Soundtrack of the Day: "Everything Happens to Me" by Bill Evans, from his record The Solo Sessions. (Incidentally, I advise everyone to hip themselves to Bill. The PIANIST. NOT the SAX player. That's key.)
I should probably never go shopping alone. It allows my mind to wander, and I come up with elaborate and unrealistic situations in my head, usually in response to something someone says. For example, when the fellow at Macy's returned with the pair of Rockport boots I had requested, he said, "These are a very nice boot. You'll look great in them. My name's Victor. Just shout if you need anything!" I thought to myself, What if I actually did shout for Victor? Imagine this if you will:
I would be attempting to squeeze into too-small boots, an impossible battle that would cause my face to redden and my forehead to perspire ever so slightly. Eventually I'd just stop trying and get up. Scanning the room, and not seeing Victor in my immediate vision, my eyes would start to get a little wild. I would then remember that Victor, the only salesman that truly understood my footwear needs, had told me to shout if I needed anything.
"Victor!? ... VICTOR!?! ... VIIICTOOORRRR!!!??!!" I'd screech, one boot in hand, as I gesticulated wildly. The other would be halfway on my left foot, bent so it looked like I had one creepy ankle. And my hair would be falling out of my ponytail, and I would start to cry. A nice young woman would say, "May I help you with something ma'am?" and I'd strike her with a nearby suede Steven Madden mule, and scream, "I! want! VICTOR!! I nee-eee-eeed him!"
As I stood there, chest heaving, Victor would return from the back room and say, "Did you need a different size?"
"Yes Victor. Please. These are far too small," I'd reply wiping drool from my face.
These sales persons should not instruct their customers to "shout" for them.
10.16.2006
10.13.2006
10.11.2006
Tunes, Boobs, and Faulty Kugel
Soundtrack of the day: Elis and Tom, by Elis Regina and Tom Jobim
Saturday night, I, along with my brother Louis, several of his USC friends, my father, my friend Jared, and Mr. Bixler (formerly my high school music teacher), played at the Dolphin Ball in Malibu, an annual benefit for the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation. We were the entertainment from 6 until 730 on the tennis courts at a mansion, which I like to refer to as The House That Crack Built. This house is neither "huge," "large," nor "enormous." It is disgusting. It took me like 29 minutes to get from the tennis courts (One of two!) to the "green room" (actually the lobby of their home-theater). Granted, I was wearing heels, but still. Anyway, this house could not have been designed by anyone with pure intentions. Drugs, violence, human trafficking, something, funded this compound. Allowing a charitable organization to use the property is surely just one notch in what promises to be a very tall tree of karmic redemption.
But I digress.
What is really important here is the band. Louie's friends are unbelievable players. Distractingly so. On "Man From Tanganyika," I was so thoroughly enjoying Sam's solo that I completely forgot to come back in with background figures. And getting to sing with these guys? It's a rush. First of all, my dad's arrangements are tremendous, and really fun to sing. Add to that the quintet of USC virtuosos, Bixler, and Jared, and, frankly, I could do this every night for the rest of my life. Really! I am so lucky to have experienced this, even once, I can hardly describe it.
Okay, I admit it. If the band were the only important thing to discuss, I probably wouldn't be writing this. I've already mentioned the insane size of the house. Now I'd like to move on to the insane size of the guests' various body parts. Namely: pecs, breasts, lips, and egos. Malibu is not known for it's modest, down-home vibe. The evening was a parade of trophy wives (Girlfriends? Secretaries?) and men with troubling hair-dos. Alright. Boob jobs- fine. Overly inflated pectoral muscles- okay. But the face-lifts have got to stop. STOP, I SAY. As Mr. Bixler so eloquently put it, "Lotta faces here look like they're goin' 90 miles an hour."* I don't think I've ever heard it stated so well. These women (and, sadly, some men) have been so inflated and sculpted and pulled, that they are hardly recognizable as human beings.
Sure, 90 mph describes the speed of their faces, but it certainly doesn't describe the speed of their minds. They all walked around with big, round eyes, starting blankly at auction items, and occasionally tossing a glance in the band's direction. I'm quite sure a number of them don't actually know what Cystic Fibrosis is. If anything, they saw the invitation and said, "An excuse to wear my life-threateningly high pumps?! Thanks, Cystic Fibrosis!" At least they were there, spending their money, and ignoring the band. Of course, a few people nodded appreciatively, but I'm pretty sure they were all catering staff**.
It was nice, though, to be able to play, and to have a band that sounded so incredible. I didn't need money, or applause. We were having a great time. And we were contributing to an important cause.
And what did we get for our contribution?
Well, we'd been informed that we'd be getting dinner. Which was great news. Because, catered affairs for wealthy people offer choices of vegetarian, meat, or fish plates! And there's salad, and dessert! I figured we'd be getting one of these plates back in the "green room." (God forbid we should eat with the Real People.) After the trek to the "green room," however, we were welcomed by a gaming table covered in old deli platters. The cold cuts were gone, the only thing remaining being the decorative lettuce leaves. One loaf of rye bread sat underneath plastic lids, old napkins and a couple pieces of broccoli. There was a bakery box, which looked promising, but, sadly, only contained one piece of kugel. Why hasn't this kugel been eaten yet? I asked myself. Everything else on this table has been devoured. Clearly this is a faulty kugel. So the kugel remained in its box.
Further along, we came upon three covered foil platters of warm food. We eagerly pulled back their covers to find...
1) Unpleasantly scented rice (also dry)
2) Pulled chicken (too spicy)
3) Pulled beef (marbled and mangled)
Oh. And the beers in the fridge were non-alcoholic.
The only true point of culinary magic was when Doug "Baaaaaaaartz!!!" Mosher put some of the spicy, pulled chicken between two pieces of the Loneliest Rye Bread. Fantastic. So, what do hungry musicians do after such a wholly unsatisfying meal?
We went to Ralph's to get pie. Obviously.
*I wrestled for quite some time with whether or not I should take credit for that brilliant observation. In the end, morals won.
** This does NOT include my mom, Bixler's wife, Avaryl, and her father, Scott. They were actually listening, and enjoying themselves.
Saturday night, I, along with my brother Louis, several of his USC friends, my father, my friend Jared, and Mr. Bixler (formerly my high school music teacher), played at the Dolphin Ball in Malibu, an annual benefit for the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation. We were the entertainment from 6 until 730 on the tennis courts at a mansion, which I like to refer to as The House That Crack Built. This house is neither "huge," "large," nor "enormous." It is disgusting. It took me like 29 minutes to get from the tennis courts (One of two!) to the "green room" (actually the lobby of their home-theater). Granted, I was wearing heels, but still. Anyway, this house could not have been designed by anyone with pure intentions. Drugs, violence, human trafficking, something, funded this compound. Allowing a charitable organization to use the property is surely just one notch in what promises to be a very tall tree of karmic redemption.
But I digress.
What is really important here is the band. Louie's friends are unbelievable players. Distractingly so. On "Man From Tanganyika," I was so thoroughly enjoying Sam's solo that I completely forgot to come back in with background figures. And getting to sing with these guys? It's a rush. First of all, my dad's arrangements are tremendous, and really fun to sing. Add to that the quintet of USC virtuosos, Bixler, and Jared, and, frankly, I could do this every night for the rest of my life. Really! I am so lucky to have experienced this, even once, I can hardly describe it.
Okay, I admit it. If the band were the only important thing to discuss, I probably wouldn't be writing this. I've already mentioned the insane size of the house. Now I'd like to move on to the insane size of the guests' various body parts. Namely: pecs, breasts, lips, and egos. Malibu is not known for it's modest, down-home vibe. The evening was a parade of trophy wives (Girlfriends? Secretaries?) and men with troubling hair-dos. Alright. Boob jobs- fine. Overly inflated pectoral muscles- okay. But the face-lifts have got to stop. STOP, I SAY. As Mr. Bixler so eloquently put it, "Lotta faces here look like they're goin' 90 miles an hour."* I don't think I've ever heard it stated so well. These women (and, sadly, some men) have been so inflated and sculpted and pulled, that they are hardly recognizable as human beings.
Sure, 90 mph describes the speed of their faces, but it certainly doesn't describe the speed of their minds. They all walked around with big, round eyes, starting blankly at auction items, and occasionally tossing a glance in the band's direction. I'm quite sure a number of them don't actually know what Cystic Fibrosis is. If anything, they saw the invitation and said, "An excuse to wear my life-threateningly high pumps?! Thanks, Cystic Fibrosis!" At least they were there, spending their money, and ignoring the band. Of course, a few people nodded appreciatively, but I'm pretty sure they were all catering staff**.
It was nice, though, to be able to play, and to have a band that sounded so incredible. I didn't need money, or applause. We were having a great time. And we were contributing to an important cause.
And what did we get for our contribution?
Well, we'd been informed that we'd be getting dinner. Which was great news. Because, catered affairs for wealthy people offer choices of vegetarian, meat, or fish plates! And there's salad, and dessert! I figured we'd be getting one of these plates back in the "green room." (God forbid we should eat with the Real People.) After the trek to the "green room," however, we were welcomed by a gaming table covered in old deli platters. The cold cuts were gone, the only thing remaining being the decorative lettuce leaves. One loaf of rye bread sat underneath plastic lids, old napkins and a couple pieces of broccoli. There was a bakery box, which looked promising, but, sadly, only contained one piece of kugel. Why hasn't this kugel been eaten yet? I asked myself. Everything else on this table has been devoured. Clearly this is a faulty kugel. So the kugel remained in its box.
Further along, we came upon three covered foil platters of warm food. We eagerly pulled back their covers to find...
1) Unpleasantly scented rice (also dry)
2) Pulled chicken (too spicy)
3) Pulled beef (marbled and mangled)
Oh. And the beers in the fridge were non-alcoholic.
The only true point of culinary magic was when Doug "Baaaaaaaartz!!!" Mosher put some of the spicy, pulled chicken between two pieces of the Loneliest Rye Bread. Fantastic. So, what do hungry musicians do after such a wholly unsatisfying meal?
We went to Ralph's to get pie. Obviously.
*I wrestled for quite some time with whether or not I should take credit for that brilliant observation. In the end, morals won.
** This does NOT include my mom, Bixler's wife, Avaryl, and her father, Scott. They were actually listening, and enjoying themselves.
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