One of the admittedly guilty pleasures we missed when we moved from Los Angeles to Asheville was Gelson’s salad bar. Gelson’s is a grocery store chain in Southern California, and we had one a few blocks from our old house. Since I’ve been back in Los Angeles, I’ve hit the Gelson’s salad bar a couple of times a week. I don’t know how to explain it, exactly. It’s not a huge selection. It just has everything I want, in the size, quantity and combination that I want it. The only problem is you have to pay by weight. My beloved grilled tofu cubes are surprisingly heavy and make for an expensive salad.
But there’s a funny sort of phenomena around the salad bar, and I was aware of it before we moved. I’d just forgotten about it, until I returned and started building my favorite salad again. I call it “Salad Rage.” It’s similar to road rage in that someone gets behind you, follows you very closely, in a very aggressive manner, then does something crazy and hostile. Believe it or not, this happens at the salad bar on a regular basis. I’m not slow. I get my container. I know what I want. I get the same thing every time. But no matter how fast I move along the line, there’s ALWAYS someone behind me who simply must get through the salad line faster.
Often, if there’s a line, I’ll go pick up other things I need, then come back to the bar. But even when there’s no one in sight, someone inevitably gets in line right behind me. I’ve been non-gender specific in my descriptions so far, but in the interest of full disclosure, I have to confess: It’s always a woman (or women). And it’s a very specific kind of woman. She’s in her 40s, well-dressed, alone, and I am in her way, an obstacle or symbol of everything she despises. She will shake her head and reach across me to snatch the tongs. She will sigh and stamp her little designer shoes. More often than not, I take a step back and let her pass, which only serves to enrage her more. The other night, I did that, and one of the angry salad ragers barked, “Am I in your way!?” Completely missing the fact that I was moving for her benefit.
I don’t know who these angry salad women are, or what’s happened in their lives to make them in such a hurry at the salad bar, resentful of anyone they see as blocking their access to the baby corn. I smile, I stand back, I get out of the way, all the while dreaming of picking up the vat of honey mustard dressing and dumping it over her furious, but well-coiffed head. I never encountered any salad rage women in Asheville. I wonder if it’s just an L.A. thing? Or maybe we just didn’t go to the angry salad bars there. There were never any women at all around the Ingles salad bar, but that might be because it was mostly a meat bar.
Around 4 or 5 o’clock in the workday, I start thinking about dinner and my Gelson’s salad. Are the angry salad women there already, waiting for me? Wondering where the jerk who takes all the grilled tofu is? Do they wait in the parking lot, texting each other on their BlackBerrys and Sidekicks, announcing my arrival? And could attacking someone with a vat of salad dressing really be considered assault?
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Saturday, August 22, 2009
On the Arkham Express
Since I've been back in Los Angeles, I've spent a lot of time on public transportation. And public transportation in Los Angeles is something you have to commit to. You can't be half-hearted about it. When I first moved here, I relied on public transportation for years. And if you've ever done the same, you know it's an adjustment. It changes the way you do things. You have to plan errands more carefully. You can't buy more than you can carry. And there are some places that you just can't get to.
Since returning to L.A. and public transportation, I've noticed a dramatic shift in the demographic on board. I'd estimate that it's about 40% working poor and students, 20% foreign tourists and 40% mentally ill. And it's this rise in the number of mentally ill people riding the rails that has me concerned. How does it happen? How has this become the only option for people? I'm left to wonder where their families are? Do the families not know how to care for them, can't afford to, or simply don't want to? So they give them bus and rail passes and send them out every day to become the responsibility of bus drivers and fellow passengers?
I'm certainly not suggesting that mentally ill people shouldn't be allowed access to public transportation. But the people I encounter on a daily basis, on every single vehicle I'm on, need help. They rave, they shout, they threaten, they cry. Those with lesser maladies insult, provoke and mock those around them or carry on one-sided conversations with themselves. I've witnessed enough of these conversations to know they always end in shouting matches. It's best to move away before they get too heated. My fellow passengers are enormously patient. The turn away. They ignore the shouting, the insults. They seem to recognize when people are ill, and they let it go.
Or maybe I've got it all wrong. Maybe the people I think are mentally ill are really highly functional people who go to jobs or outpatient services, and only lose it once they find themselves in the confined space of a subway train or a bus. I just read a great graphic novel called Arkham Asylum: Living Hell, which is all about the mental institution where Batman drops off his enemies. This particular story is about a perfectly sane (if not altogether nice) guy who cops an insanity plea instead of doing hard time. Once he's in Arkham, it doesn't take long for a white-collar criminal to turn into a raving supervillain.
Which makes me wonder. How long before I turn into one of the inmates on the Red Line? Will it happen gradually? Or will I just snap one day? Not long ago, a guy got on the subway, dressed head to toe in black, with a black trench coat, black hat and sunglasses. He strode up and down the aisle, yelling, "I wear a disguise so I can insult women without fear!" Then a couple of weeks ago, a woman got on and began describing in detail (at the top of her voice) the sexual prowess of all the different races of men she's slept with. I couldn't help thinking those two might hit it off, if they could just get on the same train.
MTA has finally started installing turnstiles in the subway stations. Boarding has always been on the honor system, believe it or not. Part of me is relieved, because it might cut down on the number of transient and mentally ill people who just wander on and off the trains. But it worries me, too. If public transportation has become a safe refuge for the frightened and disenfranchised, where will they go if their access is blocked? And why do I seem to be the only one who cares?
Since returning to L.A. and public transportation, I've noticed a dramatic shift in the demographic on board. I'd estimate that it's about 40% working poor and students, 20% foreign tourists and 40% mentally ill. And it's this rise in the number of mentally ill people riding the rails that has me concerned. How does it happen? How has this become the only option for people? I'm left to wonder where their families are? Do the families not know how to care for them, can't afford to, or simply don't want to? So they give them bus and rail passes and send them out every day to become the responsibility of bus drivers and fellow passengers?
I'm certainly not suggesting that mentally ill people shouldn't be allowed access to public transportation. But the people I encounter on a daily basis, on every single vehicle I'm on, need help. They rave, they shout, they threaten, they cry. Those with lesser maladies insult, provoke and mock those around them or carry on one-sided conversations with themselves. I've witnessed enough of these conversations to know they always end in shouting matches. It's best to move away before they get too heated. My fellow passengers are enormously patient. The turn away. They ignore the shouting, the insults. They seem to recognize when people are ill, and they let it go.
Or maybe I've got it all wrong. Maybe the people I think are mentally ill are really highly functional people who go to jobs or outpatient services, and only lose it once they find themselves in the confined space of a subway train or a bus. I just read a great graphic novel called Arkham Asylum: Living Hell, which is all about the mental institution where Batman drops off his enemies. This particular story is about a perfectly sane (if not altogether nice) guy who cops an insanity plea instead of doing hard time. Once he's in Arkham, it doesn't take long for a white-collar criminal to turn into a raving supervillain.
Which makes me wonder. How long before I turn into one of the inmates on the Red Line? Will it happen gradually? Or will I just snap one day? Not long ago, a guy got on the subway, dressed head to toe in black, with a black trench coat, black hat and sunglasses. He strode up and down the aisle, yelling, "I wear a disguise so I can insult women without fear!" Then a couple of weeks ago, a woman got on and began describing in detail (at the top of her voice) the sexual prowess of all the different races of men she's slept with. I couldn't help thinking those two might hit it off, if they could just get on the same train.
MTA has finally started installing turnstiles in the subway stations. Boarding has always been on the honor system, believe it or not. Part of me is relieved, because it might cut down on the number of transient and mentally ill people who just wander on and off the trains. But it worries me, too. If public transportation has become a safe refuge for the frightened and disenfranchised, where will they go if their access is blocked? And why do I seem to be the only one who cares?
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Right Back Where I Started From
It all happened very fast. It took less than two weeks total, and here I am. Back in Los Angeles. Back at work. It was a difficult decision, fraught with emotional pitfalls and uncharted territory. In the end, practicality won out. Let's face it. Despite my obvious brilliance, I don't get many job offers, so I couldn't really turn this one down. Three to six months. Which doesn't sound too long, really.
Plus, it will be interesting to experience the other side of the story now. I left Los Angeles, moved to Asheville. Now what? Have I changed? Writers have always written about their locations and attributed great power to sense of place and environment. Did I take a bit of Los Angeles to Asheville? And now, will I bring a bit of Asheville here?
In a stroke of universal synchronicity, it was 15 years ago this month...this week, actually...that I first moved to L.A. Miraculously, I only aged 5 years in all that time, but my circumstances have changed considerably since I showed up here, so happy to have finally made it to the promised land. So all the elements are in place for a surprisingly layered homecoming. Yet...
If home is indeed where the heart is, then I am, in all regards, homeless, because Michael's not here. We've actually never been separated for more than a few days at a time. That's the hardest part. And whenever I allow myself to think about it for very long, this whole thing just seems crazy. So I can't let myself think about it. There's work to keep me occupied and lots to do in Los Angeles. And friends to see. And comic cons to plan and attend. And blog posts to write. Time will undoubtedly fly by, as it always does.
Now, to celebrate my return, I'm going to Leonor's Vegetarian Restaurant in the ShOaks for my favorite fake pizza. It's completely vegan, and I have no idea what's in it or how they do it, but it's delicious!
Plus, it will be interesting to experience the other side of the story now. I left Los Angeles, moved to Asheville. Now what? Have I changed? Writers have always written about their locations and attributed great power to sense of place and environment. Did I take a bit of Los Angeles to Asheville? And now, will I bring a bit of Asheville here?
In a stroke of universal synchronicity, it was 15 years ago this month...this week, actually...that I first moved to L.A. Miraculously, I only aged 5 years in all that time, but my circumstances have changed considerably since I showed up here, so happy to have finally made it to the promised land. So all the elements are in place for a surprisingly layered homecoming. Yet...
If home is indeed where the heart is, then I am, in all regards, homeless, because Michael's not here. We've actually never been separated for more than a few days at a time. That's the hardest part. And whenever I allow myself to think about it for very long, this whole thing just seems crazy. So I can't let myself think about it. There's work to keep me occupied and lots to do in Los Angeles. And friends to see. And comic cons to plan and attend. And blog posts to write. Time will undoubtedly fly by, as it always does.
Now, to celebrate my return, I'm going to Leonor's Vegetarian Restaurant in the ShOaks for my favorite fake pizza. It's completely vegan, and I have no idea what's in it or how they do it, but it's delicious!
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
A Whole Year in Asheville
Today marks our one-year anniversary in Asheville. When we left Los Angeles last year, friends assured us that a year would fly by, and it has. We had a long list of trips, adventures and goals on our agenda when we started, and we've done a pretty good job of getting through them. Going in, I thought we'd do everything we wanted to do within the first couple of months, then be bored for the rest of the year. What I didn't expect was how completely the people here would accept us and integrate us into their lives.
I've learned a lot about myself over the past year, some good and some bad. I've always been an outsider and an observer. Part of that comes from being a writer and part of it is a protection device. Michael is the kind of person who jumps into any situation, eyes wide open, arms outstretched. I tend to hang back, watch for a while, figure out who the players are, what dangers are in store, then slowly ease into the situation. This fundamental difference has always been there, but didn't become so obvious and so, well, problematic, until every situation we were in was brand new.
I have made an effort over the past year to be less reserved and more open in new situations. But I know I'll never be the sort of person who just vomits myself all over new people, and I've come to forgive myself for that and own it. If it takes you a year to get to know me, that's fine with me. If you give up an hour or so into it, that's fine, too. I understand.
The people we have met here, those who have befriended us, have been incredible. While I always view new people with suspicion, the people of Asheville embraced us right away and welcomed us into their homes, their families and their lives. While our novelty as the new guys in town has worn off, their friendship has remained, and I am humbled by that and grateful. It makes me wonder how I would even begin to do the same for someone new to Los Angeles. We would get new neighbors from time to time back in L.A., and I realize now that the most I ever did was nod to them on my way to and from work.
When we were back in L.A. recently, a friend stood us up for dinner and wasn't answering his phone. We sat in the restaurant, trying to figure out what to do. A year ago, I'm sure I would have just shrugged and ordered without him. After months in Asheville, though, where neighbors check on each other and bring over cake, I decided we needed to go to his house and check on him, to make sure he wasn't hurt. It was an unexpected practical application of what I've learned here, in the land where hearts are on sleeves most of the time.
(But just a word about the cake. The first time a neighbor brought over baked goods, we couldn't bring ourselves to eat it, convinced a stranger bringing us something must have some sinister intention. "Clearly, she wants to poison us, so some nice heterosexual family will move in when we're gone." We got over that quickly, though, because, you know, it's cake.)
One thing I didn't learn here, because I knew it all along, is that I'm not the outdoorsy type. The scenery here is gorgeous, and I love looking at it...from a distance or from the car. I don't want to be in the scenery. I don't want to camp or hike or splash in waterfalls or swimmin' holes. A lot of people move to Asheville to do all that stuff. I did not. I've given all these things a try since being here, and I didn't experience any sort of epiphany, except the confirmation that, no, I'm not the outdoorsy type. I know it's like moving to L.A. and proclaiming you don't like sunshine. But that's the way it is. Plus, my misery makes everyone else miserable, and that's no fun. The big drawback to my refusal to be in the great outdoors is that there's no one to look out for Michael and to tell him not to jump off cliffs or pick up rattlesnakes. So, he's on his own. I will make sure his insurance card is tacked to his shirt before he goes out, though.
Right now, the immediate future is clear. We're staying in Asheville a while longer. The non-immediate future is less clear. A year ago, that would have bothered me more than it does now. Whenever people ask me why we moved, I always say we wanted to have an adventure. How many people get to just take off and try something so completely different and new? It sounds grand. But what do you do after the adventure? Go back home? Go somewhere else? Stay where you are? What happens next? I guess that's the next adventure.
I've learned a lot about myself over the past year, some good and some bad. I've always been an outsider and an observer. Part of that comes from being a writer and part of it is a protection device. Michael is the kind of person who jumps into any situation, eyes wide open, arms outstretched. I tend to hang back, watch for a while, figure out who the players are, what dangers are in store, then slowly ease into the situation. This fundamental difference has always been there, but didn't become so obvious and so, well, problematic, until every situation we were in was brand new.
I have made an effort over the past year to be less reserved and more open in new situations. But I know I'll never be the sort of person who just vomits myself all over new people, and I've come to forgive myself for that and own it. If it takes you a year to get to know me, that's fine with me. If you give up an hour or so into it, that's fine, too. I understand.
The people we have met here, those who have befriended us, have been incredible. While I always view new people with suspicion, the people of Asheville embraced us right away and welcomed us into their homes, their families and their lives. While our novelty as the new guys in town has worn off, their friendship has remained, and I am humbled by that and grateful. It makes me wonder how I would even begin to do the same for someone new to Los Angeles. We would get new neighbors from time to time back in L.A., and I realize now that the most I ever did was nod to them on my way to and from work.
When we were back in L.A. recently, a friend stood us up for dinner and wasn't answering his phone. We sat in the restaurant, trying to figure out what to do. A year ago, I'm sure I would have just shrugged and ordered without him. After months in Asheville, though, where neighbors check on each other and bring over cake, I decided we needed to go to his house and check on him, to make sure he wasn't hurt. It was an unexpected practical application of what I've learned here, in the land where hearts are on sleeves most of the time.
(But just a word about the cake. The first time a neighbor brought over baked goods, we couldn't bring ourselves to eat it, convinced a stranger bringing us something must have some sinister intention. "Clearly, she wants to poison us, so some nice heterosexual family will move in when we're gone." We got over that quickly, though, because, you know, it's cake.)
One thing I didn't learn here, because I knew it all along, is that I'm not the outdoorsy type. The scenery here is gorgeous, and I love looking at it...from a distance or from the car. I don't want to be in the scenery. I don't want to camp or hike or splash in waterfalls or swimmin' holes. A lot of people move to Asheville to do all that stuff. I did not. I've given all these things a try since being here, and I didn't experience any sort of epiphany, except the confirmation that, no, I'm not the outdoorsy type. I know it's like moving to L.A. and proclaiming you don't like sunshine. But that's the way it is. Plus, my misery makes everyone else miserable, and that's no fun. The big drawback to my refusal to be in the great outdoors is that there's no one to look out for Michael and to tell him not to jump off cliffs or pick up rattlesnakes. So, he's on his own. I will make sure his insurance card is tacked to his shirt before he goes out, though.
Right now, the immediate future is clear. We're staying in Asheville a while longer. The non-immediate future is less clear. A year ago, that would have bothered me more than it does now. Whenever people ask me why we moved, I always say we wanted to have an adventure. How many people get to just take off and try something so completely different and new? It sounds grand. But what do you do after the adventure? Go back home? Go somewhere else? Stay where you are? What happens next? I guess that's the next adventure.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Somewhere That's Green
We returned from our vacation in Mexico and our trip to Los Angeles to find Asheville transformed. When we left, there were but a few signs of spring. When we awoke the morning after our arrival, we found a green canopy covering the yard and mountains that can only be described as lush. (Which, coincidentally, is how I'm often described, as well.)
Somehow I don't remember it being this green last year. We had just gotten used to seeing the other houses across the lake, and now they're completely obscured by the trees again. All the rain we've been getting has helped, I'm sure. Though Henry doesn't like it. The low rumbling sounds of thunder just send him over the edge. Poor Michael was up with him most of last night, because the thunder makes Henry so anxious and nutty, which then makes us anxious and nutty.
They're both asleep in the living room now, no rainclouds in sight. Though, I'm sure that will change by this afternoon.
I'm not sure if it's spring fever or post-vacation malaise, but I'm finding it hard to get motivated and do everything I need to do. I'm not only walking by the empty suitcases every day, saying, "Eh, I'll put 'em away later," but I seem to be walking by everything else, as well. I'm sure I'll snap out of it sooner or later.
This afternoon is the first Downtown After Five of the season, which is a monthly street festival during the summer. Maybe some music, drinks and social activity will snap me out of my doldrums.
I have a zillion photos to upload, so I'll try to get to work on that this weekend. If not, you'll at least know that I'm very earnestly thinking about doing it.
Somehow I don't remember it being this green last year. We had just gotten used to seeing the other houses across the lake, and now they're completely obscured by the trees again. All the rain we've been getting has helped, I'm sure. Though Henry doesn't like it. The low rumbling sounds of thunder just send him over the edge. Poor Michael was up with him most of last night, because the thunder makes Henry so anxious and nutty, which then makes us anxious and nutty.
They're both asleep in the living room now, no rainclouds in sight. Though, I'm sure that will change by this afternoon.
I'm not sure if it's spring fever or post-vacation malaise, but I'm finding it hard to get motivated and do everything I need to do. I'm not only walking by the empty suitcases every day, saying, "Eh, I'll put 'em away later," but I seem to be walking by everything else, as well. I'm sure I'll snap out of it sooner or later.
This afternoon is the first Downtown After Five of the season, which is a monthly street festival during the summer. Maybe some music, drinks and social activity will snap me out of my doldrums.
I have a zillion photos to upload, so I'll try to get to work on that this weekend. If not, you'll at least know that I'm very earnestly thinking about doing it.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Pearls Before Swine Flu
Greetings from Mexico! Really. As is often the case, we booked our vacation to coincide with a disaster. We're in Cancun for a week, before heading to Los Angeles for a couple of days. It is beautiful here and (fingers crossed) we're all safe and healthy.
What is particularly striking about this outbreak is that there are just no reliable numbers yet. The media would have us believe it's the end of the world, but the World Health Organization has really only attributed 20-some deaths to the swine flu virus here in Mexico. And none in the US.
So, we're going to continue to enjoy the sand and the sun, until we're told to evacuate or that we've been quarantined.
However, since it's a resort full of gay guys, I'm looking forward to the quarantine drink specials and theme parties.
Hasta luego!
What is particularly striking about this outbreak is that there are just no reliable numbers yet. The media would have us believe it's the end of the world, but the World Health Organization has really only attributed 20-some deaths to the swine flu virus here in Mexico. And none in the US.
So, we're going to continue to enjoy the sand and the sun, until we're told to evacuate or that we've been quarantined.
However, since it's a resort full of gay guys, I'm looking forward to the quarantine drink specials and theme parties.
Hasta luego!
Monday, April 13, 2009
A Long, Strange Week
Last weekend was sunny and 72, and I got a sunburn. Not while hiking or working in the yard, but while having brunch. We went to Sunny Point and decided to sit outside. I wasn't expecting to sit outside or I would have slathered on my usual dose of SPF 50. Despite my Native American heritage, I am a white, white person, and burn like flash paper in the sun. So that was Saturday.
On Monday, it was snowing.
Locals kept telling us to expect one more freak snowstorm to kill or stunt the Spring growth. I thought they were crazy. Well, I was wrong. It snowed for two days, then melted. By Wednesday, the rains began. In the midst of all this, I was also trying to do the aforementioned yard work. We still have leaves to rake and bag, and somehow actual limbs have fallen out of the trees over the winter and are scattered all over the yard. In between the snowing and raining, I attempted to cut up some of the limbs with a saw I pulled out of the garage. That's when our elderly female neighbor informed me I was using a drywall saw on the trees. I didn't even know we owned a drywall saw. We've never cut any drywall.
Luckily, it started raining again, so I was spared the embarrassment of further sawing. Cut to this past weekend, which was sunny and 72. Brunch rolled around again, and I slathered on the SPF 50 to protect my pink and now-peeling face.
We sat inside.
Figures.
On Monday, it was snowing.
Locals kept telling us to expect one more freak snowstorm to kill or stunt the Spring growth. I thought they were crazy. Well, I was wrong. It snowed for two days, then melted. By Wednesday, the rains began. In the midst of all this, I was also trying to do the aforementioned yard work. We still have leaves to rake and bag, and somehow actual limbs have fallen out of the trees over the winter and are scattered all over the yard. In between the snowing and raining, I attempted to cut up some of the limbs with a saw I pulled out of the garage. That's when our elderly female neighbor informed me I was using a drywall saw on the trees. I didn't even know we owned a drywall saw. We've never cut any drywall.
Luckily, it started raining again, so I was spared the embarrassment of further sawing. Cut to this past weekend, which was sunny and 72. Brunch rolled around again, and I slathered on the SPF 50 to protect my pink and now-peeling face.
We sat inside.
Figures.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Phoneless in Los Angeles
The week in LA went by in a flash. My cell phone died on day two of the trip, which left me feeling strangely lost and isolated. No one could call me; I couldn't call anyone. All I could do was text. The friend I was staying with had no land line, and my attempts to find a payphone I would be willing to touch without gloves proved impossible. So I was in Los Angeles, but cut off from the rest of the world.
Besides the communication problems, I had a blast. I was worried that I would experience some sort of culture shock coming back to the big city, but I slipped right back into the groove of things. I didn't even mind the traffic, which was actually a little light, thanks to a combination of spring break and soaring unemployment.
I spent a day at the Getty, which was beautiful as always. Then spent most of the rest of the trip shopping and going to dinners. I finally got to go to the Americana in Glendale, but was a little disappointed. It's a beautiful development, but I found the store selection lacking. I did get to spend a day at my beloved Fashion Square and happened upon a shoe sale at Macy's. I'm wearing my new shoes right now, and they are fabulous. I didn't get to catch a movie at Arclight, and I never made it to Chin Chin for their Noodles in Peanut Sauce. I did have dinner at Beso, which is a gorgeous restaurant owned by Todd English and Eva Langoria. Lovely food, lovely atmosphere. It's amazing how much Hollywood has transformed, thanks to a string of trendy restaurants, yogurt shops and high-end retail stores.
So, the big question is how do I feel now? I love Los Angeles. The weather was perfect and I had a great time. I'm also aware that I was in vacation mode. It's not like I was going to work, picking up dry cleaning and shopping for groceries. I was relaxing and enjoying the best parts of the city, without the pressure of the daily grind. I do miss it, though. It's hard to leave. But I miss Michael and Henry and Asheville, too. What happens next is not a question that will be resolved easily or soon. But it was good to be back in L.A. It felt like home. I felt like I still belonged here.
Besides the communication problems, I had a blast. I was worried that I would experience some sort of culture shock coming back to the big city, but I slipped right back into the groove of things. I didn't even mind the traffic, which was actually a little light, thanks to a combination of spring break and soaring unemployment.
I spent a day at the Getty, which was beautiful as always. Then spent most of the rest of the trip shopping and going to dinners. I finally got to go to the Americana in Glendale, but was a little disappointed. It's a beautiful development, but I found the store selection lacking. I did get to spend a day at my beloved Fashion Square and happened upon a shoe sale at Macy's. I'm wearing my new shoes right now, and they are fabulous. I didn't get to catch a movie at Arclight, and I never made it to Chin Chin for their Noodles in Peanut Sauce. I did have dinner at Beso, which is a gorgeous restaurant owned by Todd English and Eva Langoria. Lovely food, lovely atmosphere. It's amazing how much Hollywood has transformed, thanks to a string of trendy restaurants, yogurt shops and high-end retail stores.
So, the big question is how do I feel now? I love Los Angeles. The weather was perfect and I had a great time. I'm also aware that I was in vacation mode. It's not like I was going to work, picking up dry cleaning and shopping for groceries. I was relaxing and enjoying the best parts of the city, without the pressure of the daily grind. I do miss it, though. It's hard to leave. But I miss Michael and Henry and Asheville, too. What happens next is not a question that will be resolved easily or soon. But it was good to be back in L.A. It felt like home. I felt like I still belonged here.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Back to La La Land
Couple of quick news items. First, I missed the biggest snowfall of the year in Asheville, because I was in San Francisco for a convention. My flight back even got delayed a day because of ice in Atlanta. Which was nice because I got an extra day in SF, but then by the time I got back, all the snow had melted.
A week after the snowstorm, it was Spring. The temps were in the 80s, I was wearing shorts and putting away all my sweaters. Now it's cold and rainy. So I'm going to Los Angeles.
I was originally supposed to be going to a convention, but it got canceled, so now I'm just going for fun. This is momentous because it will be my first visit back since moving to Asheville. Michael's been back twice now, but this will be my first return, and I'm going alone. I am excited and nervous and anxious. Will LA have passed me by? Have I changed too much to fit in now? Are all the after-school specials right? Can you never go home again?
I'm looking forward to seeing friends and catching up on everything I've missed. But I'm also looking forward to re-immersing myself in my old routines and hang-outs, to see if it makes me long to return to Asheville or unpack and stay in LA. I want to stroll through Fashion Square (the most underrated mall in Los Angeles), have terrible service at Jerry's Famous Deli and catch a movie at Arclight (where latecomers don't ask your whole party to move over so they can sit wherever they want). I want to walk down Ventura, humming "Valley Girl" and see if my favorite toy stores have closed because I moved away. I want to go shoe shopping. In fact, I may get off the plane and go straight to the Kenneth Cole store and stay there for a week. And I want to horde boxes of See's Candies like a Russian grabbing Levis.
It'll be a fun week.
A week after the snowstorm, it was Spring. The temps were in the 80s, I was wearing shorts and putting away all my sweaters. Now it's cold and rainy. So I'm going to Los Angeles.
I was originally supposed to be going to a convention, but it got canceled, so now I'm just going for fun. This is momentous because it will be my first visit back since moving to Asheville. Michael's been back twice now, but this will be my first return, and I'm going alone. I am excited and nervous and anxious. Will LA have passed me by? Have I changed too much to fit in now? Are all the after-school specials right? Can you never go home again?
I'm looking forward to seeing friends and catching up on everything I've missed. But I'm also looking forward to re-immersing myself in my old routines and hang-outs, to see if it makes me long to return to Asheville or unpack and stay in LA. I want to stroll through Fashion Square (the most underrated mall in Los Angeles), have terrible service at Jerry's Famous Deli and catch a movie at Arclight (where latecomers don't ask your whole party to move over so they can sit wherever they want). I want to walk down Ventura, humming "Valley Girl" and see if my favorite toy stores have closed because I moved away. I want to go shoe shopping. In fact, I may get off the plane and go straight to the Kenneth Cole store and stay there for a week. And I want to horde boxes of See's Candies like a Russian grabbing Levis.
It'll be a fun week.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Beauty Shop Blog
There's something about a small-town beauty shop. I've been going to big-city salons for years, in my never-ending efforts to tame my wild and woolly hair. In Los Angeles, if there's gossip or news going around the shop, it's usually about a celebrity. Or if the topic of discussion happens to involve regular folks, there's almost zero chance that you actually know them. So it's sort of exhilarating when you've got your head stuck in a sink and you hear, "So-and-so got a new refrigerator" or "So-and-so went camping last weekend" and you actually know who the so-and-sos are!
The gossip isn't particularly scandalous, but it's still an interesting reminder of how much we've integrated into this new environment. If I don't know someone, it's usually clarified with "Oh, you know, she's so-and-so's friend" or "You met him at so-and-so's birthday party." The degrees of separation here are much closer together. It also makes me wonder what's being said once I leave. "Chance got his first gray hair and freaked out right here in this chair. He made me yank it out. Oh, you know Chance. Michael's boyfriend. The quiet one."
It's true. Just as I was starting to feel that I had purchased and applied enough anti-aging products to send me back to infancy, my stylist found a gray hair. She pointed it out, and I said:
"No, that's blonde."
"But you're not blonde."
"Sometimes I'm blonde."
"It's almost white."
"Platinum blonde."
"Um..."
That's when I fell apart and made her yank it out. It was more white than gray, which gives me some hope of being a dashing silver-haired dandy, rather than the creepy old guy down the street with all the action figures. Honestly, I've never shied away from pouring chemicals on my head, so I'm not about to go gray without a fight.
Then the small-town gossip and big-city gossip will meet. "Chance is still dyeing his hair? Even William Shatner finally gave up that fight."
The gossip isn't particularly scandalous, but it's still an interesting reminder of how much we've integrated into this new environment. If I don't know someone, it's usually clarified with "Oh, you know, she's so-and-so's friend" or "You met him at so-and-so's birthday party." The degrees of separation here are much closer together. It also makes me wonder what's being said once I leave. "Chance got his first gray hair and freaked out right here in this chair. He made me yank it out. Oh, you know Chance. Michael's boyfriend. The quiet one."
It's true. Just as I was starting to feel that I had purchased and applied enough anti-aging products to send me back to infancy, my stylist found a gray hair. She pointed it out, and I said:
"No, that's blonde."
"But you're not blonde."
"Sometimes I'm blonde."
"It's almost white."
"Platinum blonde."
"Um..."
That's when I fell apart and made her yank it out. It was more white than gray, which gives me some hope of being a dashing silver-haired dandy, rather than the creepy old guy down the street with all the action figures. Honestly, I've never shied away from pouring chemicals on my head, so I'm not about to go gray without a fight.
Then the small-town gossip and big-city gossip will meet. "Chance is still dyeing his hair? Even William Shatner finally gave up that fight."
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Over There
I haven't written in a while, and I have no reasonable excuse. I've been doing a lot of other writing lately, plus life has been busy. I try not to beat myself up for not writing because of interference from life, because living tends to give me more to write about. Still, when I return to this blog, it never fails to bring up a few issues, both big and small.
As I get older (and older), I've started to question the linear nature of life's timeline. More and more it seems that life is actually circular. Instead of a series of chronological events, I feel like I've been experiencing some sort of spiral or interlocking rings. Or some intricate, but lovely design I might have concocted with my Spirograph as a child. I find my circular travels intersecting with people, places and feelings from other times and other adventures. Perhaps I've never truly left anything behind.
Enemies I loved and friends I betrayed. Lessons I either neglected or refused to learn. Memories I locked away, hoping to unpack someday when the shine was off them, when they were dull and colorless and less painful to look upon.
The circles bring second chances, too. Opportunities to try again, to improve upon history or to make grander, more elegant mistakes. All the opportunities and choices that passed me by or that I let slip through my tentative or tyrannical fingers. Will they present themselves again? And will I recognize them through older, jaded eyes?
A quote from Carrie Fisher echoes in my mind, where I clearly spend way too much time: "After all, nothing is ever really over. Just over there."
As I get older (and older), I've started to question the linear nature of life's timeline. More and more it seems that life is actually circular. Instead of a series of chronological events, I feel like I've been experiencing some sort of spiral or interlocking rings. Or some intricate, but lovely design I might have concocted with my Spirograph as a child. I find my circular travels intersecting with people, places and feelings from other times and other adventures. Perhaps I've never truly left anything behind.
Enemies I loved and friends I betrayed. Lessons I either neglected or refused to learn. Memories I locked away, hoping to unpack someday when the shine was off them, when they were dull and colorless and less painful to look upon.
The circles bring second chances, too. Opportunities to try again, to improve upon history or to make grander, more elegant mistakes. All the opportunities and choices that passed me by or that I let slip through my tentative or tyrannical fingers. Will they present themselves again? And will I recognize them through older, jaded eyes?
A quote from Carrie Fisher echoes in my mind, where I clearly spend way too much time: "After all, nothing is ever really over. Just over there."
Monday, February 2, 2009
Groundhog Day Forecast
I was just beginning to warm up to being cold when the weather changed, and it was suddenly spring. For a few days, I put my winter coat back in the closet and started running around in short sleeves again. I was somewhat disappointed, though. Even though I've been complaining about the cold weather and have taken to singing "California Dreaming" through chattering teeth, the cold weather has been rather fun. The bundling up and the sharp wind that takes your breath away. Plus the hot chocolate. So when it suddenly turned warm again, I was a little sad it had all ended so quickly. Just another reminder that this year-long adventure has practically flown by.
Then this morning, for the first time in years, I read about the annual Punxsutawney Phil Groundhog Day ceremony. I remember taking this ceremony very seriously as a kid. I was always hoping for more winter weather, because that meant more snow and more snow days. Plus the hot chocolate. So I was very pleased to read that Phil saw his shadow and thus predicted six more weeks of winter weather. Then, as if by groundhog magic, yesterday's warm weather turned into today's rain and snow. Both. First it would rain a little, then it would snow a little. So hopefully the winter weather will continue and I'll get to wear more of the sweaters I bought on sale after Christmas.
Then this morning, for the first time in years, I read about the annual Punxsutawney Phil Groundhog Day ceremony. I remember taking this ceremony very seriously as a kid. I was always hoping for more winter weather, because that meant more snow and more snow days. Plus the hot chocolate. So I was very pleased to read that Phil saw his shadow and thus predicted six more weeks of winter weather. Then, as if by groundhog magic, yesterday's warm weather turned into today's rain and snow. Both. First it would rain a little, then it would snow a little. So hopefully the winter weather will continue and I'll get to wear more of the sweaters I bought on sale after Christmas.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Hush
It's almost 2:00 in the morning, and the sounds of winter surround me. A cold, fierce wind is blowing through the mountains of Western North Carolina tonight, and I can hear it first gusting through the big oak tree in the front yard, through the stubborn leaves still clinging to the branches. From the rustling oak tree, it then whispers through the white pine trees all around us. It's soothing and relaxing, and yet I'm wide awake.
I own a sound machine, and every night for I don't know how many years, I turn off the lamp on my nightstand and flip on my sound machine, choosing either a rainstorm or the wind sound to lull me to sleep. I can never sleep in total silence, which is why I subject poor Michael to a fan all year round. The hum, the white noise and my sound machine help me battle the insomnia that seems to overtake me on a seasonal basis.
But here, there are real sounds. Real thunderstorms and wind. Not to mention the quaint and comical rattle and hum of our furnace and the soft snoring of dear Henry the dog. Henry follows us to bed every night, dutifully lies down on his pallet on the floor, takes a short nap until we fall asleep, then he leaves for a cooler (and probably quieter) place to spend the rest of the night. Our bedroom gets surprisingly warm, and now that he's had a taste of the cold weather, Henry prefers the frostier corners of the house. All those years in Southern California...and he was longing for a cold snap.
When I was a kid, my Nan-Nan would take me outside on a windy day to stand underneath the pine trees in her yard. "Listen. Do you hear them whispering to each other?" Hearing the pine trees now, I can't help but think of her. She passed away during my freshman year in college, and it's profoundly unfair that her knowledge of me stopped then. I was such a mess. I got better, really. Smarter, more presentable. But she didn't know me past 18, and 18 is not the best I could do. She would have liked Michael, I know. She would have been proud of my education and travels and adventures. But these are silly suppositions in the middle of the night. She might just as well have disliked, disowned and disavowed me. But I'll never know. 18 is frozen in time. But the wind blows through the pines, and they whisper to each other, and I imagine it's a language I'd understand if I just listened hard enough.
I had an irrational fear about living in a cold environment again. I have this theory that cold weather ages you prematurely. I know it seems that cold weather should preserve you somehow. But I imagine the cold, gray weather turning hair and faces cold and gray and wrinkled. I remind myself that in California, people spend the whole year in the summer sun. The sun ages you more than some frigid winter wind blowing around. But like I said, it's irrational. I've been trying not to go outside unless I'm wrapped up and moisturized. I'd hate to return to Los Angeles after a year and hear, "You look so old. Asheville really aged you." Hopefully all the alcohol I've been drinking will counteract the effects of the cold.
You know, I really want to give a shot out to whoever invented the flannel robe. I've never been much of a robe person. I always liked the idea of them, but would always forget to wear them. Here, and especially since the weather turned chilly, I'm apt to wear my robe all day. I'll get dressed and go about my day, but I can't help but put my robe on, too. It's lightweight flannel, but it's warm and comfortable. I'm starting to think about researching smoking jackets, too. Maybe this is who I am now. I'm the guy who comes home and puts on his smoking jacket, but doesn't smoke. Maybe I'll get a pipe for the full effect, and just never actually smoke it. Or maybe I'll blow bubbles with it.
Henry wakes and looks at me with a frown. "Why are you still awake?" He asks. "I should have retreated to the drafty area at the top of the stairs by now." Sorry, Henry. I will go to sleep now, listening to the wind, the furnace, the fan and dreaming of Los Angeles, Nan-Nan and flannel robes.
Good night.
I own a sound machine, and every night for I don't know how many years, I turn off the lamp on my nightstand and flip on my sound machine, choosing either a rainstorm or the wind sound to lull me to sleep. I can never sleep in total silence, which is why I subject poor Michael to a fan all year round. The hum, the white noise and my sound machine help me battle the insomnia that seems to overtake me on a seasonal basis.
But here, there are real sounds. Real thunderstorms and wind. Not to mention the quaint and comical rattle and hum of our furnace and the soft snoring of dear Henry the dog. Henry follows us to bed every night, dutifully lies down on his pallet on the floor, takes a short nap until we fall asleep, then he leaves for a cooler (and probably quieter) place to spend the rest of the night. Our bedroom gets surprisingly warm, and now that he's had a taste of the cold weather, Henry prefers the frostier corners of the house. All those years in Southern California...and he was longing for a cold snap.
When I was a kid, my Nan-Nan would take me outside on a windy day to stand underneath the pine trees in her yard. "Listen. Do you hear them whispering to each other?" Hearing the pine trees now, I can't help but think of her. She passed away during my freshman year in college, and it's profoundly unfair that her knowledge of me stopped then. I was such a mess. I got better, really. Smarter, more presentable. But she didn't know me past 18, and 18 is not the best I could do. She would have liked Michael, I know. She would have been proud of my education and travels and adventures. But these are silly suppositions in the middle of the night. She might just as well have disliked, disowned and disavowed me. But I'll never know. 18 is frozen in time. But the wind blows through the pines, and they whisper to each other, and I imagine it's a language I'd understand if I just listened hard enough.
I had an irrational fear about living in a cold environment again. I have this theory that cold weather ages you prematurely. I know it seems that cold weather should preserve you somehow. But I imagine the cold, gray weather turning hair and faces cold and gray and wrinkled. I remind myself that in California, people spend the whole year in the summer sun. The sun ages you more than some frigid winter wind blowing around. But like I said, it's irrational. I've been trying not to go outside unless I'm wrapped up and moisturized. I'd hate to return to Los Angeles after a year and hear, "You look so old. Asheville really aged you." Hopefully all the alcohol I've been drinking will counteract the effects of the cold.
You know, I really want to give a shot out to whoever invented the flannel robe. I've never been much of a robe person. I always liked the idea of them, but would always forget to wear them. Here, and especially since the weather turned chilly, I'm apt to wear my robe all day. I'll get dressed and go about my day, but I can't help but put my robe on, too. It's lightweight flannel, but it's warm and comfortable. I'm starting to think about researching smoking jackets, too. Maybe this is who I am now. I'm the guy who comes home and puts on his smoking jacket, but doesn't smoke. Maybe I'll get a pipe for the full effect, and just never actually smoke it. Or maybe I'll blow bubbles with it.
Henry wakes and looks at me with a frown. "Why are you still awake?" He asks. "I should have retreated to the drafty area at the top of the stairs by now." Sorry, Henry. I will go to sleep now, listening to the wind, the furnace, the fan and dreaming of Los Angeles, Nan-Nan and flannel robes.
Good night.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
The Nog Test
"Happy holidays!"
"Have a nice holiday!"
Over the years, I've made a concerted effort to wish people "happy holidays" instead of "merry Christmas" because in a multi-cultural environment, you never know who celebrates what, if anything. The other thing is that I love political correctness. I do. Political correctness rose to prominence when I was in college, and my friends and I were very excited about the idea of communicating with others on their own terms, instead of what we'd been taught by the previous generation.
So, truly, I prefer to hear "happy holidays" because it encompasses and embraces everyone. Now, Asheville is a very diverse and accepting community. And I've heard a sprinkling of "happy holidays" around here. But the overwhelming sentiment I've heard from store clerks, waiters, waitresses and the average person on the street is "merry Christmas." And I've honestly bristled each and every time I've heard it. But since it came from such a sincere place, I couldn't help but reciprocate. And I couldn't help be feel a little naughty every single time I said it. So, it's with that tingling feeling of doing something I'm not supposed to be doing that I wish you all a very merry Christmas. Hee hee.
Michael and I are feeling just a little under the weather this Christmas morning, and I can't remember ever being sick on Christmas morning. I think I just need a hot toddy or some nog. Which brings me to the true reason for the season: egg nog.
Because I'm always on a quest to capture the picture-perfect, quintessential Christmas promised to me by Currier & Ives and countless Coca-Cola commercials, a few years ago I decided I really should be making and drinking egg nog. So I went where I always go for instruction...Martha Stewart. Martha has an amazing egg nog recipe. It's rich and creamy and highly flammable. Yes, Martha douses her egg nog in three cups of bourbon, two cups of cognac and half a cup of dark rum. Then, a couple of years ago, I decided to add a half a cup of white chocolate liqueur to the mix, with terrific results. But here's the thing. I made my nog in Los Angeles every year, sometimes for our parties, sometimes for other people's parties, sometimes for family. But no one drank it.
I don't know if it was because it looks just too decadent. Or if people are intimidated by the alcohol content. But every year, I'd make a huge punch bowl full of egg nog, and besides what Michael and I would drink, I'd end up with a full bowl of nog. I think people like the idea of it. Like the look of it. Like the feelings it inspires and the idea that it adds something to a traditional Christmas event. So I made it every year, because not only is it delicious beyond words, but it's also festive.
So when Michael and I decided to have a party here in Asheville for the holidays, I knew I wanted to make my egg nog. In years past, I've tried cutting the alcohol down by half, then by three-quarters, to make it more appealing to revelers. But this year I decided to take a chance and go full strength. I even made this announcement to Michael the night before the party, when I was whisking together the mix. His eyes widened. "Just in case people actually drink it," I reasoned, "I want to extend it a little." Michael shook his head. "You don't usually add alcohol to extend something," he explained.
The guests were arriving while I was still beating the heavy cream into fluffy white clouds to float on top of the nog. Then with a sprinkle of nutmeg on top, it was ready. I ladled the first cup of it for myself, and I thought, "If I'm the only one who drinks it, at least that means more wine and champagne for everyone else." But then, a Christmas miracle occurred. I started noticing several people holding and drinking goblets of egg nog. Then when I went back for more, I noticed a drastic reduction in the contents of the punch bowl. Then not much later, someone told me that if I wanted another cup, I'd better hurry, because it was almost gone. What?! Could this really be possible?
Someone even sloshed a couple of more cups of rum into the empty bowl to get the last remnants of whipped cream. For the first time ever, the egg nog was a huge hit! I don't know if it was the atmosphere or the chill outside or what, but I had an empty punch bowl only about halfway through the evening. I had found my egg nog crowd. Next year: chocolate shavings on top.
"Have a nice holiday!"
Over the years, I've made a concerted effort to wish people "happy holidays" instead of "merry Christmas" because in a multi-cultural environment, you never know who celebrates what, if anything. The other thing is that I love political correctness. I do. Political correctness rose to prominence when I was in college, and my friends and I were very excited about the idea of communicating with others on their own terms, instead of what we'd been taught by the previous generation.
So, truly, I prefer to hear "happy holidays" because it encompasses and embraces everyone. Now, Asheville is a very diverse and accepting community. And I've heard a sprinkling of "happy holidays" around here. But the overwhelming sentiment I've heard from store clerks, waiters, waitresses and the average person on the street is "merry Christmas." And I've honestly bristled each and every time I've heard it. But since it came from such a sincere place, I couldn't help but reciprocate. And I couldn't help be feel a little naughty every single time I said it. So, it's with that tingling feeling of doing something I'm not supposed to be doing that I wish you all a very merry Christmas. Hee hee.
Michael and I are feeling just a little under the weather this Christmas morning, and I can't remember ever being sick on Christmas morning. I think I just need a hot toddy or some nog. Which brings me to the true reason for the season: egg nog.
Because I'm always on a quest to capture the picture-perfect, quintessential Christmas promised to me by Currier & Ives and countless Coca-Cola commercials, a few years ago I decided I really should be making and drinking egg nog. So I went where I always go for instruction...Martha Stewart. Martha has an amazing egg nog recipe. It's rich and creamy and highly flammable. Yes, Martha douses her egg nog in three cups of bourbon, two cups of cognac and half a cup of dark rum. Then, a couple of years ago, I decided to add a half a cup of white chocolate liqueur to the mix, with terrific results. But here's the thing. I made my nog in Los Angeles every year, sometimes for our parties, sometimes for other people's parties, sometimes for family. But no one drank it.
I don't know if it was because it looks just too decadent. Or if people are intimidated by the alcohol content. But every year, I'd make a huge punch bowl full of egg nog, and besides what Michael and I would drink, I'd end up with a full bowl of nog. I think people like the idea of it. Like the look of it. Like the feelings it inspires and the idea that it adds something to a traditional Christmas event. So I made it every year, because not only is it delicious beyond words, but it's also festive.
So when Michael and I decided to have a party here in Asheville for the holidays, I knew I wanted to make my egg nog. In years past, I've tried cutting the alcohol down by half, then by three-quarters, to make it more appealing to revelers. But this year I decided to take a chance and go full strength. I even made this announcement to Michael the night before the party, when I was whisking together the mix. His eyes widened. "Just in case people actually drink it," I reasoned, "I want to extend it a little." Michael shook his head. "You don't usually add alcohol to extend something," he explained.
The guests were arriving while I was still beating the heavy cream into fluffy white clouds to float on top of the nog. Then with a sprinkle of nutmeg on top, it was ready. I ladled the first cup of it for myself, and I thought, "If I'm the only one who drinks it, at least that means more wine and champagne for everyone else." But then, a Christmas miracle occurred. I started noticing several people holding and drinking goblets of egg nog. Then when I went back for more, I noticed a drastic reduction in the contents of the punch bowl. Then not much later, someone told me that if I wanted another cup, I'd better hurry, because it was almost gone. What?! Could this really be possible?
Someone even sloshed a couple of more cups of rum into the empty bowl to get the last remnants of whipped cream. For the first time ever, the egg nog was a huge hit! I don't know if it was the atmosphere or the chill outside or what, but I had an empty punch bowl only about halfway through the evening. I had found my egg nog crowd. Next year: chocolate shavings on top.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Haul Out the Holly
If you're like me (and why wouldn't you be?), then you spent every free moment over the past couple of weeks making bows on your Bowdabra. If you don't have a Bowdabra, then I truly feel sorry for you. Basically, you know when you're making a bow and you ask someone to put their finger in place, so you can tie it? Well, for $14, the Bowdabra will do that for you, with almost no attitude.
With bows made and presents wrapped, we put up our lovely silver tinsel tree and used our black ornaments and black trim again this year. Usually we do a different theme from year to year, but when we were packing to move, the black ornaments were closer to the door of the storage unit. So they got to come along with us. Plus, I'm finding there's a lot of value in the fact that our Asheville friends have never seen our old bag of tricks. So we've been able to recycle and reuse everything from party themes to dinner menus to stories, and improve upon them for a new audience. Of course, we can only do that for so long here, then we'll have to move someplace new and start all over, like con artists fleeing from town to town.
Seeking some inspiration for our "Old-Fashioned Southern Christmas," we decided to make the trip to Gatlinburg for the Fantasy of Lights Christmas Parade. Now, this was right after the Asheville Holiday Parade, so I think my expectations were higher than they should have been. I don't know about you, but a bunch of freezing, sullen teenagers stomping down the street don't exactly inspire warm feelings of holiday spirit. A nighttime parade with lots of lights can't make up for a noticeable lack of "sparkle" amongst the cast. Luckily, we were providing our own "sparkle" thanks to our flasks and mini bottles of booze.
The next morning, we headed off to Dollywood to check out their idea of Christmas in the Smokey Mountains. As you know, before I became an international country music star, I grew up in the Smokeys. Wait, that wasn't me. That was Dolly. And Dollywood didn't disappoint, at least where decorations and festivities were concerned. The whole park was festooned with lights and holiday merriment. It was lovely. All the rides were closed, because of the cold, so we spent most of our time walking around shopping, eating and wishing everyone a "Gary Christmas." We did this, of course, because our friend Gary was with us, and it seemed like a good idea at the time. Since it was so cold, we ducked into one of the theaters and enjoyed a live holiday concert, which was surprisingly secular up until the very end, when the angel and the fog machine showed up.
I came home inspired, but not from visions of an "Old-Fashioned Southern Christmas" in my head, but from the growing feeling that with our tinsel tree and black ornaments, we should probably just be ourselves and let the sugarplums fall where they may. Several years ago, one of our rejected party themes was Cirque du Snowflake, which Michael hated, but I thought was just horrible enough to actually be good. So, stealing a little from that theme, we decorated the outside of the house and our driveway with snowflake lights, then added snowflake touches here and there around inside.
The retro house, the silver tree and the glittering snowflakes have given our little mountain home a cold, sterile and soulless feeling, so I couldn't be happier!
We were ready for a party.
More to come...
With bows made and presents wrapped, we put up our lovely silver tinsel tree and used our black ornaments and black trim again this year. Usually we do a different theme from year to year, but when we were packing to move, the black ornaments were closer to the door of the storage unit. So they got to come along with us. Plus, I'm finding there's a lot of value in the fact that our Asheville friends have never seen our old bag of tricks. So we've been able to recycle and reuse everything from party themes to dinner menus to stories, and improve upon them for a new audience. Of course, we can only do that for so long here, then we'll have to move someplace new and start all over, like con artists fleeing from town to town.
Seeking some inspiration for our "Old-Fashioned Southern Christmas," we decided to make the trip to Gatlinburg for the Fantasy of Lights Christmas Parade. Now, this was right after the Asheville Holiday Parade, so I think my expectations were higher than they should have been. I don't know about you, but a bunch of freezing, sullen teenagers stomping down the street don't exactly inspire warm feelings of holiday spirit. A nighttime parade with lots of lights can't make up for a noticeable lack of "sparkle" amongst the cast. Luckily, we were providing our own "sparkle" thanks to our flasks and mini bottles of booze.
The next morning, we headed off to Dollywood to check out their idea of Christmas in the Smokey Mountains. As you know, before I became an international country music star, I grew up in the Smokeys. Wait, that wasn't me. That was Dolly. And Dollywood didn't disappoint, at least where decorations and festivities were concerned. The whole park was festooned with lights and holiday merriment. It was lovely. All the rides were closed, because of the cold, so we spent most of our time walking around shopping, eating and wishing everyone a "Gary Christmas." We did this, of course, because our friend Gary was with us, and it seemed like a good idea at the time. Since it was so cold, we ducked into one of the theaters and enjoyed a live holiday concert, which was surprisingly secular up until the very end, when the angel and the fog machine showed up.
I came home inspired, but not from visions of an "Old-Fashioned Southern Christmas" in my head, but from the growing feeling that with our tinsel tree and black ornaments, we should probably just be ourselves and let the sugarplums fall where they may. Several years ago, one of our rejected party themes was Cirque du Snowflake, which Michael hated, but I thought was just horrible enough to actually be good. So, stealing a little from that theme, we decorated the outside of the house and our driveway with snowflake lights, then added snowflake touches here and there around inside.
The retro house, the silver tree and the glittering snowflakes have given our little mountain home a cold, sterile and soulless feeling, so I couldn't be happier!
We were ready for a party.
More to come...
Thursday, December 4, 2008
The Holidays are Busting Out All Over
I haven't written in ages, so I have lots to catch up on. It's so easy to get swept up in all the preparations and tasks preceding and during the holidays that you forget to stop and write it all down, so friends, family and strangers can read about it.
First up is the Asheville Holiday Parade. We've been hearing about this thing since before we even moved here. Friends here promised us that whatever it lacked in sophistication, it would more than make up in drunken debauchery. How could we refuse? The key, we were told, is to station yourself on the patio of a bar, so you can start drinking as soon as they open. (And after 12:00 noon, because of the crazy alcohol laws.)
In an effort to subvert this tradition, the town decided to have the parade earlier this year. Undaunted, our little group arrived bearing thermoses of bloody marys, mimosas and, our contribution, hot buttered rum. Since the morning started with frigid temperatures, I'm glad we had something to warm us up a bit. Here's a helpful hint, though. Hot buttered rum tends to separate, so be sure to give your thermos a good shake before you pour.
What had been described as "heckling the parade," actually turned out to be no more than good-natured chanting. Our group grew to over 20 and would dutifully cheer and applaud for each float and group that went by. But on top of that, we'd start chanting helpful suggestions or demands for action. For instance, we had no patience for bands taking a break. So our crowd would start chanting, "Play! Play! Play!" and the bands would always comply. We got similar responses from dancers and all the martial arts kids. During lulls, the group would break out in Christmas carols, or failing that, TV theme songs. It was all extremely silly.
I used to be highly critical of my own hometown holiday parade. If only I had been drinking and surrounded by a group of funny and outrageous friends. Even the inevitable appearance of the town's garbage trucks would have been more enjoyable. There were no garbage trucks in the Asheville parade, but they did have tractors and horses and lots and lots of churches and competing manger scenes. And actress/model Andie MacDowell, who happens to be a resident of Asheville. Here's a photo:
She's unbelievably beautiful in person. In fact, she's so beautiful, I didn't even start shouting "Murder! Murder! Murder!" at her fur boots. Though I'm going to assume they're faux fur, since she was on the Humane Society float.
We had such a good time at the parade, that I really was sad when it came to an end. Our hosts told us it was a better experience when it was later in the day, because you had more time to drink before hand. True to form, they started making plans to meet earlier next year. At the risk of sounding too treacly, I'm really grateful for the people we've met here, who have embraced us and always include us in their plans now. It's humbling and very sweet.
We have one more parade to attend before the holidays end, though. This weekend we're off to Gatlinburg, Tennessee to witness the Fantasy of Lights Christmas Parade. The name alone makes me giddy.
More soon!
Be sure to check out my parade photos on my Flickr page!
First up is the Asheville Holiday Parade. We've been hearing about this thing since before we even moved here. Friends here promised us that whatever it lacked in sophistication, it would more than make up in drunken debauchery. How could we refuse? The key, we were told, is to station yourself on the patio of a bar, so you can start drinking as soon as they open. (And after 12:00 noon, because of the crazy alcohol laws.)
In an effort to subvert this tradition, the town decided to have the parade earlier this year. Undaunted, our little group arrived bearing thermoses of bloody marys, mimosas and, our contribution, hot buttered rum. Since the morning started with frigid temperatures, I'm glad we had something to warm us up a bit. Here's a helpful hint, though. Hot buttered rum tends to separate, so be sure to give your thermos a good shake before you pour.
What had been described as "heckling the parade," actually turned out to be no more than good-natured chanting. Our group grew to over 20 and would dutifully cheer and applaud for each float and group that went by. But on top of that, we'd start chanting helpful suggestions or demands for action. For instance, we had no patience for bands taking a break. So our crowd would start chanting, "Play! Play! Play!" and the bands would always comply. We got similar responses from dancers and all the martial arts kids. During lulls, the group would break out in Christmas carols, or failing that, TV theme songs. It was all extremely silly.
I used to be highly critical of my own hometown holiday parade. If only I had been drinking and surrounded by a group of funny and outrageous friends. Even the inevitable appearance of the town's garbage trucks would have been more enjoyable. There were no garbage trucks in the Asheville parade, but they did have tractors and horses and lots and lots of churches and competing manger scenes. And actress/model Andie MacDowell, who happens to be a resident of Asheville. Here's a photo:
She's unbelievably beautiful in person. In fact, she's so beautiful, I didn't even start shouting "Murder! Murder! Murder!" at her fur boots. Though I'm going to assume they're faux fur, since she was on the Humane Society float.
We had such a good time at the parade, that I really was sad when it came to an end. Our hosts told us it was a better experience when it was later in the day, because you had more time to drink before hand. True to form, they started making plans to meet earlier next year. At the risk of sounding too treacly, I'm really grateful for the people we've met here, who have embraced us and always include us in their plans now. It's humbling and very sweet.
We have one more parade to attend before the holidays end, though. This weekend we're off to Gatlinburg, Tennessee to witness the Fantasy of Lights Christmas Parade. The name alone makes me giddy.
More soon!
Be sure to check out my parade photos on my Flickr page!
Friday, November 21, 2008
Official Drink of 2008
I know it's late in 2008, but with the holidays coming up and all the turmoil in the world, people are going to be drinking more than ever. Since moving to Asheville, I've been on the hunt for a drink to order when we're out or something easy to make for friends who come over. For some reason, my standard cosmo or lemon drop that I made and drank so frequently in California just didn't feel right in North Carolina. I tried various other concoctions and have gotten by the past few months ordering a simple Mandarin & 7-Up. Except at Jack of the Wood, who informed me they don't have any of that "fancy stuff."
As with most culinary and mixology delights we've discovered here, this one was introduced to us by a wonderful fellow named John Fisher. John is an extraordinary cook and the unofficial Mayor of the UNC-Asheville Farmer's Market. So, without further ado, I offer, for your consideration, my new favorite drink:
The Whiskey Sour
1/2 oz bourbon
1 1/2 oz lemon juice
3/4 oz simple syrup
1 tablespoon of cherry juice, plus one maraschino cherry for garnish
You can also use a sour mix instead of the lemon and simple syrup and garnish with an orange slice, instead of a cherry.
Enjoy! Hopefully, all our friends back in Los Angeles will order one the next time they're at a bar (or now, if they're currently at a bar) and think of us!
As with most culinary and mixology delights we've discovered here, this one was introduced to us by a wonderful fellow named John Fisher. John is an extraordinary cook and the unofficial Mayor of the UNC-Asheville Farmer's Market. So, without further ado, I offer, for your consideration, my new favorite drink:
The Whiskey Sour
1/2 oz bourbon
1 1/2 oz lemon juice
3/4 oz simple syrup
1 tablespoon of cherry juice, plus one maraschino cherry for garnish
You can also use a sour mix instead of the lemon and simple syrup and garnish with an orange slice, instead of a cherry.
Enjoy! Hopefully, all our friends back in Los Angeles will order one the next time they're at a bar (or now, if they're currently at a bar) and think of us!
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Retail Therapy
So the second trip to Charlotte this week was the realization of an obsession that began on Saturday. The mysterious and tantalizing name "Southern Christmas Show" called to me. I've been telling Michael and everyone who will listen that I intend to have an old-fashioned Southern Christmas this year. The only problem is that I have no idea what that means. So I was hoping an event called the Southern Christmas Show would illuminate things.
I read in the Sunday paper that a local church group was taking a busload of folks to the event on Tuesday, and I was very, very tempted to hop on board. After all, they were offering a continental breakfast on the bus! But part of my reason for going back to Charlotte was to stop at Trader Joe's and stock up on Black Mountain Vineyards wine, and I didn't think a busload of people would take a detour just for me. If you haven't discovered Black Mountain yet, it's the best $5.99 wine you'll ever taste. We took it for granted when we had a dozen Trader Joe's stores in our backyard. Now, when the closest is two hours away, we stock up like crazy people preparing for a blizzard.
Before I could go wine hoarding, I was anxious to explore the Southern Christmas Show. It cost $9 to get in, and the demographic was clearly elderly and female. But I didn't care. I was there to learn, to absorb and observe. It did not disappoint. I happily stood in line to buy ornaments and cheerfully studied tree after tree of carefully themed designs. There were loads of vendors offering the latest in Christmas crafts and decorations and lights and holly as far as the eye could see. However, there were a few missteps. There is a fine line between festive and garish, and the line was erased and redrawn many, many times. I tried to imagine incorporating peacock feathers and cowboy hats in my decor, but decided to stay focused on our mid-century meets Edward Gorey theme in all black and silver. I found a handful of black ornaments to add to our collection and some potpourri so strong it made my eyes water. Everyone was very friendly and full of holiday spirit, and it wasn't difficult to start humming along with the carols playing everywhere.
Flush with the Christmas spirit, I decided to go to the mall for a fix. Asheville has a lot of shopping, but I miss my Macy's, Restoration Hardware and Pottery Barn. Luckily, I have this weird navigational sixth sense. I can enter any strange city and find a shopping mall almost instantly. I first discovered this gift with toy stores. I could stand in the street and know which way to go to find Toys R Us. I'm like a superhero. So I quickly found the fabulous South Park Mall and was thrilled to discover they had a Nordstrom's and a Crate & Barrel. I had a great time just strolling around, window shopping and feeling like I was back in a big city again. In Los Angeles, you all walk by Sur la Table, never imagining what life might be like without one! When I saw it listed on the mall directory, I almost wept.
I finally made it to Trader Joe's and filled my basket with cheap, but delicious wine. Then, trying not to look like a gigantic lush, I threw in a box of crackers before veering noisily towards the checkout. It was a beautiful and festive day, and it was nice to get away and not think about anything more serious than finding a black cow ornament. It's not difficult to throw myself into the holiday season and turn it into the sort of out-of-control mess they make holiday specials and movies about. I mean, I always sided with Lucy in the Charlie Brown special. Why not have a big pink aluminum Christmas tree, Charlie Brown? Who wants a stupid little twig? I think the people at the Southern Christmas Show would agree.
I read in the Sunday paper that a local church group was taking a busload of folks to the event on Tuesday, and I was very, very tempted to hop on board. After all, they were offering a continental breakfast on the bus! But part of my reason for going back to Charlotte was to stop at Trader Joe's and stock up on Black Mountain Vineyards wine, and I didn't think a busload of people would take a detour just for me. If you haven't discovered Black Mountain yet, it's the best $5.99 wine you'll ever taste. We took it for granted when we had a dozen Trader Joe's stores in our backyard. Now, when the closest is two hours away, we stock up like crazy people preparing for a blizzard.
Before I could go wine hoarding, I was anxious to explore the Southern Christmas Show. It cost $9 to get in, and the demographic was clearly elderly and female. But I didn't care. I was there to learn, to absorb and observe. It did not disappoint. I happily stood in line to buy ornaments and cheerfully studied tree after tree of carefully themed designs. There were loads of vendors offering the latest in Christmas crafts and decorations and lights and holly as far as the eye could see. However, there were a few missteps. There is a fine line between festive and garish, and the line was erased and redrawn many, many times. I tried to imagine incorporating peacock feathers and cowboy hats in my decor, but decided to stay focused on our mid-century meets Edward Gorey theme in all black and silver. I found a handful of black ornaments to add to our collection and some potpourri so strong it made my eyes water. Everyone was very friendly and full of holiday spirit, and it wasn't difficult to start humming along with the carols playing everywhere.
Flush with the Christmas spirit, I decided to go to the mall for a fix. Asheville has a lot of shopping, but I miss my Macy's, Restoration Hardware and Pottery Barn. Luckily, I have this weird navigational sixth sense. I can enter any strange city and find a shopping mall almost instantly. I first discovered this gift with toy stores. I could stand in the street and know which way to go to find Toys R Us. I'm like a superhero. So I quickly found the fabulous South Park Mall and was thrilled to discover they had a Nordstrom's and a Crate & Barrel. I had a great time just strolling around, window shopping and feeling like I was back in a big city again. In Los Angeles, you all walk by Sur la Table, never imagining what life might be like without one! When I saw it listed on the mall directory, I almost wept.
I finally made it to Trader Joe's and filled my basket with cheap, but delicious wine. Then, trying not to look like a gigantic lush, I threw in a box of crackers before veering noisily towards the checkout. It was a beautiful and festive day, and it was nice to get away and not think about anything more serious than finding a black cow ornament. It's not difficult to throw myself into the holiday season and turn it into the sort of out-of-control mess they make holiday specials and movies about. I mean, I always sided with Lucy in the Charlie Brown special. Why not have a big pink aluminum Christmas tree, Charlie Brown? Who wants a stupid little twig? I think the people at the Southern Christmas Show would agree.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
We Need a Little Christmas
Two trips to Chartlotte in one week. The first trip was on Saturday. We wanted to take part in the national day of protests against Prop 8 and the continued discrimination against gays. I had actually been dreading this. The whole Prop 8 thing has been so emotionally overwhelming and I just get angry and physically ill when I think about it or read the news or hear the latest wacko lie about the dangers of gay marriage. Massachusetts is about to celebrate five years of legalized gay marriage and guess what? It's not being taught in schools. Churches are not being shut down for refusing to marry gay people. The world didn't end. See, I'm angry again. It doesn't take much these days.
So I wasn't really looking forward to carrying a sign and marching down the streets of Charlotte, North Carolina. But then, I couldn't imagine staying home and sending Michael off on his own, either. So I went out sign shopping on Friday. While deciding whether or not to get the really pointy stakes or the less dangerous squared-off design, I strolled over to the Christmas department at Lowe's. You wouldn't think an angry, gay atheist would have a soft spot for Christmas, but I do. There's something about the lights and the decorations and the traditions that still provides a sense of comfort and warmth. As I was looking for a three-foot silver wreath to match our tree, I was suddenly inspired. I don't care if it's still two weeks before Thanksgiving, I'm going to put up our tree, decorate the house and start celebrating Christmas now!
This wore off as soon as I got home and decided to drink instead.
But the Christmas thing didn't go away that easily. On our trek to Charlotte the next day, we got off at the wrong exit and ran right into something called the Southern Christmas Show. A friend explained that it's a yearly event/showcase, promising six acres of Christmas decorations, crafts and food guaranteed to melt even the coldest and most cynical heart (aka mine). We found the protest, and I'm glad we did. It really was cathartic, joining in with hundreds of others, not feeling so isolated and alone, sharing the emotions with a sympathetic crowd. I had been worried that we'd see a lot of anti-gay protesters, but none showed up. The local media covering the event kept asking if we'd seen any. I guess it's not a news story unless you can get the haters spouting their poison. Well, fuck the media. You'll notice that in any coverage of the protests, they refer to us as "activists," "protesters" and "demonstrators." If you had been there you would have seen we're families and friends and people from all walks of life, ethnicities and backgrounds. But describing us like that would only humanize us. And now I'm angry again.
It was a good day. I'm glad we went. I needed to do something, and it felt good to be involved. Before we left, I gave my sign that said "Love Conquers All" and "You Can't Outlaw Love" to someone who didn't have a sign. We drove away knowing that come what may, we were here. And as we left Charlotte, I made a mental note to look up the details on this Southern Christmas Show.
To be continued...
So I wasn't really looking forward to carrying a sign and marching down the streets of Charlotte, North Carolina. But then, I couldn't imagine staying home and sending Michael off on his own, either. So I went out sign shopping on Friday. While deciding whether or not to get the really pointy stakes or the less dangerous squared-off design, I strolled over to the Christmas department at Lowe's. You wouldn't think an angry, gay atheist would have a soft spot for Christmas, but I do. There's something about the lights and the decorations and the traditions that still provides a sense of comfort and warmth. As I was looking for a three-foot silver wreath to match our tree, I was suddenly inspired. I don't care if it's still two weeks before Thanksgiving, I'm going to put up our tree, decorate the house and start celebrating Christmas now!
This wore off as soon as I got home and decided to drink instead.
But the Christmas thing didn't go away that easily. On our trek to Charlotte the next day, we got off at the wrong exit and ran right into something called the Southern Christmas Show. A friend explained that it's a yearly event/showcase, promising six acres of Christmas decorations, crafts and food guaranteed to melt even the coldest and most cynical heart (aka mine). We found the protest, and I'm glad we did. It really was cathartic, joining in with hundreds of others, not feeling so isolated and alone, sharing the emotions with a sympathetic crowd. I had been worried that we'd see a lot of anti-gay protesters, but none showed up. The local media covering the event kept asking if we'd seen any. I guess it's not a news story unless you can get the haters spouting their poison. Well, fuck the media. You'll notice that in any coverage of the protests, they refer to us as "activists," "protesters" and "demonstrators." If you had been there you would have seen we're families and friends and people from all walks of life, ethnicities and backgrounds. But describing us like that would only humanize us. And now I'm angry again.
It was a good day. I'm glad we went. I needed to do something, and it felt good to be involved. Before we left, I gave my sign that said "Love Conquers All" and "You Can't Outlaw Love" to someone who didn't have a sign. We drove away knowing that come what may, we were here. And as we left Charlotte, I made a mental note to look up the details on this Southern Christmas Show.
To be continued...
Sunday, November 9, 2008
On the Boards
As you may have read on Michael's Twitter log, we made our Broadway debut yesterday after seeing Hairspray...sort of. The impetus for this trip was to see our friend Susie in the show, and she was great. Her comic timing and command of the audience really stole the show. So afterward, we got to go backstage to say hi and meet some of the cast. I say backstage, but we were actually onstage. Waiting along with us was actress/comedienne Mo Gaffney, which was a special treat because we're both big fans of hers and have just missed meeting her a few times back in Los Angeles. We chatted with her and took pics and indulged in our own little fantasies of traipsing the boards on Broadway. When Susie joined us we also got to meet cast member Kevin Meaney and saw, from just a few feet away, George Wendt, who's currently playing Edna in the show. Overall, really a fun and exciting experience!
Then, last night we got to have another one of those once-in-a-lifetime theatre experiences. We got to see Patti LuPone in Gypsy. Michael got the tickets, but it was 100% for me. Michael was not a Patti fan. He used to cringe whenever one of her songs came on the Broadway channel on Sirius. My theory is that you really have to become a Patti fan early on. You have to be a 10-year old gay boy who saves his allowance for a month to buy the dual-cassette cast recording of Evita with Patti and Mandy Patinkin. You've got to listen to it until it wears out and stand on your bed, arms outstretched, belting "Don't cry for me, Argentina!" That's where and how life-long Patti LuPone fans are made. Michael didn't do any of that. Crazy.
I'd never seen her perform live before, so I was pretty much a trembling mess when the orchestra started the overture. I wasn't the only one. The audience went nuts as soon as they heard that distinctive voice yell from the back of the theatre, "Sing out, Louise!" She was phenomenal! Even Michael admitted admiration for her when all was said and done. The whole show was great, really. The staging was simple, but very clever and evocative of the time period. I'm glad they saved money on the sets, because they splurged on a full orchestra and put them right on stage behind the scrim. It was thrilling to hear that score and that voice with a full orchestra! So many shows now are skimping on the music, using smaller and smaller orchestras to try to save money. Ask before you buy your tickets!
Above and beyond her vocal prowess, Patti gave a raw, complex and sometimes sinister performance as the mother of all stage mothers, Mama Rose. It really was thrilling being that close to that much talent. Which brings me to my final thoughts on not only Gypsy, but all the theatre we've seen this weekend. Namely, I'm jealous. Why couldn't I have been born talented instead of just a smart ass? Why can't I dance and sing? It's completely unfair that instead of leaping and spinning and belting B flats, I'm sitting in the audience trying not to mangle my Playbill. It doesn't help that Gypsy is all about someone with no talent who makes it to the top (of the bottom). But it's especially cruel that she's played by someone with talent! Why couldn't they have cast someone with no talent to play the untalented daughter?
It's a personal injustice that's right up there with my height. My father is 6'3" and I'm 5'9". What the hell? My whole life would have been different if I could have just been a tall dancer. Stupid genetics.
So today we're off to see the sights, do some shopping and have vegetarian Dim-Sum before going to see Susie's cabaret show tonight. People from Los Angeles may remember us dragging them one-by-one and in groups to see CA$HINO. It'll be fun to see it in its New York incarnation.
And still have to try to make it to FAO Schwarz.
Then, last night we got to have another one of those once-in-a-lifetime theatre experiences. We got to see Patti LuPone in Gypsy. Michael got the tickets, but it was 100% for me. Michael was not a Patti fan. He used to cringe whenever one of her songs came on the Broadway channel on Sirius. My theory is that you really have to become a Patti fan early on. You have to be a 10-year old gay boy who saves his allowance for a month to buy the dual-cassette cast recording of Evita with Patti and Mandy Patinkin. You've got to listen to it until it wears out and stand on your bed, arms outstretched, belting "Don't cry for me, Argentina!" That's where and how life-long Patti LuPone fans are made. Michael didn't do any of that. Crazy.
I'd never seen her perform live before, so I was pretty much a trembling mess when the orchestra started the overture. I wasn't the only one. The audience went nuts as soon as they heard that distinctive voice yell from the back of the theatre, "Sing out, Louise!" She was phenomenal! Even Michael admitted admiration for her when all was said and done. The whole show was great, really. The staging was simple, but very clever and evocative of the time period. I'm glad they saved money on the sets, because they splurged on a full orchestra and put them right on stage behind the scrim. It was thrilling to hear that score and that voice with a full orchestra! So many shows now are skimping on the music, using smaller and smaller orchestras to try to save money. Ask before you buy your tickets!
Above and beyond her vocal prowess, Patti gave a raw, complex and sometimes sinister performance as the mother of all stage mothers, Mama Rose. It really was thrilling being that close to that much talent. Which brings me to my final thoughts on not only Gypsy, but all the theatre we've seen this weekend. Namely, I'm jealous. Why couldn't I have been born talented instead of just a smart ass? Why can't I dance and sing? It's completely unfair that instead of leaping and spinning and belting B flats, I'm sitting in the audience trying not to mangle my Playbill. It doesn't help that Gypsy is all about someone with no talent who makes it to the top (of the bottom). But it's especially cruel that she's played by someone with talent! Why couldn't they have cast someone with no talent to play the untalented daughter?
It's a personal injustice that's right up there with my height. My father is 6'3" and I'm 5'9". What the hell? My whole life would have been different if I could have just been a tall dancer. Stupid genetics.
So today we're off to see the sights, do some shopping and have vegetarian Dim-Sum before going to see Susie's cabaret show tonight. People from Los Angeles may remember us dragging them one-by-one and in groups to see CA$HINO. It'll be fun to see it in its New York incarnation.
And still have to try to make it to FAO Schwarz.
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