The Road to Rock Stardom

This is what I believe I would look like if I were a rock star.

While it is very unlikely I actually will become a rock star, or any kind of music star, I am one step closer. I don't want to jinx anything by telling you too much, but... The Sub Rosas have a gig! I'm not talking three songs at an open mic or playing for my co-workers at Doug's house; I mean a real, honest to goodness gig. With a full set and (theoretically) people we don't know in the audience. This may prove to be The Sub Rosas last dying breath as Rosa moves on to other projects, but still. What a way to go.

Again, I don't want to risk ruining everything by spilling too many beans, but suffice it to say a date has been confirmed with the venue, and Rosa and I will soon go about the business of creating our playlist. I'll update you on this anticipated moment in music history as more particulars are solidified. And if you know me personally, I'll expect to see you there.

(I am so excited!)

On an unrelated topic, I am exhausted today. I went to a super fun party last night and stayed up way too late. Let me tell you, after being out until about 2 a.m., 8:15 came awfully early this morning. I was smart enough not to drink, though. So I'm only fatigued, as opposed to hungover. How much fun was this party? I have two words for you: bunny dance. Make of that what you will (but this is still me, so nothing terribly dirty is involved).

Like 1997 Again

Well, it's not exactly like 1997, but sort of.

When I first moved to San Francisco, Blondie's in the Mission was my very favorite bar. It had quite the neighborhood feel eleven years ago, and I recall spending many a Saturday night sipping pint sized lemon drops and listening to live swing bands alongside Mission denizens. I also met a couple of really cute boys there back in the day, and that was enough to keep me coming back again and again. Plus, I became friends with the owner, Nikki, who is super nice.

I didn't live in the Mission, myself, however. I had come to Blondie's from another neighborhood, as would many, many people over the next several years. By, say, 2001 or 2002, the weekend crowd at Blondie's had grown exponentially, and the bar had lost it's live music license, meaning no more bands. The bowling shirt clad gentlemen who previously had filled the place were nowhere to be found; replaced by overgrown frat boys and the lingering happy hour crowd who now bounce to the beat of far too much hip hop and house music. So I turned my attention to other San Francisco watering holes.

Well, I just may become a Blondie's regular again, at least one day a week. Nikki got her live music license back about four years ago, and last month, Rosa and I made an appearance at Blondie's Wednesday night open mic. Then last night, I was back. Sadly, as I mentioned before on this space, Rosa's unforgiving work schedule is keeping her away from open mics these days, but thanks to the magic of Craigslist, I have found another guitarist.

With my barstool fan club of Suzanne and Zeina cheering me on, and several members of the house band joining in on my three-song "set," I treated the crowd to renditions of the Beatles, Icicle Works (again) and the Stone Poneys. Plus, thanks to some lucky timing, I think the bar was most crowded while I was singing, and people were actually paying attention. I even got the weirdo-chic punk hippy who had performed before me to sing along while he gave me a beer bottle salute. That, in my opinion, is a serious accomplishment.

I'll be back in two weeks, armed with more three minute pop songs. And there just may come a time when, if you want to find me on a Wednesday night, the open mic stage at Blondie's will be the only place you need look.

Hopping Down the Bunny Trail

I have a jelly bean hangover.

Actually, it's possible I am still riding a sugar high from the 16 pounds of Easter candy I have eaten today. It's been just so delicious.

In addition to my champion sweets consumption, I have established an Easter tradition: brunch at the Rex Cafe in Russian Hill. Little did I know in 2001, the first year I organized Easter brunch with my friends, that this would be become a not-to-be-missed event. Some years see more brunchers than others, but it's always a good party. We had a relatively small group this time around, with Tom, Suzanne, Steve, Katie and me gathering for mid-afternoon snacks and drinks. I brought the Easter basket, as always, and a good time was had by all.

Well, it's possible Suzanne had one bad moment when the waitress spilled a mimosa on her, but other than that, it was good time for everyone.

After brunch, I took a tiny nap, and now here I am at work. I like having a work schedule that allows me to celebrate a holiday before coming in to earn my paycheck. When I got here, I found a tiny marshmallow-Rice Krispie Easter treat left for me by my co-worker Megan. It was shaped like a bird's nest with chocolate eggs in the middle. Yum.

Did I mention that I've eaten 16 pounds of candy today?

Hey, guess what? One month from today I will be back in Hawaii. Yippee! I am so excited for the warm sun, my morning jogs, the beach and all the lava flow cocktails I anticipate drinking. And of course I'll get to see Diva Mommy. Plus, Emily is going to join me for about half of the trip. I'm also talking to Tom about coming, and he just may do it. Maybe. If you happen to be interested in a serious Waikiki party, let me know.

I suppose it probably wasn't a wise idea to load up on candy one month before I have to don a bathing suit, but oh, well. Happy Easter, anyway!

The Return of Day Drinking!

Four years ago I found myself unemployed at the same time as several friends of mine. It began with Tom, who lost his job in September 2003, mere days before he and I went on vacation with our friend Chris to North Carolina, Tennessee and Georgia. Tom was very calm about his work situation and simply took the rest of the year off before beginning to look for a new job at the start of 2004.

I was let go from my job in December 2003 and was not nearly so Zen about my circumstances. I was rather well grounded at first, knowing full well that I'd land on my feet, but my positive attitude didn't last. I pretty much took the holidays off because you can't find a job during the last three weeks of December, anyway, and also began my employment search in early January. However, being a person who needs stability and a bit of control, I quickly became anxious. I had plenty of money saved, but spending it frightened me. And I began to wonder if I'd find a decent job in my chosen profession. As it happened, I found an even better job in my chosen profession, but back in those dark winter days of early 2004, who knew how everything would work out?

Since we were both unemployed, Tom and I did a lot of chatting during that time. One day he mentioned that he and his friend Jessica, who was also between jobs, had developed a semi-regular lunch habit during which they'd always have beer to accompany their meals. Somehow, that lead Tom and me to decide to take one day off from job hunting every week or two and find somewhere to drink during the day (forget lunch, you can eat at home). Day drinking came with some pretty specific rules: it had to take place in an actual bar on a weekday, and the imbibing had to begin by 2 p.m., at the latest.

Day drinking took us to a wide variety of watering holes, including the Gold Dust Lounge, the Phoenix and Zeitgeist. As winter turned to spring and then to summer, our family of mid-day partiers grew. Unfortunately, Jessica proved to be a short term day drinker when she landed a job within a matter of weeks. By mid-March, I began working part-time, but my employment was very part-time, and I certainly could still fit day drinking into my schedule. Sometime in the spring Suzanne jumped into the mix, and in May Chris quit his job. Even though she was employed full time, Gretchen would sometimes join us, as she worked at night. Even Irina, who lives in L.A. but was also without a job back then, would come up to San Francisco to day drink on occasion.

At some point, I'm not sure how or why, the other bars faded into the background, and the Orbit Room, with its floor to ceiling windows and cafe-like atmosphere, became our day drinking spot of choice. Over time, however, our schedules grew more congested, and eventually we all found gainful employment. Thus the end of day drinking.

Until yesterday, that is. Even though we all have full time jobs, Suzanne corralled us back to the Orbit Room for a few Friday afternoon cocktails. She and I are pictured to the left enjoying the return of day drinking. (For the record, my work schedule does allow me to indulge in the occasional Wednesday or Thursday day drinking, but it never involves the 2004 day drinking crowd.) Our day drinking this time around was more like a traditional happy hour, given that we are committed to our employers. I worked an early shift at my job and arrived at the Orbit Room by 4:15. Ronn, whom I know through Chris, was behind the bar and concocted a lovely beverage for me with fresh strawberries and basil (okay, and vodka). Suzanne showed up next at 5 p.m. with her coworkers Zeina and Alexandra. At about 5:30, Chris made his entrance, and Tom pulled up the rear at 6:00. More cocktails were enjoyed, including one with fresh peaches and ginger, and the day drinking tradition was revived.

While waiting for the others, I had chatted a little bit with a couple playing Scrabble at the bar. When Chris saw them about an hour later, he knew he had to meet them so he could play. We coaxed them to our table, where an intense game ensued. It was Chris and Zeina, pictured here deep in strategy, against our new friends Val and John. It turns out Val and John were either lightweights or several cocktails ahead of us because they were a bit tipsy. To the point that Val began telling us details of her sex life that definitely fall under the category of too much information. We were also a tiny bit scared when she asked us if we "like to party," but overall, Val and John were quite nice. Chris and Zeina won the Scrabble game, by the way.

After the sun set, Zeina and Alexandra had to go, Chris had a dinner date, and Tom, Suzanne and I hit Zeitgeist for Roland's birthday party. And here's what I learned: on a Wednesday afternoon Zeitgeist is one of the greatest bars on the planet, but on a Friday night it sucks. Between the wall to wall people and the incredibly rude staff (who were probably driven to said rudeness by the maddening crowd, but still), going home began to look like a very attractive option. The cold San Francisco evening didn't help matters; so after one beer and a two tamales from the Tamale Lady, I called it a night. That is the good thing about day drinking: you can have a full evening and still get home and to bed at a decent hour.

After all was said and done, however, I felt a bit like crap when I woke up this morning. I wasn't so much hungover as just very aware that I'd poured alcohol into my system. I think I've become more sensitive to liquor since I've only been drinking two days a week (by and large) for the last 14 months. And that crappy feeling kind of makes me want to quit drinking altogether.

Kind of, anyway. Day drinking just wouldn't work with lemonade.

"Excuse me, are you Kamala Harris?"

I was at the gala opening celebration for the Rrazz Room, a new cabaret space in the Hotel Nikko, last night when a woman sheepishly interrupted my conversation and posed that question. Now, I happen to know and greatly admire San Francisco's District Attorney; so I was very flattered to be mistaken for her. However, I look nothing whatsoever like Kamala Harris. Nothing. Should you require more convincing of that fact, I have provided visual aids. Above is a photo of San Francisco District Attorney Kamala Harris, who is half African American and half Indian. Below is a photo of me. I am half African American and half Caucasian. As you can see, we really don't look alike. If nothing else, she straightens her hair, while mine is quite curly, and I am at least three inches taller than she is, if not more.

I mean no disrespect whatsoever to the woman who thought I may be Kamala; she simply made a mistake. I tell you this tale in part because I mean it when I say I admire Kamala Harris. To that end, I truly did enjoy the idea that someone thought I might be her. It also was just plain funny to me because I happen to know her. But this exchange does bring up a curious idea. Why did this woman assume I might be the D.A.? Is it because I was possibly the only mixed race woman in the room, and I happened to be standing four feet away from Willie Brown, whom I don't know, and wasn't talking to him? (If you live in San Francisco, you understand the Willie Brown reference.) My friend Terry suggested that a lot of mixed race women in San Francisco might be assumed to be Kamala Harris, but again, I ask: why? Especially if the mixed race woman in question really doesn't look like her. Halle Berry and Jennifer Beals are of similar mixed ethnicity; do people confuse them? Yes, that's a silly question because Halle Berry and Jennifer Beals are both famous, but still. Something to think about, maybe.

Or not. About a year ago or so a cab driver told me I look like Sonia Braga, and I don't. But I didn't over think that comparison. He meant it as a compliment, and I just took it that way.

The Rrazz Room gala was super fun, by the way. Kurt and I went, and we had all the cocktails and champagne we wanted while being treated to a whole bunch of cabaret singers, including Paula West, Wesla Whitfield, Freda Payne and Mary Wilson. I was introduced to Mary Wilson and Freda Payne, and Freda Payne remembered having met me before, which was pretty exciting for me. It was also neato to meet an actual Supreme. Kurt and I both had a fabulous time. Wouldn't it be nice if life were just one champagne gala after another?

After the gala, my evening went a tiny bit south. I was awoken in the wee hours of the morning by the booming voices of some drunken St. Patrick's Day revelers downstairs. It sounded like they were in my downstairs neighbor's apartment and in the downstairs hallway. Well, if the loud music and celebratory yelling weren't enough, I soon heard the front door of my apartment building repeatedly slam so hard the building shook. I thought about tip-toeing downstairs to investigate this obviously raucous party, but then I decided the scene was no place for a girl in her pajamas. The noise abated, and I went back to sleep.

Well, when I got up to go running this morning I found my building's front door frame so badly damaged, the door could not shut properly, let alone lock. Actually it wasn't just damaged; part of the door frame had literally been torn off. The property management company has since fixed it, but good lord. This is an apartment building, not a dormitory. Grow up, you morons.

On a final note tonight, I have become addicted to the HBO show "In Treatment." I didn't think I'd like it, and given that it's on five nights a week, watching "In Treatment" takes more of a commitment than I can make. But then I caught a couple of episodes and was hooked. The acting is just so good. And luckily, with multiple channels of HBO on my cable system, I can always catch an "In Treatment" mini-marathon and get reasonably caught up. So I'm not tied to my television set every night.

Is it wrong to use the term "addicted" when writing about an affinity for a show about therapy? Probably.

Wood Anniversary

This Wednesday marks, in my opinion, a rather inauspicious anniversary. I'm sure plenty of people would disagree with me calling this occasion inauspicious, and I respect that. I'm talking about the beginning of the Iraq War: March 19th, 2003. Since those first bombs hit, Saddam Hussein has been tried and executed; President Bush has been re-elected (good Lord); and a historic race for the Democratic presidential nomination this year could result in a fractured political party.

Five years.

I'm not terribly interested in using this space as a political soapbox, but I do find myself wondering how the lives of everyday Iraqis have changed during this time. That I can read about. Instead of writing about it, I've decided to behave like a typical self-involved American and steer clear of politics by looking at how my own life compares with what it was in March 2003.

Employment. Early spring 2003 saw me holding what I thought was the best job of my career. While it did provide me with a very good resume line, the job was far from perfect. For one thing, I worked for an incredibly dysfunctional company. For another, I was growing increasingly bored. When I went to my 15-year high school reunion that May, I found myself a little embarrassed to tell my former classmates what I did for a living. Well, I didn't have to be embarrassed for long; I was fired from that job at the end of the year. Now I work in the same industry but in a significantly better position. My current job also isn't perfect, but it's better. On every level.

Body. Oh, the glory days of 2003. I was so thin. I'm hardly fat now, but I was in incredibly good shape five years ago. I had lost a chunk of weight in late 2002 (due to depression, but whatever; I'm over it now), and before I could gain it back, I began working with personal trainers. Nine months of training combined with a newfound love of jogging and a much better diet than the one I currently maintain rendered me about 12 pounds lighter than I am today. Plus, I was much leaner. At least I still love running and my gym. And I still look good, if a bit curvier.

Boys. As the Iraq War began, I was dating a geologist eight years my junior. For some reason, I did a lot of shopping for men in the junior section that year. This particular gentleman and I had met just over a month before at a Valentine's Day party. I had volunteered, along with my friend Marissa, to man the party's kissing booth. It seemed like a good idea until I actually had to kiss a couple of guys. I quickly realized how horrible making out with totally random strangers can be. Ick. The geologist wandered over, and I latched on to him in an effort to scare off kissing booth Romeos. Happily, it worked, and the geologist and I hit it off. We didn't date very long, and it never got at all serious. In fact, I think it was over by late April or so when he faded away without actually telling me he'd lost interest. Typical, but the geologist was still a nice fellow. I stayed in touch with him off and on for about six months after we stopped going out, but I have no idea where he is now or what he may be doing. I should hit Google and look him up. I'll do that if I ever remember his last name. Had I been asked back then, I probably would have guessed that I'd be married by now or at least in a serious relationship. Not so much, so I guess my love life is pretty much the same as it was five years ago. Except that the boys and I are all older.

Home. I live in the same apartment that I did in 2003. I still love it, but the building, as a whole, is a little worse for wear. It was sold that September, and the new owners are not very good at fixing things or keeping up with improvements. I'd move, but I love my little home. Besides, rents have shot up in the last year, and I probably can't afford to live anywhere else.

Okay, that's all I can think of. I know my experiences pale in comparison with what the Iraqis and American soldiers serving in Iraq are going through. Let's just hope that we can soon mark the anniversary of the end of this war.

Music, Movies and a Cooking Class

I don't cook. Proudly.

I imagine I could be a very good cook, but honestly, I just have no interest. People tell me I probably don't cook because I'm single; you know, it's no fun to cook only for yourself, etc. However, I suspect that even when I get married, we'll be eating out. Unless my husband cooks. I could be wrong, but that's my current prediction. I know how to make about three dishes quite well, and that's sustained me throughout my adulthood so far.

That said, somehow, last Thursday night, I found myself at a Brown alumni event that involved cooking. It was a Parties That Cook evening at Sur La Table, and a bunch of us Brown alums paid to drink wine while learning new recipes. Some of the dishes sounded fancy, some not so much, but when all was said and done, everything was delicious.

I attended this little cooking extravaganza with Paul, Denise, Jim and Molly, but I also ran into Mehul there. Mehul and I knew each other at Brown but haven't seen each other since we graduated in 1992. And neither of us knew the other lives in San Francisco. So even if I never cook again, I'd say running into him 16 years later was worth the price of the class/party.

After our culinary adventures, Denise and I went to the House of Shields to see my friend Pat Johnson play. Pat still insists that I am his only fan. I, in turn, still doubt that assertion, but I was certainly his fan with the most stamina that night. Pat played for two full hours, and I was there for virtually the entire set. Other fans came and went, but Pat had my attention the whole time. He's a pretty talented guy; so I'm happy to be his fan. But I'm totally not the only one.

In other news, I believe I have mentioned that I'm incredibly lazy about seeing movies. I rarely set foot in movie theatres, and I don't even rent films. I just wait for everything to come on cable. It's not that I don't like movies; I love them. I'm just lazy. However, I made an exception yesterday to see one of my very favorite movies, Paper Moon, on the big screen at the Castro Theatre. The Castro hosted a Peter Bogdonavich retrospective this weekend, and Mr Bogdonavich, himself, was even there to introduce the film.

After being charmed by the so-lovely Paper Moon, Tom and I went for tacos followed by cocktails at the Attic. The DJ's at the Attic last night were spinning awesome music, helping it regain it's position as my new favorite bar. I actually didn't drink last night, so only Tom indulged in the $5 Chimay, but the music and the atmosphere were good enough for me.

And tonight, after enjoying an extra hour of evening sunlight, I intend to soak up a few episodes of "In Treatment" on HBO and go to bed early. Tihanna and I are going to the spa tomorrow morning in advance of her move to Texas on Wednesday; so I have to rest up.

Narcissus Would Be Proud

I am so wrong.

I have a little side job writing this Cool-Things-About-Town column for a neighborhood newspaper. I don't get paid for this "job," but it's only a monthly paper and writing the column is pretty fun. Anyway, I picked up a copy of the March issue yesterday and immediately turned to my own column. And that's when I found myself laughing out loud and delighting in my own cleverness. For several minutes.

I now officially have no retort if someone calls me self involved.

That said, do you know who is not wrong? Paula West. Terry and I went to see her at the new Rrazz Room last night, and she was awesome. As always. In addition to the jazz standards that usually comprise her set, she treated us to cabaret arrangements of Bob Dylan's "Don't Think Twice," The Beach Boys' "God Only Knows" and The Rolling Stones' "You Can't Always Get What You Want." I guess Paula is a classic rock fan as well as a jazz aficionado.

Paula West is the kind of singer I could only be in my dreams.

To Quote Diablo Cody...

... when she won her Academy Award last month: "What is going on here?!"

No update for six days?!? Okay, that's less than a week, but still, I feel like a big league slacker. My apologies, dear readers. While I wouldn't be so arrogant (or delusional) as to assume you hang on my every word, I do know that a few loyal souls check this space regularly. And frequently. So allow me to atone for my sins and write some nuggets of brilliance.

Or something.

First and foremost, a terrible fate has befallen me! This is a tragedy of gargantuan proportions. A turn of events so dismal, I don't know how I'll muddle through! (Gosh, am I dramatic or what? Clearly, I never should have quit acting.) What is causing my consternation, you may ask? Well. Rosa has told me that she won't be able to play music for a while due to work commitments. That's right, I temporarily have lost my open mic partner.

What's an aspiring chanteuse to do?

Well, it is with a heavy heart that I have begun looking for a new guitarist. Worry not, the Sub Rosas are still very much together and will play again, but I need to keep my singing going and my voice in shape. So I've been putting out feelers for any musicians willing to play 60's pop and 80's new wave/pop music. I have a few leads already, but it won't be the same as the Rosa-Melissa musical domination combo. Ah, well.

However, I will be able to console myself quite handily at my new favorite place in the world: the Burke Williams Spa. Burke Williams is the most luxurious spa I have ever been to in my life. I went there last Thursday, and I will never be the same. In a good way. This place takes pampering to a level I imagine as reserved for royalty. I have frequented the same spa for the last six years, but Burke Williams may have stolen my heart. What can I say? Loyalty only goes so far when it comes to relaxation.

That's about all from here. I'm annoyed about something happening at work right now, but I'm aware that perhaps I'm being a little unreasonable. But not really. But kind of. But not really. You can see how this situation is sitting in my brain. Imagine what a restful night's sleep I'm going to get tonight.

One Song at a Time

A few months ago, Rosa and I decided to take over the world. Our domination tool would be music, and we were going to enact our plan one song at a time.

Well, tonight our musical domination fantasy took a tiny step closer to reality when the Sub Rosas made their San Francisco debut. I realize that the Sub Rosas had only played in Alameda and Oakland, making us an East Bay outfit, I suppose, even though I live in San Francisco. Well, we took the act across the Bay tonight to the open mic/open jam at Blondie's in the Mission. Technically, it was only 2/3 of the Sub Rosas because Doug wasn't available, but we just got Scotty, a bass player who was there, to sit in with us.

After a set by the house jam band, who I assume opens the Blondie's open jam every week, Rosa and I took the stage. I sang lead first, warbling my way through "Understanding Jane" (which I changed to "James"), "Someday, Someway" and "They Don't Know." People were very attentive and appreciative, and I even caught the eye of some guy who was singing the Marshall Crenshaw song along with me. We messed up the tiniest bit here and there, and we need to play the Icicle Works song faster, but overall, it went rather well. Then Rosa sang "Lay Down," "Fire and Rain" and "Wild World" and got several musicians to accompany her on the James Taylor and Cat Stevens numbers. Rosa didn't sing any of her original songs, but there will be time for those in the future.

Fabulous Patti is in town from L.A., and she thought we were great. Yes, she's my sister, but she's also really honest. Trust me. She told me that I have more of a musical theatre voice than a rock and roll voice because I insist on hitting all my notes and enunciating my words, but I take that as a compliment. For obvious reasons. While I don't necessarily want to sound like Julie Andrews when I sing jingle jangle pop songs in a bar (don't worry, I don't), I have always regarded musical theatre singers as more talented than rock stars. So bring it on. FP was also incredibly impressed with Rosa... because who wouldn't be?

Needless to say, I'll believe we'll be gracing the stage at Blondie's again. Musical domination one song at a time, my friends.

On another note, I'd like to offer you some advice on how not to be a sucker. When you get coupon in the mail for 15% off from, say, Bloomingdales, just throw it out. Because if you tuck it into your purse and swing by Bloomingdales "just to look around," you'll end up with a new $365 dress that you don't need and can't exactly afford. It will be terribly cute; so you'll love it, but you won't need it. And, because you've already been sucked in, you'll let the saleswoman talk you into opening a Bloomingdale's charge account even though you need another credit/charge card like you need a hole in the head because if you open one, you'll save another 15%. So when all is said and done, that $365 dress only will have cost you about $255 or so. A veritable bargain, right?

Ahem. I'll be wearing my new dress when we go out to celebrate Fabulous Patti's birthday tomorrow night. I'm a sucker, but I guess I'll be fabulously dressed.

Weekend Update

I impulse-posted last night after seeing my friend Barry on television, but otherwise, I've been a bit remiss this week in keeping up with this space. Just a little; I know some people who only update their blogs once every two weeks or so. However, I do value my gentle readers (virtually all of whom are friends who see and/or talk to me on a regular basis, but whatever), and I want to make sure the Sassy happenings stay as fresh as possible.

To that end, here are some tidbits from the last few days.

1. Last night I learned that the Attic is only my new favorite bar when there's a good DJ in charge of the turntables. Yes, the Chimay is still only five bucks no matter what, but if the soundtrack sucks, how can I possibly enjoy my libation? With all due respect to last night's music maven, the 80's rap made my drink a little sour and sent me and my friend Anjolie fleeing to the Latin American Club. Everyone else seemed to enjoy it, but it wasn't my thing.

2. On Wednesday night I went to see my musician friend Pat Johnson play at the Make Out Room, and he proclaimed me to be his only fan. As flattering as that was to hear, it is completely untrue. Pat is great, and lots of people far hipper than me know it.

3. I watched the Independent Spirit Awards on IFC this afternoon and was very excited when Juno won best picture and Ellen Page won best actress. Now, it's a little unfair for me to root for Juno since I didn't see any of the other nominated films, but I loved that little movie, particularly Ellen Page's performance.

4. On Thursday night Denise and I went to see Carrie Fisher's one-woman show, Wishful Drinking, at Berkeley Rep. It was pretty good, and I give Carrie a tremendous amount of credit for being able to laugh at her life and her problems. However, watching her chain smoke and swig Coke Zero while reminiscing kind of pales in comparison to Danny Hoch's solo show, which is about to close. They're two completely different pieces, but they still ran back to back at the same theatre, which invites comparison. For me, anyway.

5. Earlier on Thursday afternoon, I got together with Rosa to sing songs in preparation for our next open mic. After that, we watched the Democratic debate over pizza and salads at Bobby G's on University Avenue.

So now you're all caught up. The Academy Awards are tomorrow, and I'll be rooting for Juno. Despite the fact that I, again, haven't seen any of the other films. Or perhaps because of that fact.

Don't I Know You?

It's not unusual in my world but still fun: looking up at the television and seeing someone I know there. This time it was my old aquaintance Barry.

Barry and I were both in a production of Bertolt Brecht's The Resistable Rise of Arturo Ui back in 1997. It was the first play I did in San Francisco (these were the days when I was an actor), and I believe it was the first play Barry had ever done. Barry was and I presume still is a cool guy. He would give me rides to and from rehearsal, and he just had this sort of terminally suave swagger and aura. He also schooled me on the ins and outs of meeting men in bars, telling me that if I see an attractive man in a bar, I should chat him up because unless he has kissed a woman in the prior five minutes, the man is available and looking.

I tend to doubt the veracity of Barry's advice, but eleven years later, I still remember it.

I remember him hitting on at least one of my female friends who didn't really appreciate the attention, but Barry wasn't slimy. Not in my opinion, anyway. He was like an anachronism; a long-lost member of the Rat Pack somehow living in San Francisco during the dot-com boom. He would tell semi-drunken stories of running into Tori Spelling in the elevator of the Sir Francis Drake hotel and the like. And he wrote a column for the SF Weekly that would usually get him free meals.

Sometime around 1999 or 2000 Barry's acting career took a pretty big step forward. He was cast in a production of Mary Zimmerman's Metamorphoses that was running in Berkeley. He went with the show to the Mark Taper Forum in Los Angeles, and I believe he also may have traveled with the production to Seattle. Metamorphoses later went to Broadway, sadly with neither Barry nor Jessica, another friend of mine who had been in the Berkeley and Los Angeles runs of the show.

But the momentum was there, and Barry stayed in L.A. to pursue acting. I hadn't heard much about him over the last eight years, but there he was tonight in a commercial for Propel Fitness Water. I quick check of IMDB shows some episodic television and film work that Barry has been doing over the last five years or so. I should try to look him up the next time I go to Los Angeles; we could reminisce about our old Brechtian days.

It always makes me a little bit giddy to see one of my actor friends on TV, and I'll never grow tired of it.

Life's A Kick In That Town

Living in the Bay Area, I regularly cross paths with many a Los Angeles hater. Everyone is entitled to his or her own opinion, but look at the photo of Venice Beach to the right. How on earth could you hate that?

Okay, in all fairness, I know very few people who hate the beach. Most of the Los Angeles disdain I encounter focuses on traffic, pollution and the people. While I strongly disagree with the gross generalizations heaped upon millions of individuals who call themselves Los Angelenos, I do understand a lack of interest in smog and clogged freeways.

Regardless, I happen to quite like L.A. and just returned from another mini-vacation there. I took that Venice Beach photograph on Saturday evening as the sun was setting, and I must say, looking at it makes me very happy. But I'm getting a little ahead of myself here. My mini-vacation began on Wednesday afternoon, and a few hours after my arrival, my sister Fabulous Patti and I met my friends Kristie and Gabriella for dinner at Blair's in Silver Lake. I had salad, french fries and beer. Yummy.

On Thursday, I treated myself to Valentine's Day chocolates and a mid-day nap, after which I headed to Pasadena to see my nephew Mikey Jet. Oh, and his parents, of course. We read books and played cars, and I learned that Mikey Jet is awfully strong for a 20-month old. That fact became apparent when I wanted him to relinquish his grip on my purse at the end of the visit. Later that night, Emily and I (pictured above) went to the Backstage Bar and Grill in Culver City for a little karaoke. After being hit on by a very sketchy dude who initially enlisted his friend's sister to act as his wing man (what?), we met 22-year old Dennis, who became our karaoke fan and friend. It was a little unnerving for Emily and me to realize that we are closer in age to Dennis' parents than we are to him, but he was very nice. If rather young.

On Friday, I enjoyed a delicious lunch with Assaf at Lulu's on Beverly Boulevard. We talked all things L.A., including entertainment industry strikes, over big salads and sparkling water. After lunch, Assaf lead me to Melrose Avenue so I could shop for vintage clothes. I insisted on a pit stop at the Melrose Pinkberry, but after that I found the coolest vintage coat at a little place called The Way We Wore. It's red with (fake) brown fur trim, and I absolutely love it. I have a lot of nice coats, but this one might be my most glamorous. Assaf and I snapped this photo right before we parted ways for the day.

That night, Fabulous Patti and I went to Tiki Ti, which may be my favorite bar ever. I had been to Tiki Ti before, but my love for it was solidified on this trip. This tiny watering hole is only open a few days a week and serves a myriad of tropical drinks but no beer. So don't be like the clueless guy who asked for beer on Friday night. I had a brief conversation about basketball with another man at Tiki Ti who actually used the term "bitchin" without irony. Before you judge, however, I'll tell you that he was really cute and honestly didn't seem at all moronic. Unlike that guy who ordered the beer. After Tiki Ti, we went to the Good Luck Bar, which was also fun. There we met a musician who tends bar at The Echo. He and I talked music for a little while until he had to go meet another friend.

On Saturday, I dragged Fabulous Patti to Venice (okay, she was very willing to go), where we met my college friends Brent and Joanna at the On the Waterfront Cafe. I haven't seen Brent and Joanna in almost six years, and the last time was just a brief encounter at my ten-year reunion at Brown. They have a young son now who looks just like both of them and is an extremely well-mannered little boy. We spent the late afternoon catching up over many glasses of Erdinger on the Waterfront's back patio, which is where Joanna and I posed for this photo. Over all those beers, I recruited Joanna for the Los Angeles line up of my band. Whatever band that may be. Joanna sings really well; so I have to maintain my voice lessons to keep up with her. Now, given that I live up here, the Los Angeles line up of whatever band I have in mind may only exist at karaoke bars or in Joanna's living room, but whatever. Every band has to start somewhere.

All of this brings us to today, and after brunch at Fred 62 late this morning, I returned to the City by the Bay. I have no plans to visit L.A. again until May, but I think I can hold on until then. Especially since I intend to go to Hawaii in April. Los Angeles will be there when I return, and if I stay in touch with that Echo bartender guy, I should be well-informed of upcoming live music and 60's dance parties at The Echo, The Echoplex and Spaceland.

And you know I'll like that.

Love Song

In case you haven't noticed by now, I'm a bit of a music fan.

I've been known to stop conversations mid-sentence if I happen to hear a favorite song of mine. The conversation can continue at any time; I've only got scant minutes to sing passionately along with the song. I staunchly defend my favorite music, despite what anyone else may think of it. I have a very active, if wholly irrational, crush on Buddy Holly. Seriously.

I recently had drinks with a friend of mine, and when he told me that he doesn't really pay attention to lyrics and that most of his music is in storage and he doesn't really miss it, I can proudly say that I didn't just get up and walk out right then and there. I do think I looked at him like he was insane and asked how he could function in the world while separated from his music, but at least I stayed on my barstool until the cocktails were gone.

Anyway, you also may have noticed that this particular music fan has been a little restless this winter. To satisfy said restlessness, I hopped a Southwest flight to L.A. today. I chose as my airplane book a tome I have wanted to read for a while now: Rob Sheffield's Love Is a Mix Tape. I heard about this book almost as soon as it was published last year, but I'm a kind of cheap (although apparently not cheap enough to do something financially and environmentally prudent like set foot into a library), so I waited for the paperback release.

I'm only on page 72, but Love Is a Mix Tape is exactly the kind of book that makes me so very happy. I have spent all 72 pages full of emotion and on the verge of tears... not only because poor Rob Sheffield lost the love of his life when his wife died unexpectedly in 1997 at age 31, but because Sheffield is a man who gets it. With all due respect to his wife, the love of this Rolling Stone writer's life may very well be music, and that is a love I completely understand. Sheffield benchmarks the major events of his life with music he was listening to at the time. In fact, often the music is the major event. Plus, he knows the value of a good (or even bad) mix tape.

At one point during his recollection of the early years of his relationship with his wife, Sheffield writes: "I realize it's frowned on to choose a mate based on something superficial like the music they love." He goes on to say how music served as a bond between him and his wife, but.... I'm sorry, Rob, "superficial"? Music? Virtually all of the most intense love affairs and crushes I've ever had began because the guy had a passion for music. Maybe that could well explain why I'm still single, but still. There is nothing superficial about the love of music. Please.

Even though I suspect I may actually cry at some point, I can't wait to continue reading this book.

Music In My Headphones, In Berkeley and At The Attic

Little does Marshall Crenshaw know, he has provided the soundtrack for my life over the last several days.

Really, I'm talking about just one song: Crenshaw's 1982 hit "Someday, Someway." It should come as no surprise that this catchy little number has had such a presence in my world for the last week or so. For one thing, it holds a prominent position on my iPod playlist. I never skip "Someday, Someway" when it pops into my headphones during my runs, and sometimes I listen to it repeatedly.

However, I've also been singing "Someday, Someway" lately. Not only did I sing it with Mindi on Wednesday night, but this afternoon, I practiced it with Rosa at her place in Berkeley. Rosa's and my rendition was much better than my attempt with Mindi primarily because I left the guitar playing to Rosa. She and I are gearing up for another open mic appearance, which will probably happen in the next couple of weeks at a bar in the Mission, as opposed to Alameda. It's like we're taking the Sub Rosas on tour! Rosa also played me a couple of new songs she's written, and they're really good.

One day maybe I'll write music. Maybe.

In addition to all that, I sang along with "Someday, Someway" Friday night at my new favorite bar, the Attic. I know, I know, it seems like I have a new favorite watering hole every month or so. Recent favorites include the Easy Lounge, the Knockout and Coffee Bar. And the Attic is hardly new. I first noticed it a decade ago, when I used to live up the street from it (a ways up the street, but up the street nonetheless). My friend Joel was a big Attic fan back in the day, but at that time it was too smoky for me.

Well, the smoke is gone, and the Attic has found a place in my heart. For one thing, they have Chimay for $5. Need I say more? Probably not, but I will. Apparently, they have a really good happy hour, but we got there too late to experience that. I believe my friend Pat worked behind the Attic bar at one time, but I have no idea if he still does. What truly has endeared the Attic to me is the music. And if Friday night was a representative example, I'm talking good music. For a few years now, I've heard rumblings about music at the Attic. Evidently Sunday nights there see an oldies dance party, but I work Sunday nights, so I wouldn't know for sure. I finally managed to make it to the Attic Friday night for the Teenage Kicks monthly pop party featuring 60's pop, 80's indie and power pop.

In other words, a night of music designed for me.

Alongside Marshall Crenshaw, we heard Blondie, the Beatles and a host of music unfamiliar to me but intriguing and fabulous. I met one of the evening's DJs, Victor (excuse me, that would be DJ El Guapo), after passing him some requests written on a napkin. Sadly, he didn't have any of the songs I suggested, but he liked them. He mentioned that he worries when people make requests because he thinks they don't like what he's playing. I assured him that requests from me are the result of excitement about what I'm hearing and the subsequent desire to participate. He seemed happy to hear that, which is a good thing because he'll probably be getting more Sassy napkin requests in the future.

$5 Belgian beer and good songs. I guess it doesn't take much to keep me happy on a Friday night.

On a completely unrelated note, my friend Omar was quoted today in an Atlanta Journal-Constitution article on Barack Obama's presidential bid. Omar is so fancy. By comparison, I spent a chunk of time this evening discussing with my friend Phil who shot J.R. on "Dallas." That, by the way, would be Kristin, played by Bing Crosby's daughter, Mary. Yes, that bit of information has been in my memory since 1980.

My parents must be so proud.


***Attic photo by Norman O.***

So You Wanna Be A Rock and Roll Star?

Seven years ago, three San Francisco friends gathered in a Potrero Hill apartment with the intention of starting a band. Mindi, the would-be drummer, had already come up with a name for the group, which would specialize in three chord pop songs: Blo Pop. Sassy would sing, and Adam would play guitar. They didn't have a bass player, but that could come later.

The original 2001 line up of Blo Pop made it through exactly two rehearsals, during which they never played a single full song.

Ah, the best of intentions. I may have told you this tale before, but I repeat it today because last night, Mindi and I got together to revive Blo Pop. Unfortunately, Adam has kind of been voted out without his knowledge, but we assume that, seven years later, he has better things to do than worry about us. He was officially replaced last night by Mindi's husband, Matt.

Mindi and Matt live in this great loft in the East Bay where they have a full rock and roll set up, complete with drums, two guitars, a bass, a microphone (with mic stand) and an amplifier. Yes, this is where they live. The new Blo Pop line up rocked through "Someday, Someway," "Understanding Jane" and "Our Lips Are Sealed" with Mindi on drums, me on vocals and guitar and Matt on a second guitar for OLAS. It was rock and roll history... right there in Emeryville.

Okay, so maybe we weren't that good.

For one thing, I don't really play guitar. I did, about 20 years ago, and I certainly remember basic chords. But two decades later, even simple songs present a bit of a challenge, and this morning, my callous-free fingertips are still upset with me. Not only are my skills not mad, they're not even the least bit bothered. But I can sing (at least pop music), and Mindi and Matt play well enough for the songs we took on. The long and short of it is, no matter our musical prowess, it was super fun.

After the Blo Pop reunion concert, we settled down a bit to play Rock Band. Yes, the video game. Now, that was one ridiculous good time. Mindi and Matt play music, be it themselves or gamer-style, in their little loft home on a regular basis, making them perhaps the cutest couple ever. Or at least one of the cutest; I'm lucky enough to know several darn cute couples.

Live music and rock star video games. I wonder if this is how the Beatles or Buddy Holly started.

However accomplished Blo Pop is or isn't, it was nice to play some music and sing again. Aside from exactly two singing lessons and a couple of karaoke evenings, I have been sort of allowing my musical muscles to atrophy lately. But all of that is over now. I'm meeting Rosa on Sunday afternoon for a Sub Rosas practice, and she and I will probably play another open mic soon after I return from my trip to L.A. next week.

There is no greater happiness than a three chord pop song.

One Zolicious* Birthday

There is a reason this coming Tuesday is known as Super Tuesday. Contrary to what you may heard, however, that reason is not because Tuesday will see the multi-state presidential primary. Nor is it because this Tuesday is Fat Tuesday. Tuesday, February 5, 2008, will be a super day because it is my amazing friend Carolyn's 30th birthday.

Not wanting to overshadow the politicos or Mardi Gras revelers, Carolyn generously opted to celebrate three decades on the planet with a party last night at Cigar Bar on Montgomery Street. Donning a fabulous red dress and a tiara, the lovely and talented Carolyn welcomed family and friends and even took a minute to pose for this photo with me and her sister Aisha. Everyone who was anyone was there, including Carolyn's parents, her fiance Dima, the aforementioned Aisha, Dima's poker buddies, Valerie, Kevin, Paul, Denise, various other friends and me. Between the good company, delicious cocktails and gooey chocolate birthday cake, it may have been a perfect party.

I stayed up way too late after returning home from the celebration, but I think that's because I'd had a Diet Coke at 6 p.m. I almost never drink caffeine; so it provides me with quite the kick on the rare occasion that I do indulge.

Carolyn's party was but one highlight of an overall lovely weekend. On Friday night Kurt and I had cocktails at Tony Nik's, and this afternoon I got a pedicure and managed to avoid the entire first half of the Super Bowl as well as the half-time show. I definitely consider that to be a coup. Aside from the fact that it provides an iron-clad excuse to eat too much guacamole, there is pretty much only one thing I like about the Super Bowl: it means that football season is over. Thank goodness for that.

In other Sassy happenings, I have some excellent news! My dear friend Schleevin has just booked a job portraying Gentleman Caller (I presume) in a production of The Glass Menagerie opening at the Old Globe Theatre in San Diego next month. While San Diego is hundreds of miles away, it is much closer than New York City, where Schleevin lives. And given that he and I have not seen each other since mid-2006, I just may have to summon my inner jet setter and fly down to San Diego to see this show and hang out with him.

Such a jaunt would sandwich nicely between my next trip to L.A. and my intended April vacation in Hawaii.


*The brilliant Denise coined the term "Zolicious" to describe all things Carolyn, and it is incredibly appropriate.

Music That's Making Me Happy Today, vol. 35... Plus My New Favorite Place

From The Jam at the Great American Music Hall

Rarely do I wish I was older than I already am. In fact, these days, I never make such a wish. However, were I older than my tender 38 years, I would have been older than 10 in 1980. And had been older than 10 in 1980, perhaps I could have been a mod scenester and caught The Jam live while they were still together.

Alas, I was not older than 10 in 1980 (well, except when I turned 11 ten days before the end of the year), and The Jam broke up before I attended my first concert in 1984. That concert, for the record, was The Go-Go's and The Red Rockers at the Greek Theatre in Griffith Park. But this post is not about those bands or that show.

As it stands, I am the age I am, and I never saw The Jam. However, I was able to see a pretty good recreation this week in the form of From The Jam. Or, as I like to call them, Almost The Jam or Sort of The Jam. From The Jam features Jam bass player/singer Bruce Foxton and drummer Rick Buckler, but guitarist/lead vocalist/principal songwriter Paul Weller is notably absent. The Jam without Paul Weller may seem terribly wrong, but I'm not embarrassed to admit that I take what I can get. Besides, I saw Paul Weller at the Warfield in 2005.

So on Tuesday, I met Richard and Eleanor at the Great American Music Hall for a 1980 mod dance party. My friend Tom was there, too, but unfortunately, I never found him. Foxton and Buckler have recruited a keyboard player/rhythm guitarist, as well as a lead guitarist/lead singer to replace Weller. I have to admit, Fake Paul Weller wasn't bad. He did a pretty good imitation, in fact. And it was just so much fun to hear those songs live. I was so happy. Even the obligatory grey haired, middle aged slam dancers didn't bother me during this show. Mostly because they stayed away from me.

I will say I was disappointed that they didn't play "Beat Surrender," my absolute favorite Jam song. But I suppose no show is perfect.


In other news, I have a new favorite place in San Francisco. That would be Coffee Bar in the Mission. I don't even drink coffee, but this is still my new favorite place. Why, you ask? Well, for one thing, you can get hot chocolate at any coffee place; so you needn't drink coffee to enjoy a coffee joint. However, what makes Coffee Bar stand out is that they also have wine and beer. I do drink those. Plus, they feature an array of delicious snacks.

I met Emily at Coffee Bar yesterday afternoon and began with a hot chocolate. An hour or so of chatting later, Emily and I both upgraded to wine. We chose glasses personally recommended by the sommelier, and they were delicious. If all that wasn't enough, they gave us free chocolates and let us sample cupcakes. Super duper yum!!!! The atmosphere is also good, and since Coffee Bar is new, it wasn't overly crowded.

The very best part is that the owners of Coffee Bar have some serious chutzpah. They have opened one block away from a Starbucks. Well, technically, Coffee Bar is across the street from the Starbucks, but their respective entrances are a block apart. As of yesterday, the Starbucks was still busier, but when was the last time you had South African wine at Starbucks? Exactly.

I must say, I highly, highly recommend Coffee Bar. And if you actually like coffee, all the better.

*** Jam photo by Pennie Smith. Coffee Bar photo by Amy L. ***

Kir Royales At the Roosevelt Hotel

I don't think I've had a Kir Royale in at least four years, but when Katya ordered one Friday night at the Roosevelt Hotel, it just seemed like the way to go. Our new Hollywood elite gathered at the famed hotel to show those Tinsel Town partiers what a good time really is. The elite, shown posing here for the paparazzi, included Katya, Gabe, myself, Assaf and Fabulous Patti. Unfortunately, Assaf and Gabe only made brief appearances, but Katya, Patti and I kept the party going. We met some guy from England whose name I can't remember, but he was nice. He was in town on business and was quite lucky to stumble upon our company. We also tried to go to Teddy's, an old school Hollywood lounge in the Roosevelt that I'd read about in the New York Times (yes, I live in California, but I read about Los Angeles destinations in a New York paper).

What the New York Times failed to mention, however, is that Teddy's is apparently super exclusive, and without a reservation or a spot on the guest list, you're not getting in. So we were turned away. While I had previously just been curious about Teddy's, I now have to see what's in there. Not that I'm into super exclusive clubs, but once I was denied access, it became a challenge. You can bet I'll figure out how to get myself a reservation the next time I'm in L.A. Our swank Roosevelt evening was just one of the mini-adventures I had on my mini-vacation last week. Lots of fun times were had, and here are some highlights. They're in no particular order, including chronological, so don't even try.

I had exactly one celebrity sighting. Okay, this guy isn't really that famous, but he's a good actor, which counts as celebrity in my book. On Saturday morning I ran into... well, ran by, really... Matthew Mahar as he and I were both jogging. He has done a bunch of movies and television, but he really impressed me last year in Berkeley Rep's production of The Pillowman. He was amazing. He also had a small role in the Kevin Smith film Jersey Girl, which I remember because he utters the best line in the whole movie. You may not think that's much of an accomplishment, given the poor press Jersey Girl got, but it's not such a bad film. I've seen much worse. Anyway, I had occasion to meet Matthew through my job while he was doing Pillowman, and I briefly considered saying hello on Saturday. But I decided against it in part because we were both exercising and in part because stopping him on the street to reminisce about making his acquaintance a year ago might have been a little creepy and weird.

Since I was in the Movie Capital of the World, I decided to take in a movie. I saw Juno, and it was super duper cute! Oh, my goodness, it was so good. Do I think it is a Best Picture? Well, maybe not. And I'm not as enamored of the screenplay (or screenwriter, for that matter) as the rest of the known universe seems to be. But what makes this film so fantastic, in my opinion, is the acting. Star Ellen Page is every bit as good as everyone says she is and then some. She just takes no prisoners. In fact, everyone in this film is phenomenal. The actor who plays Juno's father is terrific, and Michael Cera... well, I just want to hug him, he's so cute. Oh, yes, it's so good. Plus, I saw it at an independent theatre; so I only paid $7.50 for an evening screening. That's a 2007 film for 1997 prices!

On Saturday afternoon I got together with my friend Jon from high school, whom I hadn't seen since 2001. In the last six years, he and his wife Holly have created another human being, and I got to meet that human: their two-year old son Milo. Holly was at a meeting on Saturday; so Jon, Milo and I took a light rail ride into South Pasadena for coffee (none for Milo, though). Milo's fascination with the train gave Jon and me a chance to catch up, and we talked about everything from our high school classmates to Los Angeles real estate to music. Jon used to work in the music industry and is as big a music fan as I am, if not bigger. You know I always love talking music.

Hey, wait a second, Jon's neighbor Garrett is an actor and has had a degree of success. I met him, which I guess means I had two celebrity sightings during this trip. Oh, and my friend Assaf is an actor and is doing rather well. Okay, fine, there were celebrities all over the place.

On Thursday, I had dinner with my friend Jonah, whom I hadn't seen in almost 13 years. 13 years! Jonah and I know each other from college, and it was wonderful to reconnect. Plus, he took me to that restaurant-bar with all the hot guys (see January 24th post). I was certainly grateful for that.

All in all, it was a rather successful trip. And I anticipate more good times when I go back to L.A. next month.

They Say You Can't Go Home Again

And I'm beginning to see what "they" mean.

My latest mini-vacation in L.A. was quite lovely. I caught up with friends I hadn't seen in years; I discovered fun haunts where I drank delicious cocktails; and the weather cooperated enough to allow me to take my daily runs down Los Feliz Boulevard. I'll regale you with details of all the goodness soon, but in this post I want to share a slightly different anecdote.

A few weeks ago, I mentioned to my high school friend Kristie that I was planning to visit Los Angeles again. She then suggested we get together for dinner and drinks in Pasadena or Glendale. Well, Glendale is absolutely out of the question; so I didn't even give that idea the least bit of consideration. But Pasadena. Our hometown.

While truly a lovely city and a wonderful place to grow up (I mean, just take a look at that City Hall), at the end of the day, Pasadena is, and always will be, a suburb. I'd raise my kids there, if I had any, but the sassy city denizen I have become was resistant to spending a Saturday evening in Pasadena. Especially when far more interesting neighborhoods sit just on the other side of the 5 Freeway. However, for various reasons, it became easier to meet Kristie there. So I decided to brave the 'burbs for a night and keep an open mind. After all, maybe it wouldn't be as bad as I feared.

Well, as it turns out, it wasn't as bad as I feared. It was worse.

My sister Fabulous Patti and I met Kristie at Twin Palms, a restaurant that either is currently or at one time was co-owned by Kevin Costner. Kevin Costner can't act to save his life, but I assume that doesn't hamper his ability to own a business. Anyway, the food was fine, I suppose, and the tented space provided a decent enough atmosphere.

Then at 9:00, the band began to play. And they opened with "Margaritaville."

I probably don't need to tell you that it was all downhill from there. Like a car wreck you can't help but stare at, I actually got up to watch in disbelief as these perfectly competent, grey-haired musicians jammed their way through "Sweet Caroline" and "Brick House." Oh, yes they did. A few of the selections were actually good, if overplayed, songs (case in point: Van Morrison's "Brown Eyed Girl"), but their by-the-book, white bread renditions stripped the tunes of any spirit or character. However, not everyone felt as I did. As Kristie, FP and I were making our escape, we noticed that quite the crowd had gotten up to dance.

Within 20 minutes the restaurant had morphed into a cross between a bad wedding reception and an adult prom. It was as fascinating as it was horrifying.

Once free from that assault on decent music taste, we found ourselves at a nearby bar called the 35-er. I actually chose the 35-er because it had a promising dive quality to it, but I quickly learned that there is a difference between a city dive bar and one in the town that hosts the Rose Parade. We were done before finishing one cocktail each.

Why tell this tale? Well, during the thousands of conversations I have had with people both in the Bay Area and New England who feel the need to tell me what an awful place they believe Los Angeles to be, I have occasionally, if I'm feeling diplomatic, said that I loved growing up in the L.A. area, but I have no idea what it is like to live there as an adult. And I realize that over the years, I have become no more familiar with adult life in L.A. because my visits would repeatedly take me back to the suburban hamlet of my formative years. Nostalgic to be sure, but as you just read, also kind of lame.

However, all of that changed last spring. I think I have become so enamored with Los Angeles over the past seven or eight months because now that my home base has shifted my Pasadena to Los Feliz and Hollywood, I am getting a taste of adult life down there. At least the kind of adult life I would lead. And it's pretty darn fun. Certainly, if you have moral or emotional aversions to automobiles, the film and television industries or the lack of weather changes, you can continue to look down your nose at Los Angeles. But I intend to continue taking frequent holidays in the Southland.

I just need to stay out of the suburbs. And away from any band playing Jimmy Buffett.