes surprise experiences do that to us.

I wish my grandma could have seen this.

The joy, I mean.

I thought of my kids. I wish they could have seen it too.

The joy I mean.

I thought of a lot of people I wish could see the joy. It was the kind of joy we should always be seeking.

And then, I thought about Russia and the war in Ukraine. I thought about the war in Israel. I thought about the gunman in Maine.

I wondered if all those situations might not happen if we spent more time trying to help others experience joy.

What if, like Steve Martin and Martin Short, we were able to look at ourselves with a sense of positive self-deprecation and bring a sense of levity to life? What might happen then?

What if, like my wife Joy, we’d look to the person sitting next to us with love to make sure they were experiencing the same joy and revelry we were?

What if, like Nicky Sanders, we danced, twirled, and bounced in pure bliss as we shared our talents with the world?

What would happen then?

I don’t know …

... maybe we would save the world.

Share your joy.

1. Writing this post presented me with an unusual challenge. Steve Martin and Martin Short aren’t friends of mine, so I don’t feel comfortable referring to them by their first name. In circumstances like this I’ll use last names. But in this case, the last names of “Martin” and “Short” make up the full name of one of the subjects. It gets a little confusing. With this understanding, know that when I say “Martin” I’m referring to Steve Martin, and when I say “Short,” I’m referring to Martin Short.