It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia has done it again-- they have given the television viewer something to watch over and over and over again at work. Last year they did it with the scene in the episode "Hundred Dollar Baby" where Charlie attempts to eat a sandwich while undergoing violent, steroid-induced mood swings.
This year, in the episode "Dee is Dating a Retarded Person," they have brought us something wonderful. Something called "Day Man." I have it here, for your enjoyment.
Genius.
11.02.2007
10.31.2007
Happy Halloweiner Dog
I would like to present to you what I think are the best videos on the internet currently:
Happy Halloween!
8.23.2007
Eat that, Christo
I just found out about what is possibly the coolest kind of art. I hesitate to call it "installation" art, although, I guess, technically that's what it is.
The farmers in Inakadate, Japan have, for years, been planting their rice in such a way as to create giant murals, meant to be seen from above. The mural is usually a recreation of a piece by a Japanese master, so far as I can tell, although occaissionally they throw in some work by European folks, like DaVinci.
These giant impressive things, which can be viewed during the summer months, are created by planting different types of rice: Kodaimai, which has purple and yellow leaves, and Tsugaru-roman, the greener variety. (Close-up below.)
Would you just think about all the freaking planning that has to go into this? You have to decide which work can be done in essentially three colors. Then you have to find a guy who can actually recreate the painting. ("Dear Mr. Takahashi, We understand you are a fantastic artist. Do you suppose you could recreate one of Hokusai's 36 Views of Mt. Fuji for our town's annual mural? Oh, and PS. You can only use rice. Thanks!") THEN, you have to decide where the different kinds of rice will go in the enormous field. And finally - and this is where I throw in the towel - you have to plant all the damn rice.
Anyway, it really is an impressive way to present your city's agriculture. And so good looking! Can you imagine us Westerners trying to do something as cool with our farms? What, would we just stack cows around in a corn field to make a giant smiley face? Yes, actually. That's probably exactly what we would do. Not because we aren't creative, but just simply because we've got so much to do. I mean, Top Chef's not gonna watch itself.
8.20.2007
The Best Dollar I Ever Spent
Here's something: If you happen to be in the San Fernando Valley, near Coldwater Canyon, stop by Pinz bowling alley. They've got everything: Bowling, boozing, and a Jerry's Deli right next door. But what you really ought to see is in the back room of the arcade, in that dingy area near the pool tables, the one that's not very well lit, home to the less flashy games. There's a simulated bike race game, where you actually have to pedal the bicycle in order to win. There's an older Star Wars game, and a crusty basketball game that looks like it's from the seventies (the crappy part). There are some others, too, but they're in that back area where layers of dust and grime filter out the visible spectrum, making it impossible to see anything. The area where you'd take your girlfriend if you wanted to, say, impregnate her. Just before that point, wedged between the basketball game and some filth, is an old Ms. Pac-Man/Space Invaders Galactica machine with chairs on either side and a horizontal screen. If you pop in a few quarters (it's very reasonably priced next to that blasted "Dance Dance Revolution") the Ms. Pac-Man game will proudly challenge you to beat the high score, which is 29,409 points. I know this because it's mine. Well, mine and Ursula's. It was a team effort, and took a mere dollar and about twenty-five minutes of our Friday night.
When Ursula and I had paid our check at Jerry's Deli, we wandered into the bowling alley and, upon discovering that bowling was far too expensive and loud, found ourselves heading absentmindedly into the arcade. After trying several games out (I'll spare you the details of our DrumMania disaster) we were delighted to find Ms. Pac-Man. "Liz! I used to love Pac-Man!" Urs. exclaimed in her delightful Irish accent. "Let's do it, then, " I said, dropping four quarters into the side of the table-like machine. I sat down and pressed start, and off I went on my mission to eat everything in sight. (Incidentally, I see a lot of parallels between my life and Ms. Pac-Man's.) Urs. and I switched back and forth, each time making a mad dash while the new screen loaded so that precious seconds were not wasted.
When Ursula and I had paid our check at Jerry's Deli, we wandered into the bowling alley and, upon discovering that bowling was far too expensive and loud, found ourselves heading absentmindedly into the arcade. After trying several games out (I'll spare you the details of our DrumMania disaster) we were delighted to find Ms. Pac-Man. "Liz! I used to love Pac-Man!" Urs. exclaimed in her delightful Irish accent. "Let's do it, then, " I said, dropping four quarters into the side of the table-like machine. I sat down and pressed start, and off I went on my mission to eat everything in sight. (Incidentally, I see a lot of parallels between my life and Ms. Pac-Man's.) Urs. and I switched back and forth, each time making a mad dash while the new screen loaded so that precious seconds were not wasted.
I don't know when it started, but at some point I realized that we were yelling and carrying on like a couple of dudes watching the SuperBowl: "Go Go Go! Fuck fuck fuck! NO NO NO NO-shit!"
-Or-
"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon! Go go go dammit go! Aww, man. There was nothing that you could have done. It's okay."
-And also-
"What the hell is that?"
"A pretzel?"
"Get the fucking pretzel! Get it get it getitgetigetit! Yesssss! Oh, crap."
I vaguely recall a semi-soused young man coming over to us and saying, "So what's going on here, Ladies? A little Pac-Man?"
"Yeah," Urs. and I both half-replied.
"Cool, cool."
But the conversation ended there, because, unless he was Blinky, Pinky, Inky or Clyde, we had no time for him. He must have left after I slammed my fist on the table and said "WHAT?! I totally got that pear thing. You saw that I got the pear, right?"
-Or-
"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon! Go go go dammit go! Aww, man. There was nothing that you could have done. It's okay."
-And also-
"What the hell is that?"
"A pretzel?"
"Get the fucking pretzel! Get it get it getitgetigetit! Yesssss! Oh, crap."
I vaguely recall a semi-soused young man coming over to us and saying, "So what's going on here, Ladies? A little Pac-Man?"
"Yeah," Urs. and I both half-replied.
"Cool, cool."
But the conversation ended there, because, unless he was Blinky, Pinky, Inky or Clyde, we had no time for him. He must have left after I slammed my fist on the table and said "WHAT?! I totally got that pear thing. You saw that I got the pear, right?"
So, all told, we racked up 29,409 beautiful points. As we were getting up to leave, Urs. noticed that our number was the new high score. "Wait. Is that right?" she asked, befuddled. "Yes, Ursula" I said. "There is no denying our intense skill now."
We emerged, beaming, from the depths of the arcade. Finally out of my frenzied haze, I looked around at the rest of the establishment. Everyone was approximately my age, dressed to attract sexual partners, holding at least one drink and ogling anything with a pulse. The guys were strutting around acting meaty and fantastic, and the girls we adjusting their clothing with psychotic frequency and sucking their stomachs in as best they could. These are what I suppose you would call my peers. This well-groomed, horny, drunken crowd was "the norm." Urs. and I, on the other hand had just spent prime drinking hours of the weekend flipping out at a little yellow thing with an insatiable appetite.
Good for us, dammit.
And that is how Ursula and I made history at an overpriced bowling alley in Studio City.
We emerged, beaming, from the depths of the arcade. Finally out of my frenzied haze, I looked around at the rest of the establishment. Everyone was approximately my age, dressed to attract sexual partners, holding at least one drink and ogling anything with a pulse. The guys were strutting around acting meaty and fantastic, and the girls we adjusting their clothing with psychotic frequency and sucking their stomachs in as best they could. These are what I suppose you would call my peers. This well-groomed, horny, drunken crowd was "the norm." Urs. and I, on the other hand had just spent prime drinking hours of the weekend flipping out at a little yellow thing with an insatiable appetite.
Good for us, dammit.
And that is how Ursula and I made history at an overpriced bowling alley in Studio City.
7.17.2007
I Am Confident In The American Media!
This morning, driving to work, I tuned into KNX 1070 AM to see what the deal with the traffic was. Soon, the traffic report, which, as usual, didn't say anything at all about my commute, was over and a special report by Charles Feldman began.
The topic was "A New Kind of Terrorist Threat." Admittedly, I wasn't all that excited about listening to this, but then sound bytes, seemingly from an action movie, began to play. I was intrigued. Charles began to tell us that terrorists may now be using computers to cause major societal dysfunction and melt down "as the new Die Hard movie illustrates."
!!
But, don't get worried that this report was made up of questionable information. Oh no. Rest assured that Mr. Feldman had some very reliable sources. For instance a man who calls himself Security Monkey.
Yes, a nation-wide technological meltdown scares me. But I do feel much safer with Charles Feldman and his pal Security Monkey on the case.
The topic was "A New Kind of Terrorist Threat." Admittedly, I wasn't all that excited about listening to this, but then sound bytes, seemingly from an action movie, began to play. I was intrigued. Charles began to tell us that terrorists may now be using computers to cause major societal dysfunction and melt down "as the new Die Hard movie illustrates."
!!
But, don't get worried that this report was made up of questionable information. Oh no. Rest assured that Mr. Feldman had some very reliable sources. For instance a man who calls himself Security Monkey.
Yes, a nation-wide technological meltdown scares me. But I do feel much safer with Charles Feldman and his pal Security Monkey on the case.
6.28.2007
A Rockie Mountain Lactose Adventure
"I can't have cheese of any kind," says a jarringly nasal voice coming from somewhere behind me. It is Breakfast Time in Car 3 of the Rockie Mountaineer's Calgary to Vancouver train, and Evan, our charming yet tragically corny host/guide/whatever has just asked if anyone on board has any special dietary needs. Somehow, perhaps because I am tired and the hotel shampoo has left my hair limp and clinging to my head, this man's request annoys me.
"No cheese. Alright, sir. I believe I've got something for you," says Evan. He helpfully trots to the end of the car, and then back again, with some cereal and a small carton of milk for the man.
At lunchtime (which is later, but not much later, because the Rockie Mountaineer seems to believe that passengers not chewing something will riot) Evan offers us all a choice between "chilled" beef (Alberta beef; this is important) and potato salad OR salmon (cold) on a bed of lettuce with some couscous. (Each meal, it turns out, also comes with a square of chocolate roughly the size of a postcard stamp and a piece of cake with a half inch of frosting flavored with dentist's toothpaste.) When Evan arrives at the Nasally Man's seat, he says, "Sir, they've made up a special vegetarian meal for you, so-"
"Well, I'm not a vegetarian. I just can't have cheese of any kind."
My brother turns to me and says, "How dare he talk to Evan like that." We both laugh. Because, come on guy, he's just trying to help. Plus we already know you can't have cheese, so just pipe down and eat your veggies.
Evan sighs and then says, "Of course, sir. I just wanted to make sure you knew-"
"The beef sounds excellent. Is there any cheese in it?" Rude and annoying.
"I'll check for you sir." He picks up his walkie-talkie and radios the train manager. "Evan to Sharla."
"Go for Sharla," says a woman's voice from the walkie-talkie.
"I have a passenger here who cannot eat cheese. He wants the beef. Is there any cheese in that meal anywhere?"
A pause.
"What happens when he eats cheese?" Sharla asks. The walkie-talkie is at full volume and everyone in the car is now silent, eager to hear about the Nasally Man's ailment. It's like trashy daytime TV on a train.
"I get very sick. Very very sick." He speaks quickly, and I can tell the man does not want to discuss his troubles in front of a live audience. I swivel around to have a look. The man is in his early 70s, and slight. He sort of looks like a mudskipper wearing giant Martin Scorsese glasses. This touches me, and I am no longer annoyed with him, but angry with Sharla.
"What kind of sick?" she now needs to know. Sharla. That prying bitch.
So what if he can't eat cheese? All you need to know is he can't eat it. What do you care what happens to him? Just get out your little train book and scan the ingredients of today's meal selection.
"Sir, what kind of sick?" Evan asks, as though the entire cabin hasn't already heard Sharla's question.
"Well..." More awkward pausing as the Mudskipper tries to avoid the question.
"Is it a lactose thing or anaphylactic shock or what?" Sharla demands. Evan apologetically repeats the question.
"I just don't... I don't feel well. I could faint. I get very sick. Very very sick." The poor Mudskipper.
"He could faint, he gets sick," explains Evan.
"But what kind of sick? Diarrhea?"
Sweet Baby Jesus, Sharla. You and Evan are not passing notes in Health Class. You are on a walkie-talkie, which not only is being broadcast in Car 3, but in all the other cars as well. So 650 passengers have all stopped, forkfuls of cold Alberta! Beef just inches from their mouths, to listen to the exciting conclusion of Detective Sharla and the Case of the Mysterious Cheese Allergy.
I feel for the Mudskipper. He is, after all, just a delicate septuagenarian with a severe allergy to one of the world's best-loved foods. My wish is that, one day, Sharla will develop an embarrassing gastrointestinal reaction to mayonnaise and will have to spend twenty minutes being grilled by her future in-laws about why she's not eating any of Aunt Jenny's Famous Potato Salad. Then she will understand.
"No cheese. Alright, sir. I believe I've got something for you," says Evan. He helpfully trots to the end of the car, and then back again, with some cereal and a small carton of milk for the man.
At lunchtime (which is later, but not much later, because the Rockie Mountaineer seems to believe that passengers not chewing something will riot) Evan offers us all a choice between "chilled" beef (Alberta beef; this is important) and potato salad OR salmon (cold) on a bed of lettuce with some couscous. (Each meal, it turns out, also comes with a square of chocolate roughly the size of a postcard stamp and a piece of cake with a half inch of frosting flavored with dentist's toothpaste.) When Evan arrives at the Nasally Man's seat, he says, "Sir, they've made up a special vegetarian meal for you, so-"
"Well, I'm not a vegetarian. I just can't have cheese of any kind."
My brother turns to me and says, "How dare he talk to Evan like that." We both laugh. Because, come on guy, he's just trying to help. Plus we already know you can't have cheese, so just pipe down and eat your veggies.
Evan sighs and then says, "Of course, sir. I just wanted to make sure you knew-"
"The beef sounds excellent. Is there any cheese in it?" Rude and annoying.
"I'll check for you sir." He picks up his walkie-talkie and radios the train manager. "Evan to Sharla."
"Go for Sharla," says a woman's voice from the walkie-talkie.
"I have a passenger here who cannot eat cheese. He wants the beef. Is there any cheese in that meal anywhere?"
A pause.
"What happens when he eats cheese?" Sharla asks. The walkie-talkie is at full volume and everyone in the car is now silent, eager to hear about the Nasally Man's ailment. It's like trashy daytime TV on a train.
"I get very sick. Very very sick." He speaks quickly, and I can tell the man does not want to discuss his troubles in front of a live audience. I swivel around to have a look. The man is in his early 70s, and slight. He sort of looks like a mudskipper wearing giant Martin Scorsese glasses. This touches me, and I am no longer annoyed with him, but angry with Sharla.
"What kind of sick?" she now needs to know. Sharla. That prying bitch.
So what if he can't eat cheese? All you need to know is he can't eat it. What do you care what happens to him? Just get out your little train book and scan the ingredients of today's meal selection.
"Sir, what kind of sick?" Evan asks, as though the entire cabin hasn't already heard Sharla's question.
"Well..." More awkward pausing as the Mudskipper tries to avoid the question.
"Is it a lactose thing or anaphylactic shock or what?" Sharla demands. Evan apologetically repeats the question.
"I just don't... I don't feel well. I could faint. I get very sick. Very very sick." The poor Mudskipper.
"He could faint, he gets sick," explains Evan.
"But what kind of sick? Diarrhea?"
Sweet Baby Jesus, Sharla. You and Evan are not passing notes in Health Class. You are on a walkie-talkie, which not only is being broadcast in Car 3, but in all the other cars as well. So 650 passengers have all stopped, forkfuls of cold Alberta! Beef just inches from their mouths, to listen to the exciting conclusion of Detective Sharla and the Case of the Mysterious Cheese Allergy.
I feel for the Mudskipper. He is, after all, just a delicate septuagenarian with a severe allergy to one of the world's best-loved foods. My wish is that, one day, Sharla will develop an embarrassing gastrointestinal reaction to mayonnaise and will have to spend twenty minutes being grilled by her future in-laws about why she's not eating any of Aunt Jenny's Famous Potato Salad. Then she will understand.
6.21.2007
BabelFish is my Anti-Drug
Everyone loves to be able to say things in foreign languages. They especially love to be able to say amusing things in foreign languages. Often, these practically useless, yet funny (if only because they are so useless) phrases or words are the only bits of the language these people know.
Which is why the only phrase I can say in French is Je suis une lesbienne. Meaning, of course, "I am a lesbian." Not really very useful, unless of course you're being followed by a horde of sex-crazed rugby players. And even then I'm not sure it's much of a deterrent.
In any case, I mentioned that this was the phrase I knew in French to my friend Christy, who happened to be working very late. I then asked "Why are you still at work?" Her reply was "Parce que je suis une lesbienne." ("Because I am a lesbian.")
"That's an interesting reason to be at work," I replied. "Êtes-vous des filles ayant une réunion? (Are you ladies having a meeting?)"
Her next missive thrilled me. It said: "J'apprécie la stimulation des femmes au travail. La nuit. D'habitude l'équipage de nettoyage de nuit. Derniérment nous avons expérimenté avec les balais éponge.
La soude de chaux de citron."
I think you can all guess what I did next.
That's right. I went directly to BabelFish and plugged that sucker in. Here is what the helpful translator gave me:
"I appreciate the stimulation of the women to work. The night. Usually the crew of cleaning of night. Lately we tested with the sponge mops.
The lemon lime soda."
Zut alors!
I wasn't quite sure what was happening, but it made me laugh. The passage was a little bit Allen Ginsberg, a little bit Bill Cosby. And I think there's some confused Slavic tourist in there, too.
All of this reminded me how much I love BabelFish.
With BabelFish (or any other internet language translator, really) you can create strings of words so incorrect you'll probably burn off that muffin laughing. Allow me to illustrate:
I will type in the phrase "Would you like to go to museum on Thursday?"
Now I will translate it, using BabelFish, into Spanish. It now says, "¿Usted tiene gusto de ir al museo el jueves?"
I will now translate that back into English: "You have taste to go to the museum Thursday?"
Delightful! Let's keep going!
And that's just the beginning. The more times you translate, the better it gets! For example, I will take the new, screwy phrase and translate it into French, then into Dutch, then back to English. Then to Italian, to French, to Portuguese and then finally back to English for the final time. It nows says this: "They must proves to the gone museum thursday?"
Tremendous! I could do this all night.
And on several occasions, I have.
The other thing to do is visit the German Amazon.com. If you can figure it out, type in the name of a movie that is available on DVD or VHS. I will choose "When Harry Met Sally." Scroll down to what looks like the synopsis, copy, paste into BabelFish, translate from German to English and enjoy:
"There are certain films, which one must have seen, no matter whether they please one or not. Harry and Sally ... are one of these films. Over 12 years the history of the two New Yorker ones is told, which in the course of the years always again more or less coincidentally over the way run themselves. ... Although the film was produced by Rob of pure (Conditions by Me, Misery), it is nevertheless the product of the film script authoress and the rain eating urine Nora Ephron (Sleepless in Seattle, Email for You). In the center are located two humans, who are for each other certain. ... If one watches the film however a second or third time, one notices fast that that is to be looked at everything very nicely and amusingly. More however actually not."
I know it's long. But did you read the part about Nora Ephron? Apparently she's not very well-liked in Germany. I've never actually heard of anyone being called "a urine." Her presence seems to negate anything good that Rob Of Pure brought to the film.
I encourage all of you to take a trip to BabelFish. If you need me, that's where I'll be.
Which is why the only phrase I can say in French is Je suis une lesbienne. Meaning, of course, "I am a lesbian." Not really very useful, unless of course you're being followed by a horde of sex-crazed rugby players. And even then I'm not sure it's much of a deterrent.
In any case, I mentioned that this was the phrase I knew in French to my friend Christy, who happened to be working very late. I then asked "Why are you still at work?" Her reply was "Parce que je suis une lesbienne." ("Because I am a lesbian.")
"That's an interesting reason to be at work," I replied. "Êtes-vous des filles ayant une réunion? (Are you ladies having a meeting?)"
Her next missive thrilled me. It said: "J'apprécie la stimulation des femmes au travail. La nuit. D'habitude l'équipage de nettoyage de nuit. Derniérment nous avons expérimenté avec les balais éponge.
La soude de chaux de citron."
I think you can all guess what I did next.
That's right. I went directly to BabelFish and plugged that sucker in. Here is what the helpful translator gave me:
"I appreciate the stimulation of the women to work. The night. Usually the crew of cleaning of night. Lately we tested with the sponge mops.
The lemon lime soda."
Zut alors!
I wasn't quite sure what was happening, but it made me laugh. The passage was a little bit Allen Ginsberg, a little bit Bill Cosby. And I think there's some confused Slavic tourist in there, too.
All of this reminded me how much I love BabelFish.
With BabelFish (or any other internet language translator, really) you can create strings of words so incorrect you'll probably burn off that muffin laughing. Allow me to illustrate:
I will type in the phrase "Would you like to go to museum on Thursday?"
Now I will translate it, using BabelFish, into Spanish. It now says, "¿Usted tiene gusto de ir al museo el jueves?"
I will now translate that back into English: "You have taste to go to the museum Thursday?"
Delightful! Let's keep going!
And that's just the beginning. The more times you translate, the better it gets! For example, I will take the new, screwy phrase and translate it into French, then into Dutch, then back to English. Then to Italian, to French, to Portuguese and then finally back to English for the final time. It nows says this: "They must proves to the gone museum thursday?"
Tremendous! I could do this all night.
And on several occasions, I have.
The other thing to do is visit the German Amazon.com. If you can figure it out, type in the name of a movie that is available on DVD or VHS. I will choose "When Harry Met Sally." Scroll down to what looks like the synopsis, copy, paste into BabelFish, translate from German to English and enjoy:
"There are certain films, which one must have seen, no matter whether they please one or not. Harry and Sally ... are one of these films. Over 12 years the history of the two New Yorker ones is told, which in the course of the years always again more or less coincidentally over the way run themselves. ... Although the film was produced by Rob of pure (Conditions by Me, Misery), it is nevertheless the product of the film script authoress and the rain eating urine Nora Ephron (Sleepless in Seattle, Email for You). In the center are located two humans, who are for each other certain. ... If one watches the film however a second or third time, one notices fast that that is to be looked at everything very nicely and amusingly. More however actually not."
I know it's long. But did you read the part about Nora Ephron? Apparently she's not very well-liked in Germany. I've never actually heard of anyone being called "a urine." Her presence seems to negate anything good that Rob Of Pure brought to the film.
I encourage all of you to take a trip to BabelFish. If you need me, that's where I'll be.
6.14.2007
This is NOT "OK".
In order to say what I want to say today, I am going to have to make a confession.
I do, occasionally, read the tabloids.
Yes. I know. But sometimes, they're just there and you've got nothing else to read and you're bored because the doctor's office told you "2:00" but it's looking more like it'll be "4:00" because you have an HMO and you're not bleeding from more than one hole. ... So you've got to pass the time with something.
In any case, yes, I read the June 11th, 2007 issue of OK! Magazine. And, aside from the seemingly 3 billion-page spread on American Idol, it seemed like a relatively harmless publication.
And then I got to the picture of Jessica Simpson.
And then I read the caption underneath her picture.
Here is what it said: "On her fan site SweetKisses.net, Jess recently mused that she read a book about Renaissance artist Michelangelo ... Though born centuries apart, the two artists are alike: Michelangelo was a poet, and Jess is planning to publish a volume of her poems!"
...
For those of you just joining us, OK! Magazine has just compared Jessica Simpson (you may remember her from the MTV show "Newlyweds," and from her boobs) to one of the most important artists of the 16th century (you may remember him from, oh, I don't know... a little thing called the Pietá? Or perhaps the freaking ceiling in the Sistine Chapel?). And they used an exclamation point.
Fun Fact: Someone who writes a blog on a site called SweetANYTHING.net is not going to be an intellectual wonder.
Discussion Question: How does such a person receive a book deal in the first place? How do they write a collection of poems? Order their own take-out? Discuss.
I do, occasionally, read the tabloids.
Yes. I know. But sometimes, they're just there and you've got nothing else to read and you're bored because the doctor's office told you "2:00" but it's looking more like it'll be "4:00" because you have an HMO and you're not bleeding from more than one hole. ... So you've got to pass the time with something.
In any case, yes, I read the June 11th, 2007 issue of OK! Magazine. And, aside from the seemingly 3 billion-page spread on American Idol, it seemed like a relatively harmless publication.
And then I got to the picture of Jessica Simpson.
And then I read the caption underneath her picture.
Here is what it said: "On her fan site SweetKisses.net, Jess recently mused that she read a book about Renaissance artist Michelangelo ... Though born centuries apart, the two artists are alike: Michelangelo was a poet, and Jess is planning to publish a volume of her poems!"
...
For those of you just joining us, OK! Magazine has just compared Jessica Simpson (you may remember her from the MTV show "Newlyweds," and from her boobs) to one of the most important artists of the 16th century (you may remember him from, oh, I don't know... a little thing called the Pietá? Or perhaps the freaking ceiling in the Sistine Chapel?). And they used an exclamation point.
Fun Fact: Someone who writes a blog on a site called SweetANYTHING.net is not going to be an intellectual wonder.
Discussion Question: How does such a person receive a book deal in the first place? How do they write a collection of poems? Order their own take-out? Discuss.
4.12.2007
R.I.P. Kurt Vonnegut
This is such sad news. The man is a genius. Brilliant, eloquent, funny. He will be missed. If you've never read his collection of short stories, Welcome to the Monkey House, I truly recommend it.
2.22.2007
Check This Sh*t Out!
Hey! Lookit. Larry n' I made this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=51bsCRv6kI0
It helps if you like Thelonius Monk.
Feel free to comment, and rate!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=51bsCRv6kI0
It helps if you like Thelonius Monk.
Feel free to comment, and rate!
2.12.2007
I Happened To Really Like Chris Brown & His Wee Dance Companions
Aside from the fact that Larry Goldings and Trio Beyond didn't win for best jazz album, the Grammys were pretty good. (Corinne Bailey Rae, anyone?) But, it wouldn't be the Grammys without some puzzling items. First of all, how do you not give Prince a grammy? HOW? Look at the man. He's like 3 feet tall, wearing a freaking leisure suit and sunglasses INDOORS. Plus he's funky as hell.
That being said, I have a couple of other questions.
*Did anyone else find it odd that there was an Audience Mote at the ceremony? Were those people trapped? What would happen in a fire? Would they just burn there? Or is there some sort of trap door?
*Also, who was that unreasonably hairy fellow on stage with the Dixie Chicks? According to the Short Dixie Chick, he's one of the guys who "works the magic behind the console." Now, either Apey McFurry and his pal The Squatty Dude weren't supposed to be on stage, or The D. Chicks don't actually know what these fellows do. Either way, d
ude, get a haircut.
*Did anyone else notice Samuel L. Jackson's shirt? Is it one of those Magic Eye puzzles, where, if you stare at it long enough, you see a lion? Or a soccer player?
*Please: Could someone get Christina Aguilera a Xanax and some whiskey?
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* Alright. I know [jazz legend] Ornette Coleman isn't exactly well-known to the general public, but, please, sir, could you at least pretend you know who he is? You're on camera for pete's sake. "Ornette WHO??" Sir, you are a massive tool.
*Does Gnarls Barkley realize that his pianist (copilot?), DJ Danger Mouse, died an eighth of the way through their performance? Honestly, Cap'n Gnarls just kept on belting while poor Danger just slumped over the key board.
*Why Smokey? WHY?! That was my number one concern of the evening. As Smokey sang, "Take a look at my face," I could help but wonder why he felt he had to request that. I, for one, couldn't take my eyes off his face. His eyes! OH GOD, HIS EYES! Poor guy. After 18 chemical peels he looks like, in the words of Jonathan Feldman, "a scared cat."
(Thanks to Feldman for the HD screen captures!)
That being said, I have a couple of other questions.
*Did anyone else find it odd that there was an Audience Mote at the ceremony? Were those people trapped? What would happen in a fire? Would they just burn there? Or is there some sort of trap door?
*Also, who was that unreasonably hairy fellow on stage with the Dixie Chicks? According to the Short Dixie Chick, he's one of the guys who "works the magic behind the console." Now, either Apey McFurry and his pal The Squatty Dude weren't supposed to be on stage, or The D. Chicks don't actually know what these fellows do. Either way, d
ude, get a haircut.*Did anyone else notice Samuel L. Jackson's shirt? Is it one of those Magic Eye puzzles, where, if you stare at it long enough, you see a lion? Or a soccer player?
*Please: Could someone get Christina Aguilera a Xanax and some whiskey?
.png">
* Alright. I know [jazz legend] Ornette Coleman isn't exactly well-known to the general public, but, please, sir, could you at least pretend you know who he is? You're on camera for pete's sake. "Ornette WHO??" Sir, you are a massive tool.
*Does Gnarls Barkley realize that his pianist (copilot?), DJ Danger Mouse, died an eighth of the way through their performance? Honestly, Cap'n Gnarls just kept on belting while poor Danger just slumped over the key board.
*Why Smokey? WHY?! That was my number one concern of the evening. As Smokey sang, "Take a look at my face," I could help but wonder why he felt he had to request that. I, for one, couldn't take my eyes off his face. His eyes! OH GOD, HIS EYES! Poor guy. After 18 chemical peels he looks like, in the words of Jonathan Feldman, "a scared cat."
(Thanks to Feldman for the HD screen captures!)
2.11.2007
A Short Rant About A Long Show
Well, it's Grammy day, and the powers that be have shrewdly chosen to hold the ceremony at that Pillar of Sonic Perfection: The Staples Center.
Really? Really?
You're going to hold an event dedicated to the appreciation of music (however you choose to define it this year) in a sports arena!??! Excellent.
I have been to two musical events at Staples Center. Each one was different, each one was terrible. The first was for the First Annual Latin Grammys. I was in the "300" seats (read: The Nosebleed Section) where the sound ricocheted off of everything. Because the walls are made of concrete. The second was for a Dave Matthews Band concert. I was in the second row, where the sound still ricocheted off of the concrete walls, only was much worse because the echos had time to mix with other echos. In both situations, I couldn't make out a damn thing. And it didn't help matters that 50% of my experiences with music at the Staples Center were in Spanish.
Why would they decide to do that? I mean, I suppose these sports arenas can hold lots of people, but aren't these events meant to be exclusive anyway? It seems it would be more appropriate to have the Golden Globes at the Staples Center, since there aren't any musical numbers. But the Grammys? There's a performance every ten seconds. That's what it's about.
I could go on and on about what bothers me about the Grammys (why aren't all types of music included in the telecast? Who keeps letting those crazed rap artists up on stage?) but I won't, because they're going to be on pretty soon and I don't want to miss a minute.
Really? Really?
You're going to hold an event dedicated to the appreciation of music (however you choose to define it this year) in a sports arena!??! Excellent.
I have been to two musical events at Staples Center. Each one was different, each one was terrible. The first was for the First Annual Latin Grammys. I was in the "300" seats (read: The Nosebleed Section) where the sound ricocheted off of everything. Because the walls are made of concrete. The second was for a Dave Matthews Band concert. I was in the second row, where the sound still ricocheted off of the concrete walls, only was much worse because the echos had time to mix with other echos. In both situations, I couldn't make out a damn thing. And it didn't help matters that 50% of my experiences with music at the Staples Center were in Spanish.
Why would they decide to do that? I mean, I suppose these sports arenas can hold lots of people, but aren't these events meant to be exclusive anyway? It seems it would be more appropriate to have the Golden Globes at the Staples Center, since there aren't any musical numbers. But the Grammys? There's a performance every ten seconds. That's what it's about.
I could go on and on about what bothers me about the Grammys (why aren't all types of music included in the telecast? Who keeps letting those crazed rap artists up on stage?) but I won't, because they're going to be on pretty soon and I don't want to miss a minute.
1.25.2007
Some Google Image Search FunFacts:
- As of 5:30 pm, January 25, 2007, there are over 21,000 pictures of fruit salad.
- When you search "Jorfe" you get this fellow:
He wants to hold you. Be not afraid.
- Surprisingly, the term "Ghetto Walnut" only yields 8 photos. None of them are of actual walnuts.
- Something that also yields 8 photos? "Goat Lolly."
- Searching the term "Help Help" yields a still from "Monty Python & The Holy Grail
- I googled the name "Bart Scholtens" thinking I would find nothing. Turns out, Bart Scholtens plays the saxaphone and appears to be popular in Germany.
- Ladies, may I present to you, the very eligible Bill Kunkel:
- For a good time, google "Lamprey."
-"Yuyuyu" yields over 1,000 images.
- If you type in "Sooksin Mit" it yields nothing, and helpfully asks if you meant "Sooksan Mit."
- If you search for "Sooksan Mit," it once again yields nothing.
Thank you.
- When you search "Jorfe" you get this fellow:
He wants to hold you. Be not afraid.- Surprisingly, the term "Ghetto Walnut" only yields 8 photos. None of them are of actual walnuts.
- Something that also yields 8 photos? "Goat Lolly."
- Searching the term "Help Help" yields a still from "Monty Python & The Holy Grail
- I googled the name "Bart Scholtens" thinking I would find nothing. Turns out, Bart Scholtens plays the saxaphone and appears to be popular in Germany.
- Ladies, may I present to you, the very eligible Bill Kunkel:
- For a good time, google "Lamprey."
-"Yuyuyu" yields over 1,000 images.
- If you type in "Sooksin Mit" it yields nothing, and helpfully asks if you meant "Sooksan Mit."
- If you search for "Sooksan Mit," it once again yields nothing.
Thank you.
11.30.2006
PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD HELP!
MY BROTHER DESERVES FAME.
Please visit these links. Enjoy the videos. Then, click on the heart in the lower lefthand corner of the screen. You'll have to register your email address, but it's so worth it! If Louie, David and Chris win- they get a ton of money, AND their commercial is shown at the Super Bowl! INSTANT FAME. Please help my multi-talented brother get famous!!!
http://www.jumpcut.com/view?id=A6F8B542776E11DB8B9DA6B200DB926D&type==
http://www.jumpcut.com/view?id=8895BE54776B11DB8D18A6B200DB926D&type==
Please visit these links. Enjoy the videos. Then, click on the heart in the lower lefthand corner of the screen. You'll have to register your email address, but it's so worth it! If Louie, David and Chris win- they get a ton of money, AND their commercial is shown at the Super Bowl! INSTANT FAME. Please help my multi-talented brother get famous!!!
http://www.jumpcut.com/view?id=A6F8B542776E11DB8B9DA6B200DB926D&type==
http://www.jumpcut.com/view?id=8895BE54776B11DB8D18A6B200DB926D&type==
11.14.2006
Webster's Dictionary of Hollywood B.S.
Until recently, I had been working in the entertainment industry, a setting that seems to breed egocentric blow-hards. I thought I'd be avoiding those kinds of people by leaving show biz, but, alas!, I live in Los Angeles, so there's no avoiding those obnoxious writer types, those wannabe actors, or those self-appointed auteurs. Here are some phrases these folks often spout that annoy me:
"Oh! I heard the script was good." (Variations: "The script was supposed to be good."; "My friend read the script, said it was good.")-- This is often used by Production Assistants who have no real pull in the world of Hollywood, but would like to think they do. They're longing to be "insiders," and they're not, and likely will never be. Being a PA is not a surefire way to success and fortune. I know a guy who used to be a PA, got promoted to coordinator, and now sells cars.
"It's really high concept."-- This is primarily used by douchebags. It is used to describe a screenplay, often when they do not want to elaborate. (They say it's because they don't want their idea stolen. I say it's because either a) there is no screenplay at all or b) there is a screenplay, but it's pathetic and/or they don't know how to verbalize what it is about.) For instance, a couple of years ago I was standing around with my little goofy headset being a Television Slave, and I decided to make conversation with the fellow next to me. "So you're a writer? What're you working on right now?" "Just finished a screenplay, actually." "Ooh! Cool! What's it about?" "Well,it's very high concept, actually, soooo..." It was awkward.
"Big Picture"-- This phrase seems to peppered into disappointed conversations (i.e. "He's not seeing the big picture" or "Let's think big picture here for a sec, mkay?") as a Space Filler. Similar to "like" or "ummmmm," "Big Picture" is devoid of any real meaning. It's a way for the speaker to maintain control of the floor while they collect their thoughts (if they have any).
"Surreal"--This word can be perfectly acceptable, provided it is used in the right context. However, people often use it when they name drop. "Yeah, I was this party over the weekend. Do you even know how surreal it is to see Chuck Woolery play charades?" First of all, settle the hell down. When you're playing charades with Woody Allen, then you've got something to be excited about. Second, I don't think it's surreal so much as it is entertaining and bizarre. When I think "surreal" I think Salvador Dali, not George Hamilton trying to act out "Breakfast at Tiffany's."
"Oh! I heard the script was good." (Variations: "The script was supposed to be good."; "My friend read the script, said it was good.")-- This is often used by Production Assistants who have no real pull in the world of Hollywood, but would like to think they do. They're longing to be "insiders," and they're not, and likely will never be. Being a PA is not a surefire way to success and fortune. I know a guy who used to be a PA, got promoted to coordinator, and now sells cars.
"It's really high concept."-- This is primarily used by douchebags. It is used to describe a screenplay, often when they do not want to elaborate. (They say it's because they don't want their idea stolen. I say it's because either a) there is no screenplay at all or b) there is a screenplay, but it's pathetic and/or they don't know how to verbalize what it is about.) For instance, a couple of years ago I was standing around with my little goofy headset being a Television Slave, and I decided to make conversation with the fellow next to me. "So you're a writer? What're you working on right now?" "Just finished a screenplay, actually." "Ooh! Cool! What's it about?" "Well,
"Big Picture"-- This phrase seems to peppered into disappointed conversations (i.e. "He's not seeing the big picture" or "Let's think big picture here for a sec, mkay?") as a Space Filler. Similar to "like" or "ummmmm," "Big Picture" is devoid of any real meaning. It's a way for the speaker to maintain control of the floor while they collect their thoughts (if they have any).
11.12.2006
And we all know how much I love hot cats
Recently, my friend Devin and I went to a jazz club (which will remain nameless) where we saw a certain host/singer (who will also remain nameless). This fellow is the kind of guy who would sing to his bride at their wedding. Before the food is served to guests. And it wouldn't be one song. It would be ten.
This particular act is a Tuesday night fixture at this establishment. How this man is the permanent host is beyond me. The only thing I could figure was that at some drunken point, a friend told him he sounded like Tony Bennett, which sparked his need to become a jazz singer. I hope whoever told him that realized that he's ruined Tuesdays for everyone.
And his intonation wasn't the only trouble. It was the way he was imitating every lounge singer he'd ever seen. In fact, he seemed to be imitating parodies of lounge singers. Large sweeping hand motions, one leg bouncing, body tilted back a little. The seediness was nearly overpowering. At one point, I asked Devin if he thought, given the way this fellow was behaving, that the audience could file a class action suit against him for sexual harassment. He said yes.
Singers like this aren't the only type of male that make me uncomfortable. Radio DJs who talk in that übersuave manner, too. You know what I mean: Their voices are low, their vowels are extended to comical lengths ("Smoooooooooth jaaaaaazz" or "Heeeeeeeeeey ladies.") and their preferred subject matter is, well, yucky. For example, I had my car radio automatically scanning through channels in a desperate attempt to find something, anything to listen to. The radio landed on 92.3 ("hot 92 jamz") only to hear the DJ saying, "And ladies, if you're sexy enough, you can park wherever you want to."
Eew. What does that mean, even? Before I had time to truly grasp what this fellow meant, my car radio had scanned away from the station. When I returned to the station moments later, he was saying, "36-24-36? More like 36-24-40! Ladies, bring those sexy hips on down and I'll--" I turned the radio off.
Who are these people? Who do they think their target audience is? It certainly isn't "the ladies" because I don't think I know a single woman who would respond positively to this kind of smarminess. The jazz singer, at one point, motioned to the band behind him and said, "You gotta love my tasty band, because, these cats are hot!" And then he chuckled to himself.
Yuck.
This particular act is a Tuesday night fixture at this establishment. How this man is the permanent host is beyond me. The only thing I could figure was that at some drunken point, a friend told him he sounded like Tony Bennett, which sparked his need to become a jazz singer. I hope whoever told him that realized that he's ruined Tuesdays for everyone.
And his intonation wasn't the only trouble. It was the way he was imitating every lounge singer he'd ever seen. In fact, he seemed to be imitating parodies of lounge singers. Large sweeping hand motions, one leg bouncing, body tilted back a little. The seediness was nearly overpowering. At one point, I asked Devin if he thought, given the way this fellow was behaving, that the audience could file a class action suit against him for sexual harassment. He said yes.
Singers like this aren't the only type of male that make me uncomfortable. Radio DJs who talk in that übersuave manner, too. You know what I mean: Their voices are low, their vowels are extended to comical lengths ("Smoooooooooth jaaaaaazz" or "Heeeeeeeeeey ladies.") and their preferred subject matter is, well, yucky. For example, I had my car radio automatically scanning through channels in a desperate attempt to find something, anything to listen to. The radio landed on 92.3 ("hot 92 jamz") only to hear the DJ saying, "And ladies, if you're sexy enough, you can park wherever you want to."
Eew. What does that mean, even? Before I had time to truly grasp what this fellow meant, my car radio had scanned away from the station. When I returned to the station moments later, he was saying, "36-24-36? More like 36-24-40! Ladies, bring those sexy hips on down and I'll--" I turned the radio off.
Who are these people? Who do they think their target audience is? It certainly isn't "the ladies" because I don't think I know a single woman who would respond positively to this kind of smarminess. The jazz singer, at one point, motioned to the band behind him and said, "You gotta love my tasty band, because, these cats are hot!" And then he chuckled to himself.
Yuck.
11.11.2006
ATTENTION TELEVISION PRODUCERS
HOOKERS ARE NOT ATTRACTIVE.
Heidi's Girls, alright. Call girls, sometimes.
But honest-to-goodness streetwalkers? They are NOT PRETTY. Just ask anyone who knows about the PCH Prostitute in Malibu.
Thank you.
(And I know hookers!)
Heidi's Girls, alright. Call girls, sometimes.
But honest-to-goodness streetwalkers? They are NOT PRETTY. Just ask anyone who knows about the PCH Prostitute in Malibu.
Thank you.
(And I know hookers!)
10.16.2006
A Word of Advice For Sales Persons
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.
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.
10.13.2006
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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