The Jarr is finished here, as of the end of this set, which is to be about
The hair is still conspicuously dark, but the humor is light. "Hey, when I first had sex, I was by myself! My dad said I'd go blind if I didn't stop -- and I am surprised I don't need glasses by now!" he shouts, peering from behind oversized glasses.
The Jarr shouts out the window facing The Quad next door and beyond to the Strip. "Hey, girl, you need a buffet!" and "Hey, man, what happened to your wife's (butt)?!"
He drapes a woman in a wheelchair in the American flag while warbling "God Bless the
What is to become of Cook E. Jarr, whose name brings to mind the heyday of
Jarr moved from there to Carnival Court at Harrah's, then was delivered inside, sharing The Piano Bar schedule with a series of dueling piano artists and the esteemed Pete "Big Elvis" Vallee. There are about 40 folks in here, grooving, laughing, many unaware that they might be seeing the last performance ever by a man who has been doing it for 45 years in Philly,
"We go way back," Weinstock says. "I mean, waaaaaay back."
As for the Jarr's future, likely he'll take a break, first. He's listening to offers. He's eating the goodbye cake placed at the front of the music box.
"Slow down, girls!" he calls to the unknowing pedestrians. "I smell hair burning!"
Then he asks, "Who is better than
He leaps into "Viva Las Vegas!" and, for us, this is how it ends. The beguiling Cook E. Jarr, summoning
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