I will never understand what the world sees in Drew Barrymore. Just last night I commented to my husband that I just don't get her appeal. I mean, she's pretty and sexy and she has big boobs, but doesn't that describe 90% of the women in Hollywood? How she has achieved fame and a fan base, with her strange hair and clothing choices, I will never understand.
So today I saw a story about the cosmetic company Cover Girl celebrating its 50th anniversary, and there was Drew Barrymore among their spokesmodels, looking fantastic. I was surprised and intrigued, so I clicked on the article, and found more photos.
The second installment of the FOOLHOGG (Fooleryland Holiday Gift Guide). Sick to death of the same old Christmas music over and over -- or, even worse, new versions by musical lightweights who add nothing of value to an old standard (and probably ruin it)? Well, I am. So I was very surprised to hear excerpts from a holiday album that I actually wanted to buy.
And no, when I write "holiday album," I'm not being politically correct. You should know me better than that -- shame on you for thinking that!
The eclectic band Pink Martini is all about variety, flexibility and uniqueness. Nothing is as you'd expect. They're a little campy, sometimes old-fashioned, often very multicultural, and always extremely musical.
This album has a very sacred feel to it, whatever your beliefs may be. There is a gorgeous Hebrew prayer put to music that just about stops my heart every time I hear it. There is a song for new years from China, sung in Chinese and quite catchy. There are lyrics sung in Japanese, Arabic, French, German, Ukrainian, and yes, even English. This is not a Christmas album, really -- it's a holiday album in the best sense of the word. I downloaded my version but you can buy it from all of the usual suspects, including at the band's web site.
(As a bonus to my fellow NPR junkies, Ari Shapiro sings as a guest on two of the songs. It turns out he has a beautiful voice.)
You can read and hear the NPR interview, and three songs, here.
Suddenly I'm craving a martini. And stay tuned for the next FOOLHOGG!Whatever it's gonna be . . .
Date: 2010-08-08, 6:24PM PDT We have two photo enlargement machines, the one on the left is color and I am asking 55 for it the one on the right is blank and whit and i'm only asking 40. If you want them both I will do it for 100. Give me a call and make an offer. Ask for [NAME WITHHELD] my number is [NUMBER WITHHELD]
*Emphasis mine in bold and color. Otherwise, this is how the Craigslist ad ran.
another (mostly) No Punctuation Wednesday this time on a Monday and you don't mind do you
of course you don't because you tried as I tried to watch the Oscars last
night only to be pulled away by children or dinner or pets or the
police at the door or bellybutton lint or all kinds of things that
could conceivably distract a person from The Biggest Night Of
Television Spectacleness This Side Of Wall Street Week In Review.
Period.
But for some reason this year I did want to watch sort of like last year when I did want to watch so
I even set the DVR knowing in advance how those pesky children and
dinner and pets and police at the door and bellybutton lint could
perhaps change my plans
SO
I relaxed with a glass of wine and a slingshot and settled in to watch the debutantes ball (a phrase which improves without punctuation)
blah blah blah
I really laughed hard at Steve Martin recalling how he was born a poor
black child and saying that this audience was the Motherlode for Jew
Hunters* but YEEEEESH was
the audience drunk or too busy adjusting their wetsuits or too afraid
to laugh or just born without senses of humor because I thought the
silence was deafening and I even heard sort of booing and WHO BOOS
STEVE MARTIN YOU YAHOOS? (insert lots and lots of punctuation here)
and my favorite part of the whole evening is one of which try as I might I cannot find a photo ANYWHERE on the Internutz and I am really bummed because I so wanted to share with you
the image of a wall of lampshades behind Quentin Tarantino and Pedro Almodovar
and here is an almost photo of that
but so sorry it is barely discernible
and how weird
is that that my favorite part of the evening was brought to me courtesy
of the brilliant set designer architect David Rockwell insert question mark HERE
It's weird I know but if my DVR hadn't turned itself off TWICE during the show say it with me TWICE during the show so that I missed a whole fracking lot of it including all the important stuff she says with tongue firmly embedded in cheek then
I might have had another favorite moment to share with you other than the fabulous lamp wall okey dokie it is now time to finish something sane and useful so I leave you to your post-Oscar musings
and as always
THANK YOU for reading with or without punctuation
*that
is not as horrifying as it sounds when you know that he was referring
to the movie Inglorious Basterds and that is not spelled wrong either
and maybe I should just quit now
A few weeks ago in one afternoon I experienced extremes of customer service: the rare excellent and the less rare stink-up-the-place.
First,
the excellent customer service. I have been dragging my feet about
using recycled printer ink cartridges for lots of different reasons,
but my ink ran out suddenly in the middle of a job at work. I drove a
few blocks to Cartridge World, a local franchise, and bought a refilled
ink cartridge. If I liked it I planned to buy more, but this was a test.
It worked beautifully.
For three days.
Inexplicably, my printer stopped working and gave me a strange error message. So I called Cartridge World, where Jeff told me what to do, and asked me to call him back to keep him updated.
It didn't work.
I
drove back with my receipt and the offending ink cartridge in hand.
Jeff asked me numerous questions, explained what had likely happened,
then gave me not one but TWO replacement cartridges in trade. "For a
back-up, just in case," said Jeff.
I'm
happy to report the replacement ink cartridge has been working
perfectly for at least two weeks, but more important, Cartridge World's
customer service was fantastic. Jeff listened to me, solved my problem,
and effectively halved my cost for my trouble. This is how retail is
supposed to be.
But
I saw another side of retail customer service that day, and it was
pretty awful. I've wrestled with how to present this, because I didn't
want to smear an otherwise terrific company with whom I have been very
happy for years. So I will call themStinkbug.
Stinkbug
is a web-based full-service photo processing business -- prints,
calendars, photo books, photo storage, and more. I generally love
everything about them. But I had a problem and sent them a nice e-mail
-- not asking for anything, just telling them about the problem and
asking how to fix the problem. The answers I got were somewhat
defensive, decidedly canned, and ultimately unhelpful. Here are the
e-mail exchanges (all names but mine have been changed and all emphases
are mine):
and here was the response:
*Laurie here: THAT'S THE PROBLEM. The date did NOT show up on the proof or I would NOT have approved it!
Click on this one to open it so you can read it:
**Okay, is it just me, or was this REALLY SNOTTY? ***Here's
what's really funny about these instructions: I have been using the
latest version of Firefox since 1.0. This was not the problem. So,
am I just being silly, or would this have ticked you off, too? As far
as they are concerned I'm handled. They never checked back and I never
pushed it further. Next time, though -- if there IS a next time -- I
will be taking screen shots of the proof pages and I will NOT be paying
for their mistakes.
At least I still have the Chico Cartridge World -- *sigh* -- my new business crush.
Opera, in all its forms, requires the wholesale suspension of disbelief. Whether you're watching the 350-pound maiden play the coquette to drive all the boys mad . . .
(Photo stolen from these guys) or the witnessing the orotund, balding tenor as he sweats like a dock worker . . .
. . . we as the opera audience are asked to suspend our disbelief.
And so it was on Saturday morning when I joined my mom at our local theater for the latest Live in HD broadcast of the New York Metropolitan Opera. It was the first New York performance in decades of Giacomo Puccini's La Rondine (which is pronounced "La RON-dee-nay"). We suspended our disbelief that this late work of the master Puccini could be almost unknown. We suspended our disbelief that in the nightclub scene (Act II) the singers portraying the students, shopgirls and wanton women were more likely to be AARP members than Gen-Xers. And we suspended our disbelief that, at a time when the New York Metropolitan Opera is more vibrant than ever, embracing advanced technology to reach new audiences, and staging immensely talented performers (who also happen to be svelte and attractive) -- at this point in time, our local NPR affiliate, KCHO, has chosen to drop opera from its weekly line-up. Oh, the shame.
But enough soap-boxing for the moment . . . you came here for a story, right?
The story is pretty much the same story as told by that awful, awful song "Never Been to Me" from 1977, and if you have the stomach, here's a link. (I recommend laughing loudly as you watch in case there's anyone in your house who might think you enjoy that sort of thing.) In a nutshell, the heroine Magda is a kept woman who lives the high life in Paris, but does not love her wealthy banker lover Rambaldo. While she is comfortable and well entertained, Magda doesn't realize how unfulfilled her empty, loveless existence is, until she is reminded of a brief flirtation she had once, long ago, while she was still young and innocent. On a lark one spring evening Magda dresses in a simple and girlish dress and sneaks out to that same nightclub of her lost encounter, Bullier's.
Up until this point the opera has been surprisingly straightforward, with not too much monkey business. And, in fact, compared to most librettos, this one is rather unvarnished, even dull. Still, missed connections and a lot of people turning a blind eye allows Magda to pretend to be a young shopgirl named Paulette, and she almost gets away with it.
Fake Paulette meets a charming young student named Ruggero, and within minutes they are sucking face in public. Sounds pretty much like the nightclubs I went to in college, except that there didn't appear to be any beer bongs on stage. Unrelated: I successfully curbed my urge to yell, "GET A ROOM!"
This story takes place in 1920s Paris and the Riviera, and every vignette looks like a slightly modern Toulouse Lautrec painting, lively and lush.
On the stage, as in life, people don't usually get what they deserve. While nobody dies in La Rondine, and Puccini opts instead for a quiet, tragic defeat of the two lovers, the story is still terribly sad in the end.
La Rondine's stars are Italian tenor Roberto Alagna (a good twenty years older than his character Ruggero, but this is opera, so never mind),
(Photo stolen from these guys) and his real-life wife, Romanian soprano Angela Gheorghiu, who is -- gulp -- my age.
(Photo stolen from the Met) Their voices were beautiful together in the mid-ranges, but when they aimed their voices for the rafters Laurie mentally checked out a bit -- just a bit. The maid Lisette was played by an adorable young woman named, coincidentally, Lisette. She was a joy.
If you don't like a lot of kissing then you may want to skip this one, as Ruggero was a lusty bugger, and I think he may have gotten to second base with his Fake Paulette right there in front of God and everybody.
And here in the cultural jewel of the North Valley, as we would have you believe, it's getting harder instead of easier to hear live opera. Oh, the hand-wringing over lack of art and music in schools! Oh the finger-pointing in general. And yet, while in 2008 our local NPR station raised far more money than ever before, it chose to eliminate opera from the airwaves. Oh, the protesting.
While I understand that a public radio station is a business, whether it's a not-for-profit business or not, and KCHO can't air the Saturday Metropolitan Opera broadcast if no one wants to hear it, I still cry bullpucky! 'scuse my vulgarity. I accepted it, with sadness, when KCHO dropped the opera this year, because they said they needed to establish Saturday programming with a broad appeal.Bullpucky -- she did it again! I've been trying to listen on Saturdays, and the awful stuff they've replaced La Rondine, et al with is mostly unlistenable. I just can't see throngs of people lining up to hear third-rate folk and world music, which I like, in theory, but which has really stunk every time I've tuned in, and jeebus, don't we have ENOUGH folk music on Sundays?
So much for our claim to culture here in the North Valley. I can no longer suspend my disbelief.
If you have any interest in my previous opera reviews, which were much more fun and probably even less informed than this one, check out these links: La Fille du Régiment
I kid, I kid, because this truly was a wonderful experience, and I highly recommend going to see the command performance of La Rondine on January 21st (tickets can be purchased on-line or at your local theater).
Starting today, no weather guys, most especially Kris Kuyper, will be allowed to use the word "towards" due to extreme overuse.
"TOWARDS Monday, we should see a new system moving TOWARDS Eureka and
then heading TOWARDS Redding on Tuesday. But TOWARDS Wednesday look
for dry weather, carrying us TOWARDS a beautiful weekend."
Now I'm awake. "You DO? Aww, that's nice, Smed. Why?"
"Because when Grandma leaves us with Grandpa, she leaves us one cookie. And after she leaves, Grandpa gives us another one."
Chuckle. "Awww, that's sweet. You know, he --"
"And then he gives us ANOTHER one!"
Oh.
But cookie glut or no, Smedley and Sparky had to babysit Grandpa today, because TODAY was the big day: the day that Grandma and I, along with my uncle who drove up for the occasion, went to the see La Fille du Régiment, a comic opera by Gaetano Donizetti, as presented by the New York Metropolitan Opera. (At our local theater via live satellite simulcasting, not in New York City.)
I wore a little mascara, although I usually don't. This was my choice: That'd be the waterproof kind. Why? Because I knew I'd be crying like Sally Struthers as soon as the house light went down, that's why.
I was right, of course. As soon as the overture began the waterworks started. Oh well, all y'all know I'm a sap, and now my uncle and a whole crowd of bluehairs know it, too.
I fell in love with the conductor, Marco Armiliato, within seconds. I think I may need to have at least one of his children.
Later, I even fell a tiny bit in love with the funny, charming and talented baritone, "Sergeant Sulpice," who is in real life Alessandro Corbelli, and not Julia Child.
. . . maybe you've heard of him? Juan Diego Flórez, my new Secret Boyfriend.* Show stopper, heart stopper, can't-be-upstaged-by-anybody Juan Diego, *sigh*. While he did not do an encore in today's performance as he did on Monday night, his masterful singing tested my waterproof mascara over and over and over. The aria in the second act, in which he's down on one knee, nearly despondent, begging Marie's aunt not to marry Marie off to a wealthy nobleman -- all while singing -- had me so choked up I almost made pig noises trying not to sob. Well, I made one pig noise.
But really, I have developed a Girl Crush on Natalie Dessay. And so did
Every. Other. Person. In. That. Theater.
no matter what they might say. It was impossible not to.
She was fresh, vivacious, and hilarious -- when was the last time you heard someone describe opera as hilarious? not recently -- while simultaneously owning as beautiful and facile a voice as almost anyone, and that's saying something for me, since sopranos tend to annoy the pie out of me. Plus, how many big opera stars would wear a grungy wife-beater?
And this photo is from the scene in which Tonio (as played by My Secret Boyfriend Juan Diego) professes his love for Marie, who is now My Girl Crush. Marie managed to peel potatoes, for real, while she sang. Although in truth I would not have wanted to eat the potatoes she peeled.
The little boy lederhosen is not My Boyfriend's best look, even if he does have cute knees.
I could go on and on about the set design, replete with humorous touches; the marvelous supporting cast; and the music, which never once bored me, as operatic music sometimes can. But I won't say any more, because I figure if you've read this far, you're really just looking for my address so you can come murder me in my sleep. Sorry.
We shuffled out of the theater with the rest of the geriatrics, blinking into the bright April sunlight, sunglasses down to hide the tear tracks. Okay, that was probably just me. We drove home to rescue Grandpa from his two short cookie-loving babysitters. We stopped on the way to buy strawberries from the fruit stand. The end.
p.s. There is an encore performance Sunday, April 27th at most of the same theaters around the world where this played today. If you can, GO SEE IT. If you can't make it and are despondent and considering flinging yourself off of a cliff, DON'T. Instead, watch for news of another encore performance of La Fille du Régiment at the Metropolitan Opera's web site. They may just do it.
*With thanks and apologies to Mrs. G at Derfwad Manor, because the term "Secret Boyfriend" comes from her, I think.
No really! I'm so laid-back I sometimes have to remind myself to breathe. Listlessly.
You got me there.
So I'm about to exert myself here and suggest -- nay, INSIST! --
Nay?
that you treat yourself to a theater experience this weekend. Saturday. Saturday morning. THIS Saturday, not NEXT Saturday. I cannot stress this enough! THIS Saturday morning.
SO laid-back. Lighten up, Francis -- what's so special about THIS Saturday?
I'll tell you. You wanna know?
I wanna know.
Sure you can handle it?
Look, I'm losing interest here.
Okay.
EYE CANDY.
Oh, like we can't get that at the theater any time.
Okay, I'll give you that, but . . . EAR candy? What's with that?
I'm getting to that. Wait, I gotta find it . . . okay, HERE.
I am so sure. Opera? You want me to listen to OPERA?
C'mon, it'll be good for you. And besides, did you SEE that guy? Singing to you?
I'll say it again --
which is bested only by having a man -- THAT man, tenor Juan Diego Flórez -- sing to you in Italian, maybe . . . wearing silk . . . crap, where was I? oh yeah -- you HAVE to go to your local theater Saturday morning to see the live New York Metropolitan Opera performance of La Fille Du Regiment (The Daughter of the Regiment). It will be simulcast live, just as the opera is on Saturdays over the radio -- only this is video. But back to Mr. Wonderful. In his most famous aria "Ah! Mes Amis" Flórez hits nine high C's, which is one of the things which cemented Luciano Pavarotti's place in operatic history --
That and his shoe-black hair.
-- and the audience goes WILD every time. You can feel the electricity, and you just KNOW they're gonna give him a thunderous standing O when he's done. And they will, I promise. I could also entice you by saying that this is a fun and light-hearted, funny opera (no linebacker women in horned helmets here).
Natalie Dessay is delightful and cute as a bug's ear and will be thrilling (because she's frightfully up to the challenge of Donizetti's vocal acrobatics), and the sets, and the LIVE EDITING people -- LIVE EDITING! Tons of cameras and microphones that you can't see, LIVE! It's like the Oscars, only with SUBSTANCE and CLASS! and the music, and the costumes, and Donizetti . . .
You lost me there, chief.
Yeah, I know. Okay, so I'll just lean on this --
I mean, Jeebus, how much more do I need to say?
If you want to see Monday night's history-making performance by Mr. Hubba-Hubba above (that's Juan Diego Flórez) of “Ah! Mes Amis” -- go here or listen to it here. Or, type his name into Youtube.com, like I did, and sit back and cry like a baby, like I did.
Make sure they know that's Wimpy Laurie, and not Mean Laurie, doing all that crying.
Often on Saturday nights, after the girls have showered, when we're all just sitting around, Chas likes to give us something to be thankful for, to ratchet up our family's sense of well-being and gratitude. He turns the TV to a station that broadcasts people who are so much worse off than we are. We watch in silence, sometimes wincing at the painful scenes playing out in someone else's world. It isn't fun, it's rather grim, but we all feel so thankful not to be those poor, poor people.
Because you probably didn't spend your Saturday afternoon making soup and cleaning the kitchen with the radio on, I'll just bet you missed the Metropolitan Opera's NPR radio broadcast of Carmen, one of the most popular operas in the world. Well, I'd better explain it to you then. See, Carmen is a beautiful gypsy woman in Spain. She's rather trashy, but we don't hold it against her, because she's also a thief, and we do pretty much hold that against her. Think Cher.
That's closer, although I don't think they had collagen injections in those days. So Carmen works in a cigar factory and she meets a very handsome, though upright and proper, Don Jose, a soldier. How about Enrico Caruso?
. . . although I think he's a little young for Cher. Don Jose ignores the flirtatious Carmen, which, of course, makes her crazy, and she teases him. Lord, she's a shameless flirt.
So, of course Don Jose falls for her, and falls hard. Was it her beauty? Her voice? No, it couldn't have been her voice; remember "Half Breed"? Maybe it was her penchant for wearing rubber bands on aircraft carriers?
So. Don Jose runs off with Carmen, who really doesn't give a rip whether he does or doesn't, and -- hey, who's that sparkly NEW guy? The toreador Escamillo, va va VOOM!
. . . only not so swishy. One thing leads to another, yada yada yada, and Carmen is on Escamillo's arm going to the big fiesta. (She's probably trying to steal his wallet.) Don Jose shows up and is enraged to see the love of his life looking like a cheap floozy . . .
. . . so he does the only logical thing -- he stabs her. You'd kill her, too, if she sang like Cher. Oh, and there are some other people in this, too, and a LOT of singing. And great costumes by Bob Mackie, and really, really great music that you won't hear on Adult Contemporary 105.7, and not a word of English. Did I mention that the whole thing is in French? Yup. Carmen is a French opera about hot-blooded gypsies and Basques in Spain, as performed by an Armenian-American who pretends to be Cherokee.* The end.
I didn't even know Cher SPOKE French.*
*Neither Cher nor Bob Mackie had anything to do with Carmen, or any other music, for that matter.
I think it may be Oscar Weekend, but I'm not absolutely sure. I should have a ballot or something to follow along, just in case I actually watch the ceremony. I have a spotty history of Oscar viewing.
Maybe I should start with a list of the awards up for grabs . . . nahhhh, too time-consuming. I can remember the important ones.
Okay, here are my picks, based on my 2007 movie-going experience:
Best Supporting Actor: Anton Ego, "Ratatouille." (Graphic stolen from these guys)
Best Hair: Colette, "Ratatouille." (Graphic stolen from these guys)
Best Vermin: Remy, "Ratatouille." (Graphic stolen from this guy)
Best Use of Household Utensils in Unconventional and Endearing Fashion: Linguini, "Ratatouille." (Graphic stolen from this guy) Best Embodiment of Snooty Parisian in a Domestic Film: Skinner, "Ratatouille." (Graphic stolen from these guys)
Best High-End Cookware Appearing in a Domestic Film and NOT in My Sordid Feverish Domestic Dreams: Gusteau's Copper Pans, "Ratatouille." (Graphic stolen from this guy)
Folks, the votes are in, and that should tell you all you need to know about this year's Oscars, and about me. Happy Oscars! Merci beaucoup. Bon nuit.
This really says it all. I have no future as a writer, unless I'm willing to write Janet and mark episodes.
I am! I am! Janet, call me!
If you don't believe I rated that high, go here and check it out for yourself. Just paste in the address of the site you want to check. I'm just going to sit here and cry softly for a while.
Public art (the "f" is silent, by the way) fascinates me. Somewhere out there tonight, a city council or public arts committee is voting to approve a piece of public statuary. Once the vote goes through, the artist will diligently begin the production process. The finished work will be paid for with public funds.
Some of the finished pieces will be admired by most of the community. Some will even become known works of art, attracting visitors from far and wide. Some will look like these.
This is the Golden Driller (photo stolen from these guys).I'm not even gonna comment on the name. In case you missed his belt, he's from Tulsa, Oklahoma. I have no explanation for the tiny penguin in work clothes between the Driller's feet, but I think I might have preferred a 40-foot penguin, frankly.
"Typewriter Eraser, Scale X" (photo stolen fromthis guy). To be completely honest, I have no idea who paid for this, or why. This little lovely can be found in the art park adjacent to the National Archives in Washington, D.C. Apparently it is by Claes Oldenburg and Coosje van Bruggen, who were Very Important Artists who haunted the "happenings" of the 1960s. This is what was happening, apparently.
This one rather frightens me. It's somewhere in Ohio, and it must have great meaning for the people of the church cowering
in its long, scary shadow. This guytook the picture and he named it "Jesuszilla," which tickled a local or two. They left comments on the photographer's site indicating that the statue is locally known as "Cheesus," which tickled ME. I have no explanation for Jesus standing under a sprinkler, waist-deep in water. It kinda looks as if he's playing catch with the typewriter eraser above, however . . . how far apart are Washington D.C. and Somewhere In Ohio?
There is nothing I can (or should) say about this, except that it was once located outside the McDonald's in Edmundston, New Brunswick, Canada. O, Canada.
It is no longer there. I realize that it was not publicly-funded statuary, but privately-funded market-driven patio seating; still, I felt it fit in well with this group. Okay, I'll ask it -- where would YOU sit? (Photo stolen from these guys)
Which brings me to what started all of this in the first place. This is not news, mind you -- the sculpture I am about to show you was installed in the year 2000 -- but I never got my two cents in at the time (not then having a blog, and being fairly engrossed with plucking my eyebrows).
These are the Chico Hands (photo stolen fromThe official City of Chico Website).The sculpture is a granite and marble chip terrazzo, and the artist was Donna Billick (in case you want one of your own). From the text:
"Funding Source: Municipal Center Building construction budget Selection Process: Northern California request for qualifications. Selection panel consisting of arts professionals, community members and project manager." [This says "it's not only MY fault!" to me.]
There was no expenditure listed in the text; I checked. I know it's a matter of public record, but I'm sure they were just being modest, really, by omitting something like that. Well, how much would YOU pay for these hands? Don't answer -- WAIT! There's LESS!
Here's where you come in. There's no prize, other than my undying affection and simpering gratitude, but I'm hoping both of you will submit new names for these sculptures. Post them as comments. Think fun! Think children may be reading this (though probably not very BRIGHT children, obviously)! Think outside of the box, then get a big board and smash the snot outta that over-hyped box!
Dinner was over, and Chas and I were comfortably full and happy. We glided back down to the main floor, our senses shocked, as the elevator doors opened, by the sounds and smells of a very full and bustling Indian casino.
As we threaded our way through the throngs and the pinging machines, Chas yelled in my ear that he had never actually played slots before.
WHAT?!
Okay, now I was on a mission. Quarter, quarter, penny, HERE! Nope, false alarm, that's another quarter . . . ah, here's a nickel! We were standing among nickel slots. Now, lemme see . . . where's the coin slot? No coin slot. Oh, a bill feeder -- I get it. Chas pulled out a dollar and fed it in. 20 credits -- go!
20 credits -- gone. Well, not quite. 20 isn't divisible by three, and the machines bet three nickels at a time. When you get down to your last dime -- literally -- you are issued a paper credit which you have to cash in if you want the dime. I couldn't imagine what it would feel like to claim ten cents. I wouldn't let him cash it in even if he'd wanted to; I wanted the souvenir.
By now it was almost time to find the concert venue. We were early, but neither of us really likes gambling, so we might as well go in. We found our seats and watched people until the show started.
The show -- wow! What a performer Al Green is. After thinking about it for a few days I realized it was just as much tent revival as concert, and audience participation was just as much a part of the night as music. Now in his 60s, Reverend Al can't sing nonstop and full throttle as I believe he used to do, so he paced his show nicely to give his voice breaks. He frequently interrupted his own singing to rally the audience, or tease us, or change things up -- all, I'm sure, to pace his voice. You would, too, if you were famous for a dolphin-frequency squeal that even my 4-year-old daughter couldn't do. That's gotta hurt, but you know what? Reverend Al can still do it! And he did it again and again.
Grandma is just getting the kids to sleep now . . . wonder if they brushed their teeth . . .
Al did all the hits you'd want him to -- Tired of Being Alone, Let's Stay Together, Let's Get Married, How Can You Mend a Broken Heart, and Here I Am -- and ended with Love and Happiness. He threw in a few bars of the most unexpected version of Amazing Grace I've ever heard, playing it in a S - L - O - W 12/8 time, and pretty much letting the audience figure it out and take it over, before he charged off in another direction. I missed only Call Me and I'm Still In Love With You from his big, big hits. But he did a kind of medley of great soul/R&B songs from the early 70s that were as good as or better than the originals. His version of Marvin Gaye's Let's Get It On was the best I've ever heard, because he leaned on and almost acted out the words; it was like I heard them for the first time.
His band was as good as they could be. There were 10 musicians, including a horn section; two female back-up singers; and two very young men dancing on alternate songs. Green began featuring each of the players on the first song, which I've never heard any performer do, but again I think it had more to do with resting his voice than anything. Still, he was a generous and appreciative band leader, which brings me to my last observation: he wore white gloves on stage. I was transfixed trying to figure out what he was going to do with those, until I realized that he was doing it already: he was actually leading the band, not just fronting it, and the gloves ensured that his hand signals could be seen against the hot stage lights. The man directed, choreographed and controlled everything that happened, and he knows what he's doing. I'd go see him again in a heartbeat.
Chas and I had fun making silly comments to each other throughout, as usual, only it wasn't easy, since we had to yell into the other's ear. At one point we both swooped in to make the same observation at the same moment, cracking skulls in spectacular graceless fashion. Nerdy parents really shouldn't be allowed out on dates.
Poor Reverend Al was losing his voice from the air conditioning, and after an hour and a quarter or so, maybe a little more, the show was over. We joined the milling crowds pouring onto the escalator back up to the slot machines, and the date was over.
We didn't get lost on the way home, our babysitter didn't invite her boyfriend over for the evening, we weren't pulled over for speeding, and there was no awkwardness about a goodnight kiss. Other than that little lingerie debacle in the bathroom, how could I have done better than that?
Standing in a stall of a public restroom, stripped to the waist, fumbling with a bra -- this is NOT how I expected this night to go. It had all started normally enough . . .
"Do you have the tickets?"
"Yes."
"Do you know where we're going?"
"Yes."
This conversation typifies conversations with Chas: my six words to his one.
We were on our way to our date, driving BACK to Chico -- didn't I just flee this town an hour ago? -- and beyond to the town of Oroville, and the Gold Country Casino. We'd been clutching tickets to see Al Green -- yay Al Green! -- for about a month, and the night was FINALLY here. I wore my favorite orange sundress, and don't you judge me for wearing summer clothes after Labor Day; it's still hot around here. The dress has this complicated crossing strap system, so naturally I had complicated matters even more by taking my bra apart and crossing the straps. Brilliant!
Somehow (and I won't tell you how, to protect the guilty) we got lost on the only freeway to Oroville. Half an hour lost. Our 5:30 dinner reservation, which would have been tough to be on time for under perfect conditions, was dust in the wind. But I had heard that the restaurant was worth seeing, so up we went in the elevator to the sixth floor, expecting only to get a glimpse of the place and apologize for being idiots, then leave. Yes, the restaurant was lovely, designed in descending tiers, like a wedding cake, so that every table has a view (although the late afternoon heat made the blinds necessary). But surprise! The maitre d' was exceptionally accommodating, considering our tardiness and the busy night, and got us a table by the window.
The Steak House menu was somewhere between straightforward and arty, which is a good place to be. As we looked everything over I was so glad we had the $100 gift card I'd been given by a very kind and connected business associate. And, in case you think this kind of date was too good to be true for a goof like me, you're right. I had to mess things up, so it was my bra straps. They were clearly out to see and be seen. Chas's eyes kept drifting down to my shoulders, so finally I had to bolt for the bathroom, strip to my waist (not what I usually like to do in public restrooms), and fix things. I was hoping that the casino didn't have security cameras in that bathroom, but really not caring enough to live with crazy bra straps.
All better.
Back to dinner. We both ordered the seared rare ahi tuna, served on a sea of wasabi cream sauce with lovely vegetables and something red mixed in; I wasn't paying attention. But it was divine, if you like raw fish, and I do. A slab of almost-raw fish as thick as your wrist is something to work up to, but I recommend it for the adventurous.
Cocktails were excellent, service was exceptional -- am I destined to fall down the stairs? Because this is just WAY more good stuff than I'm used to, OR deserve. We left a healthy tip for Candace and Josh, who gave superlative service. They DO deserve good stuff.
Hmmmm, kidlets will be brushing their teeth at Grandma's house about now . . .
I'm all done wallowing now. I think I've gotten it out of my system.
Saturday morning I cleaned the kitchen after brunch (we girls were feeding cows and cats this weekend, so we ate late breakfasts). At 10:00 on KCHO, our local NPR affiliate, a special 2-hour program dedicated to Luciano Pavarotti came on. I was glad to have lots of dishes and pans to clean, and some cooking to do.
The program had been created in 2005 to honor Pavarotti on his 70th birthday. Most of the discussion dealt with his career history, and was therefore in the past tense, but every once in a while the present tense would sneak into a sentence (he was alive and well when the program was recorded), and it was startling.
Two glorious hours of the most impressive of Pavarotti's lifetime of performances, each one more fantastic than the last. From the effervescent and playful "La Donna è Mobile" (the Duke's aria from Rigoletto), to Schubert's reverent Panis Angelicus, to his signature aria "Nessun Dorma" from Puccini's "Turandot," I was a blubbering fool. As I have said before, Pavarotti's voice always brings tears to my eyes, but I just needed a good wallow, I guess.
The most striking contradiction about the man hit me between the eyes as I fussed about my kitchen inventing things to clean: Pavarotti was known for his crystal clear singing voice and superb diction, but it didn't extend to his speaking voice. Radio provides no visuals to distract the listener, so I simply closed my eyes and listened to recorded interviews with the man.
He was a mush-mouth.
Maybe that's not fair, because English is not his first language, and I have no way to judge his Italian diction. But listening to his spoken words pour out of my radio, I expected them to reverberate like bells off of my kitchen walls, or dance through the room like refracted light. They didn't. They hit the floor with a thud like cold oatmeal.
How could a man with so much verve and energy on stage express himself in such sodden tones when speaking? Perhaps he was ever protecting his voice, but come on, man, how about a little expression? I pictured Don Corleone on cold medicine. With a lisp, I might add.
Still, as I scrubbed my sink I got to hear Pavarotti's famous 1972 performance of "Ah Mes Amis" (from "La Fille du Regiment") at the New York Metropolitan Opera, in which he nailed nine high C's, seemingly without effort. The Olympic equivalent would be nine back-to-back perfect 10s. He had to take 17 curtain calls that night. And to hear him sing a high F (F5) above the high C was transcendent.
I'm glad his funeral has come and gone, because I couldn't take one more tribute show, although I'm sure I'd tune in anyway. It was beginning to bug me that a whole generation knows him as the fat guy who sang with Sting and U2 and (oh God) the Spice Girls. His choice to mix with the rabble was probably good for opera, but it diminished him. But I never really minded -- I just refused to listen to such drab music.
So I have a clean kitchen and red puffy eyes, and two mystified daughters. I need a vacation.
I was given a gift at birth which I have wasted, mostly. I have a very good ear
-- for music, and accents, and pronunciations. While I do enjoy some aspects of
my gift, especially mimicry, I was never interested enough to do the hard work
necessary to develop my gift into even a minor talent.
My mother has perfect pitch.
If she hears a note she can tell you whether it's an A flat or an F sharp. I
have a lesser version of her gift, called relative pitch. I can hear a G natural
in my mind at any time, and I use it as my touchstone, to determine other notes
in relation to my G. Every once in a while I think I can identify a note other
than G, and I'm right only about a third of the time.
The upside of such
gifts includes the ability to tune guitars easily, which I used to do with ease.
If you have a good ear and you happen to be a singer, I suppose you can keep
yourself in tune.
The downside of a good ear is not often discussed, but
Mom and I know it well. Imagine you're in a room full of people listening to
Natalie Merchant, or post-retirement Frank Sinatra. Look around the room as
Frank stretches lazily to reach a high note he used to hit with ease -- people
may be singing along, tapping their toes, lost in a reverie. Not Mom and me.
We're cringing in pain. I steal a glance at Mom, and she's suffering. "Pull it
up, Frank!" I'm screaming in my brain.
Natalie Merchant is even worse -- she
maintains a constant flatness that is rare even by today's low standards. I
can't listen to her for longer than a couple of minutes.
Friday morning I
was getting ready for work, listening to the various inanities of the morning
news. As I brushed my teeth just around the corner from the television, I heard
a Best Foods Mayonnaise commercial which used a jaunty pop instrumental behind
the voice over. "That sounds like 'Beach Baby,'" I thought, annoyed that I knew
that song in the first place. Listening again, I realized that the descending
chords may indeed have been a rip-off of that awful pop song from -- was it the
late 70s? trying to sound like the mid-60s? -- but "Beach Baby" ripped it off
from Pachelbel's Canon in Dfirst. I went to the piano and played the familiar descending
chords, bile rising in my gullet.
Chas walked up just then, not saying
anything, but shooting me a "what are you doing NOW" look. I played the familiar
chords for him, and said, "Pachelbel's Canon, right?" Then I played it again and
sang along with it, "Do you remember back in old L.A., oh-oh-oh . . ."
GROAN. Chas shook his head and walked away. I know he thinks his wife is a nut job.
There's a certain smug satisfaction in hearing the "bones" of a
song, and realizing where you heard it first (whether or not the songwriter even knew
he was heavily borrowing). But most of the time it's a burden. From the
physical discomfort I feel when Frank Sinatra or Barbra Streisand can't . . . quite . . . make . . . that high note, to the big fat bummer of forever hearing
"Beach Baby" in my mind as a bride glides down the aisle to Pachelbel's Canon,
sometimes a gift is not a gift, it's a curse.
Here's a sample of "Beach
Baby" so now you'll share my curse, too.
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