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.

Eye Candy

Just in case you were wondering, all of the attractive (and by "attractive," I mean super duper hot) men in Los Angeles seem to gather at Jones restaurant and bar on Santa Monica Boulevard. Or at least that was the case tonight. Seriously. Neither Fabulous Patti nor I could believe our eyes. I'm not certain my friend Jonah noticed.

Just a little tip from me to you, my friends.

(You can see how I'm spending my vacation. Or at least where my attention is.)

Gene Kelly Definitely Would Be Singing... Plus Theatre That's Making Me Happy Today, vol. 17

The beloved Gene Kelly would be singing right now, were he alive and in L.A., because it certainly is raining. Pouring by Los Angeles standards, in fact. For the last week or so, I had been so smug every time I checked the Southern California weather forecast because it seemed I would miss the showery weather headed toward the area.

No such luck. It's supposed to rain at least off an on every day I will be here.

Ah, well. I'm still in the City of Angels, which is a very happy thing in my book. Over the next several days I plan to see my friends Assaf, Debbie, Kristie, Jonah and possibly Jon. And my destination spots include Teddy's in the Roosevelt Hotel, Tiki Ti and maybe 4100 Bar. The rain may force me to forgo my fantastic runs along Los Feliz Boulevard, but if that's the case, I'll just find a gym. Not as good, but whatever. Regardless, I'm writing this on my sister Fabulous Patti's computer, with the lights from the Griffith Park Observatory shining upon me as the sun sets and the rain comes down. I may even suspend my two-night-a-week drinking rule since I'm on vacation and have a glass of champagne right now.

Yes, happiness.

Before my departure from the Bay this afternoon, I got together with Sheela at Casanova last night. Sheela just spent the last 1000 years (okay, 4 or 5 weeks) in London and India, and I haven't seen her since November. Needless to say, we had lots and lots of minutia to catch up on. My favorite story of the night was hers. Apparently, on a quest for authentic fish and chips to satisfy her husband, Sheela took her 12-year old daughter into an English pub only to learn after the fact that the drinking age is 18, and her daughter should not have been there. Oops. Sheela and I are confused, though, as we both thought kids are allowed in pubs if they serve food. In fact, I went to London with my mother in 1979, and I seem to recall her taking me into pubs all the time. I have very vivid memories of sipping lemonade and reading aloud poems from Shel Silverstein's Where the Sidewalk Ends to entertain my mother (and, as a consequence, delight the other bar patrons).

Well, maybe times have changed. Or perhaps my mother was a renegade.

Okay, now on to some incredibly amazing theatre: Danny Hoch's Taking Over at Berkeley Rep.

I could go on and on (and on) about how good this show is. Hoch's tremendous one-man performance transforms him into numerous characters as he creates a picture of one Brooklyn neighborhood's gentrification. It may be about Brooklyn, but a play about gentrification could easily be set in the Bay Area. Yes, I could go on and on, but you know what? You just have to see it. Seriously. Go see it. 'Nuff said.

I'll be expecting a report on how much you liked it.

The Power of Pie

No, we're not talking math here. I like math and all (honestly), but given the choice between the mathematical constant 3.14... and dessert, you probably can imagine which one I'll choose. Sorry, pi.

What we are talking about is delicious and socially conscious pie. My friend Valerie and I had been talking for a couple of weeks about hanging out. She, like me, has an atypical work schedule; so she's often game for some weekday afternoon socializing. It took a couple of weeks, but we finally found a time to get together, and Valerie suggested going out for pie.

Yes, pie.

Valerie and her boyfriend Kevin are regular patrons of Mission Pie, the urban link to Pie Ranch. Pie Ranch is basically an educational farm that teaches kids about food production and encourages social change. I'm probably oversimplifying their mission, but I hope you get the point. Mission Pie at 25th and Mission Streets sells pies made from ingredients grown at Pie Ranch. The store also employs Mission High School students.

Well, as Valerie promised, the pie is truly excellent. Plus, it was just what she and I both needed on Thursday afternoon. She'd had a hard day teaching drama to apathetic pre-teens. I hadn't gotten a lot of sleep the night before, and I didn't have the desire to, say, grocery shop. So I didn't eat much before going to a singing lesson in Potrero Hill. After my lesson, I walked from the studio to meet Valerie at Mission Pie, and by the time I arrived, I was more than ready for a snack. I settled on a slice of banana cream pie and a hot chocolate. Scrumptious. In all honestly, I had intended to eat more than one slice, but after my pie-liquid chocolate combo, I'd had enough sugar.

Good pie from a good local company. Can you really ask for anything more on a late Thursday afternoon? I didn't think so. And for the record, I stopped at Bristol Farms on my way home from Mission Pie and bought myself some real dinner.

So that was Thursday. After work last night, I met a bunch of people at Do Re Mi, the private karaoke studios in Japantown. You rent your own room for up to 18 people and let the caterwauling begin. Do Re Mi doesn't have the greatest song selection in the world, and they use ultra-synthy, badly produced karaoke music, but whatever. You get to sing all you want without having to endure the warbling of strangers. Good times.

Our karaoke group broke up at about midnight, but Andrey and I, along with a woman whose name I don't remember (that's horrible, I know, but I met her for the first time last night), decided to grab a drink afterward. We ended up, by my suggestion, unfortunately, at the Bigfoot Lodge on Polk Street. I should know better than to venture onto Upper Polk Street on a weekend night, but sometimes in life we do things we shouldn't. I've been to the Bigfoot Lodge before, but obviously on off nights because I wasn't prepared for its crowded, weekend warrior atmosphere. I like to go out, and I like bars, but it has been years since I've been in a bar that was so jam packed I could barely move. Tony Nik's wasn't even that crowded on New Year's Eve. Not to mention that everybody in the joint looked to be about 25. And frankly, they behaved that way, too. I felt like a serious old lady. An old lady in a bar at 12:30 on a Friday night/Saturday morning. That is never who you want to be.

I was home by 1:15, after just one hard fought drink.

Anyway, on to other topics. I mentioned a singing lesson earlier in this post, and after weighing a couple of options, I believe I have chosen a new singing teacher. I've only had one lesson with her, so we'll have to see how it goes.

Also, I got my Morning Benders EP's in the mail on Thursday (see previous post), and I love them! But I suck. I was planning to see the Morning Benders play at Bottom of the Hill on the 28th, but I didn't think I needed advanced tickets, and the show is already sold out. Crap. And as per what has become my usual luck with their shows, they are performing in L.A. two days before I arrive for my next mini vacation, and I can't make their San Francisco gig in February. Well, I still think they're my new favorite local band. I'll just have to love them from the comfort of my stereo and iPod until I can get my sassy little behind to a club to see them play.

Music That's Making Me Happy Today, vol.34

This post is not about one group or song but instead a potpourri of music that has captured my attention and is certainly worth yours.

The Morning Benders. I don't want to jinx anything, but I have a feeling the Morning Benders will soon become my favorite local band. Or at least they'll tie for that honor, if the rumor I heard about the Maydays reforming comes to fruition. Anyway, my unbridled love for the Morning Benders is just a suspicion at this point because I've only heard a few of their songs. I discovered them on MySpace (I know, I know, but that site is a good source for new music) in June, and I love what I've heard so far. However, I've yet to hear an entire album, and I've never seen them live. This Berkeley/Oakland-based outfit plays all the time, but for one reason or another over the last six months, I've always had to miss their shows. I've had to work, or I've had other plans, or they play in L.A. a week before I visit and are playing in San Francisco while I'm in L.A. You get the picture. But a few days ago I bought their two EP's online, and in a few weeks, I'll actually have the opportunity to see them play.

I have a feeling that once I hear more of their music and see them perform, I'll fall completely in love. At least I hope so.

"Understanding Jane" by Icicle Works. Have I written about this song on this space before? Well, my apologies, if I have, but I just adore it. I was first introduced to this most excellent power pop ditty when I heard it on my local radio station in 1987. I guess not many people loved it as much as I did, though, because it never became a big hit and seemed to disappear... probably to be remembered only by serious Icicle Works fans and music industry types working in the late 80's. But it has always held a place in my heart. About a year or so ago I began to seek out a copy of the song, and my search took me to places like Amoeba Records and You Tube. Sadly, I always came up empty. Until the fateful day a few weeks ago when I decided to check Amazon. It seems so obvious that I wonder why I didn't think of Amazon before, but whatever... success! Now, "Understanding Jane" is enjoying heavy rotation on my iPod.

Sassy!!! Another local band discovered, accidentally, actually, on MySpace. And it's not just their name that endears this band to me. From what I've heard, Sassy!!! sounds exactly like the kind of band I would have formed as a guitar playing teenager. Had I formed my own band back then. Talk about power pop. They recently played with the Dickies at the Red Devil Lounge, but I was otherwise engaged and couldn't make the shows. Also, the idea of the Dickies at the Red Devil Lounge, of all places, truly frightens me. But I'll catch the girls of Sassy!!! soon, I hope.

In other news, I have a big few days ahead of me. Tomorrow I have a singing lesson and a pedicure followed by opening night of Danny Hoch's new show at Berkeley Rep. On Thursday, it's another singing lesson and then Katrina's birthday party. And after work on Friday, I'm going to a private karaoke party. Imagine the rock star possibilities!

So much to do, so little me.

Smooth As Silk

I have no edge.

I imagine this comes as to no surprise to you, dear readers. I mean, I'm an Ivy League graduate with a steady job who lives in a good neighborhood. I exercise everyday. I drink in moderation, and I've never done drugs. Except for extenuating circumstances usually involving me having to be at work before 6:00 in the morning, I don't even drink caffeine. I floss. I always use condoms (forgive me, family members, if that was too much information). And wasn't I just, in the last post on this space, talking about shopping at Ann Taylor?

I do eat way too much sugar, but that's probably my only vice.

I think my parents had edge. They were both artists in their day; my mother a jazz singer and my father a poet. An inter-racial couple, they got married in the 1960's, when such unions were more harshly judged, and had biracial children. However, by the time I became a coherent person, my family had settled into a fairly typical suburban existence. Currently, my mother is retired and lives in Hawaii. Fabulous to be sure, but hardly edgy. My father is a personal trainer in Gig Harbor, Washington. He teaches a relatively new exercise method, but again, not exactly edgy.

Honestly, I've never deluded myself into believing I have much of an edge. However, I have been confronted with the reality that I truly have no edge. Allow me to explain. After going to my friend Beth's book reading last week, I was overcome with guilt that I have never read any of her books. So I bought three of the four, and this week, I read Everybody Into the Pool, Beth's witty 2005 memoir. Here's what I learned. Like me, Beth has never had much interest in drugs (actually, I knew this already). But while she and I both had relatively quiet suburban childhoods, and while I believe my parents might trump hers on edge factor... Let's just say that not only does Beth have significantly more edge than me, but compared to her, I'm downright square.

At this point you're probably wondering why I care.

Well, even though I've never had much of an edge, per se, I've always considered myself quite hip. Yes, I have that steady job, but it's in a very interesting field and involves me being a performer, of sorts. And for the first four years I lived in San Francisco, I only worked part time. I had health insurance through my performers union, but there was no 401K plan in my world back then. Oh, yes, I was really teetering on the brink there.

Plus, I used to be an actor. And I wasn't a boring, successful commercial actor or a community theatre thespian emoting my way through yet another performance of Our Town in an air conditioned suburban auditorium. Please. The plays I did were staged in city basements and black box spaces, and most of them were new or relatively new scripts. Few of those scripts were particularly edgy, but several of them were really bad. That's got to count for something.

I'm also a huge music fan, and even at 38 years old, I enjoy seeing local and indie bands in small clubs far more than big name performers in equally large amphitheatres. In fact, it's been years since I patronized a live music venue bigger than the Warfield. But then, I also enjoy karaoke, which even I must admit undermines the hip factor of my music passion. However, that brings me to the next topic: I sing. I don't happen to think I sing all that well, but lots of other people, including complete strangers, insist on telling me otherwise. So I suppose I'll believe them. However, I don't write my own songs (yet... but that's a topic for another post); so most of what I sing is 60's and early 80's pop music. But whatever.

The bottom line is this: the lack of edge has shaken my confidence in my hip quotient.

Ah, well. I soldier on. After work last night, your possibly only marginally hip heroine headed to a restaurant in Russian Hill. My friend Kurt had invited me to join him and some of his friends for dinner there. Even though I had to arrive late and didn't know anyone other than Kurt, whom I don't even know all that well, I was going to wow them all with my charm and vivaciousness. New friends are always a good thing, right? Well, I would have done exactly that, except when I got to the restaurant, no one was there. A call to Kurt revealed the dinner had effectively been canceled when the organizer caught the flu. Kurt had shown up earlier in the evening, but no one else had; so he went back home.

Undaunted, I quickly activated plan B, which was to bar hop with Carolyn and her sister as they scoped out potential locations for Carolyn's 30th birthday party next month. We went from that Black Voodoo Magic place on Van Ness and Lombard (which, for the record, has a good juke box) to Mars Bar on Brannan to a brief stop at the Last Supper Club (it was closed when we got there) to the Latin American Club. Carolyn wasn't actually considering the Latin American Club for her birthday; that was my idea just because I like that bar.

Cocktails were poured, brilliance was displayed, and our banter was deemed very entertaining by at least one of our cab drivers.

So I suppose, when all is said and done, hip is in the eye of the beholder. At least that's what I told myself this afternoon as I scheduled an eyebrow wax appointment for Monday morning and made a mental note that I can't forget my upcoming facial in three weeks.

Wrestling With Denim

I was planning to go to the doctor today. On Tuesday it appeared I was having a bronchitis relapse, and my sister, who is a doctor, recommended I pay another visit to a health care provider. However, I started feeling better yesterday, and even met Katie in the Haight last night for Eritrean food at Massawa and cocktails at Club Deluxe. Katie is recovering from bronchitis, herself, so we matched each other residual cough for residual cough.

Then this morning, I felt a lot better. I still have a bit of a cough and a little congestion, but it's nothing like Tuesday and certainly nothing like the height of my illness at Christmas.

So instead of the doctor, I went shopping.

I decided a week or two ago that I wanted a new pair of jeans. A sassier, trendier pair than the Levi's, J. Crew and no-name brand that have inhabited my closet for the last four to five years. I generally only wear the jeans I already own when I'm dressing down for my weekend shifts at work or running to the corner store before showering. I wanted something a little fancier, but still jeans, of course. Since I wear dresses far more frequently than pants of any sort, I had little idea where to buy trendy jeans. I do recall my friend Gabriella mentioning Lucky Brand Jeans, and she spent years working in fashion. So she should know. I strode into the nearby Lucky Brand Jeans store on my way to the gym this afternoon, prepared to quickly pick out the perfect pair and fast be on my way to the weight machines, elliptical trainer and steam room.

Not so fast.

Now, I am a thin woman. Believe me, I was fat as an adolescent; so I know of what I speak. However, I am real person thin, meaning I have hips, thighs, a belly and an ass. I am not catwalk thin, Hollywood actress thin, mainstream pop star thin or any other kind of "thin" that is, in reality, super skinny. Even when appetite loss due to a small bout of depression in late 2002, followed by 7 months of working out with personal trainers in 2003 rendered me The Thinnest I've Ever Been In My Life (and honestly, that was pretty darn thin), I still had hips, thighs, a belly and an ass. They were smaller, but they never went away.

Well, four and a half years and about ten pounds later, at 5'7" I now generally wear a size 8 or 6, depending on the garment, and occasionally a 4 in certain tops and dresses, mostly from Ann Taylor. (Ann sure knows how to retain customers: lure them in with low numbers, and they'll keep coming back. I've got to say, it works on me.) I do believe that these numbers are smaller than what someone of my height and weight would have worn, say, eight or so years ago, before bunches of stores adjusted their sizes. I personally believe manufacturers did that to accommodate the increasingly popular and formerly non-existent (no pun intended) size 0, but I don't know for sure.

Anyway, Lucky Brand Jeans could not possibly care less what Ann Taylor, Banana Republic or even Betsey Johnson do; I do not wear a size 8 in that store, let alone anything smaller. I knew I was in trouble when most of the jeans I saw were waist sizes 24 though 27. There were some 28's and 29's and even fewer sizes for waists over 30 inches. I initially selected a pair of low-rise, slim leg, flared jeans in waist size 30 and kept looking. Nearby was an ultra-low rise, super-slim leg, flared jean that didn't really appeal to me, but there were some 31's and 32's in that cut. With three pairs of jeans in hand, sizes 30 through 32, I headed for the dressing room. I couldn't even get the 30's on, skipped the 31's and put on the 32's, which were both too big at the top and seemed to be saying, "Hey, she said she has thighs... take a good look at them!"

A little discouraged, I headed back out to the stacks of denim. At that point I caught the attention of Sergio, a salesperson. Luckily for me, because lord knows what I would have tried on next. Over the course of the next hour, Sergio brought me pair after pair of various cuts in sizes 30 and 31 and assessed how flattering each pair was, while explaining to me that he was looking to "extend my legs" and find flares that began lower, as opposed to higher, so they wouldn't draw attention to my hips. My legs are rather long on their own, but I agreed with him about my hips, so I wasn't about to argue.

After all was said and done, and that was a lot, I selected a pair of Lucky Brand Sundown Wide Leg mid-rise (which I have to believe is the new low-rise) jeans, size 31, also known as size 12, with a flared leg. They're pictured above. Mine are black denim, can be dressed up or down, do, in fact, extend my legs when worn with heels and are rather slimming. I always wear heels, so that's not an issue. Plus, my aforementioned ass is sure to fall out of the "mid-rise" waist whenever I sit down. See how trendy? Now I have to find some tops that will cover that.

The good news for me is that the jeans I bought were 50% off. The bad news for Sergio is that I only bought one pair, and even though I thanked him for all his help, he pretty much lost interest in me when I landed on just the one.

I tell you this tale because I learned something this afternoon: being trendy is very exhausting. And a little hard on the ego if size numbers affect you in the least. I'll have to remember that the next time I try to "upgrade" a portion of my wardrobe.


On a completely different note, I'm going to hell. The reason (this time) is that I appear to be finding joy in someone else's misery. Now, this is not how I would normally behave, and it is very much not the person I want to be. But you know what? Karma is a bitch, and sometimes it's just so satisfying to watch a person reap what they have sown. So ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!!!!

I know. I'll be fitted for a hand basket next week, I'm sure.

The Couch: It's Not Just For Potatoes Anymore

After being marooned on my couch for several days, I think I am now qualified to offer this practical manual for surviving your second illness in three weeks. So here are, in no particular order, some practical steps for maximizing the enjoyment of your couch time.

1. Eat a 16-ounce box of See's chocolates (a gift from your Aunt Mary and Uncle David) in three and a half days. Well, don't eat the entire box; of course you'll want to throw out the gross pieces.

2. Have Thai food delivered and get all excited about it until you remember that being sick kind of kills your appetite. Well, being sick or all that See's candy. Either way, your Thai snacks will last you at least two meals.

3. Since the stuffy head - cold medicine combo ruins your sleep patterns, you'll find yourself awake and asleep at odd hours. So doze in front of the multiple showings of We Are Marshall on HBO. It's not a bad movie, what little you actually see of it anyway, and Matthew McConaughey sports some very serious sideburns.

4. Discover one of your very favorite movies, Paper Moon, on cable at 4:00 a.m. and watch most of it without dozing.

5. Resolve to make a dent in that pile of unread New Yorker magazines sitting on your bedroom floor. Begin that project with great satisfaction, and then start reading a novel, too. In this case the novel would be A Long Way Down by Nick Hornby. While you loved Hornby's High Fidelity, you hated How To Be Good, but so far, A Long Way Down is proving to be rather enjoyable.

6. Lament the fact that your DVD player needs repairing, even though you know you can play dvd's on your computer if you get desperate enough.

7. Return to the television after a while and find Undercover Brother on Comedy Central. Hardly the highest in cinematic quality, but a pretty funny movie. Especially Dave Chappelle's performance.

8. Blow... literally... through all of your tissues and most of your toilet paper. Punctuate that with wondering when you'll have the energy to buy more. Oh, and make sure you take out the garbage after a couple of days because... well, yuck.

9. Hop onto iTunes and purchase a few selections by the Kinks. Except for "Come Dancing," you hate all the Kinks' big hit records, but you suspect you might enjoy some of their album tracks. Especially the ones from the '60's.

10. Look out your window at the pouring rain and be very thankful that you're comfortably nestled under a fuzzy blanket.

I hope you find these tips helpful, should you pick up a virus this cold and flu season. They worked like a charm for me. I started to feel better after a few days and did manage to make it to about an hour and a half of the annual AtmosTheatre New Year's party. Luckily for me, the party was two blocks from my apartment, or else there's no way I could have mustered the energy for even an hour and a half. And today I was able to replenish my stock of paper products, take a short run (mostly walk) and go back to work. So my recovery is well underway.

It must be the See's candy. Maybe chocolate has medicinal properties.

What's Up With This?

Mere days after shaking off a nasty case of bronchitis, I appear to be sick again. Yes, you read that correctly: I get over one virus (turned bacterial infection), only to pick up another. In this instance, it seems only to be a head cold, but still. Do I have no immune system at all?

Frankly, I blame the petri dish I call my place of employment. We work in what is essentially one big room, which doubles as a playhouse for viruses and other germs. We all disinfect our work stations, but sometimes that just doesn't cut it. Especially since we all are often guilty of working while we're sick. At least two of my co-workers did that over the last week (you know who you are), and I did it when I had bronchitis.

Well, it's time to stop the madness. I'm taking tomorrow off so I can recuperate and spare my uninfected co-workers this bug.

Before I was felled by this particular disease, I managed to check out my friend Beth's book reading at City Lights in North Beach last night. Beth's new book chronicles the year she spent meeting various self-help gurus, and the results are hysterical. At least the chapter from which she read was hysterical. But then, Beth's writing is always entertaining. She's also having a book release party this weekend, and I'm going to try to go. Should my congested head allow such a thing.

Stupid cold. Have I ever mentioned that I hate being sick?

Other than last night's book reading, not much is happening. That's often the case in January, also known as The Most Boring Month of the Year. February ranks a close second in the boredom tournament, but at least February features Valentine's Day and my sister's birthday. Plus, it's the shortest month of the year, which makes it infinitely more tolerable than the never-ending January.

I guess I shouldn't say that nothing is going on. I'm currently on the hunt for a new singing teacher, and I already have booked a lesson with one I'm considering. I enjoyed the teaching of Best Friend, but she lives and teaches so far away that, including travel time, my singing lesson would eat up my entire day. To that end, I'm looking for music instruction a little closer to home. I haven't had a singing lesson since October; so I'm overdue. Besides, I've found more songs I want to sing at open mics or other performances (should Rosa be willing to play them). Maybe one day I'll write my own songs. Huh. What a concept.

In addition to my music focus, I've just booked a flight for another mini-vacation in L.A. three weeks from now. So many friends to see and my Pinkberry gift card to use... I love my trips to the City of Angels. Hopefully this one will make January a little more palatable.

All the Rage In 2008

Never underestimate a bad girl's rage, my friends.

The first hours of 2008 are shaping up quite nicely, so far. First, in the last hours of 2007, Helen gave me the most excellent birthday present: the Bad Girl's Rage-A-Day daily calendar! (Helen had been sick on my birthday, which is why she gave me my gift last night.) Little did the lovely and talented Helen know, I am well acquainted with Bad Girl products. I own both The Bad Girl's Guide To Getting What You Want and The Bad Girl's Guide To the Party Life, and I used to regularly buy the Bad Girl yearly appointment calendars... back when I actually would write down my appointments. I even went to Cameron Tuttle's book party for the Bad Girl's Guide To the Party Life back in 2002.

All of that is to say, this calendar is the perfect gift for me. And Helen and I decided that Rage-A-Day is going to be our motto for 2008. I think it fits, don't you?

The good birthday gift was merely the beginning of what turned out to be a very fun New Year's Eve. If you had asked me a year or two ago, I would have said that I wouldn't be caught dead in a bar on New Year's Eve. Let alone a bar in North Beach, of all neighborhoods. Between the amateur night crowds and... well, the amateur night crowds, I couldn't imagine anything more unpleasant. And frankly, I've always preferred house parties to bars on New Year's Eve.

Well, didn't I say in the last post on this space that I've learned never to say never? After beginning our evening at the bar at Mooses, Helen and I went to Tony Nik's to ring in 2008. Now, Tony Nik's is a fabulous little bar on, say, a Monday night when it's not crowded, but it can be downright awful when too many morons cram in there. But wouldn't you know it, even though it was very crowded last night, it was still really fun. Helen and I staked out some space next to the owner and his partner at the end of the bar, where we enjoyed the cocktails, music and inadvertent show provided by the other revelers. Always one to be sucked into music, which was 60's pop and soul last night, I found myself frequently writing song requests on napkins and having the bartenders pass them to the DJ, who was all the way across the bar. I know the DJ personally, and he played three of the songs I requested. That's not bad, I suppose.

I did notice after about half an hour or so that I was being given what can only be described as the stink eye by another female patron several feet away from me, whom I'd never seen before. At first she just seemed to be staring at me, but soon it became obvious that her glance possessed a rather judgmental quality. Helen agreed. I'm not a mind reader, so I have no idea why this woman was throwing me the sidelong glances. In retrospect, I do have a guess that involves a rather attractive man whom, for reasons of proximity only, I spent a good deal of the evening engaging in conversation, but I'm not going to get into it on this space... because I really don't know and why speculate publicly? Well, what's New Year's Eve without a little strange drama? Even if it's drama that only exists in someone else's head.

Rage-A-Day, my sweet peas.

Lessons of 2007

Twenty-Oh-Seven is drawing to close, and tonight we will pause to celebrate the beginning of Twenty-Oh-Eight. It will be a time to reflect on the year that has past, anticipate the year that will come and deal with how old we all are.

Then of course, there are the resolutions. But whatever. I'm bored with resolutions, and mine are the same every year. If you want a reminder of what my annual resolutions are, look through the archives of this blog. I've decided, instead, to devote this particular post to what I've learned over the last 365 days. So off the top of my head...

1. If you cut your drinking to two days a week, you'll lose a little weight, seemingly without trying. And you'll feel better. Plus, you really won't miss the alcohol.

2. Never say never. That motto applied to many situations in my life this year, including boys, my plans for this evening (can you believe I'll be in North Beach on New Year's Eve?!?), and actively participating in that which I had previously judged and judged harshly: social networking websites.

3. If you're a woman and can sing at all, you'll get hit on every time you do karaoke. Every time.

4. A really good running route takes you down Los Feliz Boulevard in Los Angeles. You don't live in L.A.? Well, I don't either, but I make it down there to go running, as well as participate in other fun activities, on a fairly regular basis.

5. Sometimes it's very easy to find yourself in a real life episode of "Behind the Music," as ridiculous and inappropriate as that may be.

Okay, that's all I can think of for now. I'm sure I learned more this year, but that should keep you going through the last hours of 2007. Happy New Year, my friends!

Beat Surrender

There's never a dull moment in the life of a fake rock star, and Kelcey, Fabulous Patti, myself and Emily (pictured here) were all fake rock stars at Joxer Daly's in Culver City on Wednesday night. Well, Kelcey was not a fake rock star that night. Apparently, he had been given the hook while trying to sing a rather inebriated version of "All Shook Up" during Emily's birthday party at the aforementioned Joxer Daly's two weeks before. So he stayed away from the karaoke microphone this time around. The rest of us had no such fear, however.

After several successful solo numbers, Emily and I decided to duet on the Jam's "Beat Surrender" because, frankly, when you find "Beat Surrender" at a karaoke bar, you have to sing it. Right? Um, perhaps wrong. We gave it the best we had, and Emily and I can both sing (especially Emily), but... Well, let's just say the beat definitely surrendered during our attempt. I learned that I really only should sing songs I've practiced, and somewhere in the universe, Paul Weller's ears were bleeding.

That tiny transgression aside, we had quite a lot of fun. I sang three of my tried and true numbers, and Emily belted out Irene Cara's "Fame," complete with dance moves that got the attention of literally every man in the joint. The only two remotely attractive guys there were generous with their flirtation, however, and I found myself doing a little cramped swing dancing in front of the karaoke stage, too. One of the benefits of going out in a city where you don't live: the consequence-free dance.

Once back home by the Bay, the rock star theme continued. Last night I went with Helen to see a real rock star, my musician friend Pat Johnson, play at the Knockout in the Mission. He was really good and played my very favorite song of his, "The Very Last Time." Yay! I cast aside any pretense of being too cool for the room and sang along, even when Pat momentarily messed up the words.

Do you know what I did today? Absolutely nothing. After sleeping for twelve hours (I guess the bronchitis, funky work hours and traveling left me a little tired), I spent another hour and a half in bed finishing Him Her Him Again The End of Him by Patricia Marx. For the record, that book is excellent; one of the funniest I've read in a while. After all the resting, I took a run, which was mostly a walk, and now here I am at work. I could be at Pat and Jess' holiday poker party, but I've spent all month switching Saturday shifts and otherwise tweaking my schedule to make it to parties. So I figured I'd be responsible and go to work this time.

I'm not sure living up to my employment responsibilities would exactly count as rock star behavior, but I guess that's why I'm just a fake rock star.

Palm Trees and Pinkberry For Christmas

Greetings from Los Feliz!

In typical Sassy fashion, I have had a very glamorous holiday. After work on Christmas Day... Oh, yeah, I had to work Christmas morning. Starting at 4 a.m. But honestly, it could be a lot worse. I like my job, and I actually kind of like working on holidays. Most of the time, anyway. It feels very festive to me.

Okay, maybe I'll back up just a little bit. I went to bed early on Christmas Eve, after snuggling under the fuzzy blanket on my couch to watch "The Grinch Who Stole Christmas" and then got up before dawn for work. I looked for Santa Claus, but I guess he was done delivering toys in my neighborhood by the time I left for my job. After work, I packed my suitcase and hoped on a plane for L.A.

Once safely on the ground in Burbank, my sister Fabulous Patti collected me, and we went to her place in Los Feliz for our family Christmas party. Siblings, nephews, a niece and Diva Mommy all gathered for Christmas in style. My 19-month nephew Mikey Jet was the biggest hit of the party, as he ran, jumped, sang and giggled his way through the evening. But I'd say everyone was full of holiday cheer as we ate and opened presents. My favorite part might have been when my brother Michael opened the "Get Smart" complete series dvd box set that I... oh, I mean Santa... got him. Giving presents may be more fun than getting them.

Well, maybe not, because do you know what I got for Christmas? A Pinkberry gift card!!!!! I am so happy. I've already indulged in a little of the Pink, and I'll be paying Pinkberry another visit before I go home tomorrow night. Yummy. It's possible this may be the best Christmas present I've ever gotten.

It's a little on the cold side today in the neighborhood below Griffith Park. Some strong winds are blowing, and I'd say they're Santa Anas, but the Santa Ana winds are supposed to warm. At least the Santa Anas I remember from my childhood in Pasadena were always warm. These winds, not so much. I'm just glad I brought my big coat.

Tonight Fabulous Patti and I are going to meet my friend Emily for karaoke in Culver City. Talk about your happy holidays!

Love Is All You Need

If you know me at all, you know that there is only one thing I want for my birthday: a good party. I don't need any stuff; so I get the best gift every year when dozens of my friends turn up for my little birthday celebration. I may love the fact that my birthday is right before Christmas (and honestly, I do), but I know that's an inconvenient time for others. So it makes me incredibly happy that my friends make time to toast the anniversary of my birth when there are other parties and obligations to consider.

And this year was no exception. In fact, my friends were complete rock stars this time around because they put up with my coughing and congestion all night, as I was in complete denial that I am still sick. I have since come out of that denial, and I admit it: I'm still sick.

Well, illness be damned, about 30 of us descended upon Club Deluxe for the Night of Sassy 2007, and it was super-duper fun. Even with all my coughing and wheezing. A really good jazz band played, prompting Kevin to take me for a twirl on the dance floor... as pictured above. Lots of other fun people were there, including Rosa and Tihanna, who are posing with me in this shot to the left. I was incredibly impressed that Tihanna made it, given that she has been working double shifts all week and has gotten very little sleep. And Rosa has taken a new job where she works all night. So I also was impressed that she was up for a party at the end of her work week. Not that I don't equally appreciate everyone who came. Carolyn is in the midst of moving, for example, but she took a little time out to swing by the soiree. Tom was invited to at least two other birthday parties last night, as well, but he still made it to mine. In fact, he came to my party instead of attending the other two. Anne is pregnant and, I believe, just getting over morning sickness, but nonetheless, she was there.

I could go on and sing the praises of everyone who came, but suffice it to say, I greatly love all my friends.

There was a time, not so long ago, when my birthday party was all about having a huge guest list. I would invite everyone... and I mean everyone... I knew and liked at all, and it was like some sort of challenge to get as many of them as possible to attend. That effort reached a pinnacle in 2002 when I lured 80 people to the Red Devil Lounge for my 33rd birthday. That was definitely a fun night, but over the years I've become a little overwhelmed by the idea of inviting 120 people to a party to ensure that at least 60 show up. The bigger the party, the less quality time I get to spend with anyone, really. Plus, I was inviting people whom I never see during the rest of the year, and that was beginning to feel silly. Add the fact that a few of my friends now have small children and don't party like they used to... and I decided to change my attitude.

I'm very social and still have a lot of friends whom I see regularly; so I'm happy to say my party will continue to draw a crowd. But I pared down the invitation list this year to about 60 and was able to have actual conversations with the people who made it. And I'd say a good time was had by all. By the end of the night, I could barely carry on a conversation without the eruption of a coughing fit. So I took myself home at about 12:45. That didn't stop Andrey, Katya, Jake, Camilla, Eric, Jack and Tom (all pictured with me here) from continuing to celebrate in my honor. For all I know, they're still drinking. In fact, I'd really expect nothing less.

There is no better way to celebrate the anniversary of your birth than to surround yourself with people you're lucky enough to call your friends.

You Say It's Your Birthday

Is it wrong that my birthday is my favorite day of the year?

Well, right or wrong, my birthday is, in fact, my favorite day of the year. And my birthday is today... YAY!!!! We're having a potluck at work today with lots of delicious snacks and good cheer. The potluck is actually in honor of the holidays, but I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm going to pretend it's all for me. (Yes, I know I probably should be ashamed to make that admission, but whatever... it's my birthday. Besides, Diana put a candle in my little potluck hamburger for me. So there.)

Then tonight, I'll be gathering with about 30 of my closest friends in the Haight for a little birthday party. In my world, December 21st is the definition of "good times."

Not that this birthday has been without a teeny bit of drama. While I have been steadily getting over the pesky chest cold I picked up last week, this virus has made it clear that it's not going without a fight. To that end, my body picked last night to succumb to coughing fits. All. Night. Long. Even though I'd slept very well on Wednesday night. The result: I'm operating on about four and a half hours of sleep. No matter, though. I'll just grab a power nap after work and be good to go by tonight. Not even a nagging, congesty cough can ruin my favorite day of the year.

Oooh, and yesterday I got myself the greatest birthday present: Kate Spade open-toed, patent leather heels which were 50% off! You know I'll be sporting those babies tonight.

Did I mention that my birthday is my favorite day of the year?

Season Interrupted

My holiday season had been bubbling along quite nicely. As you know, my company holiday party was Tuesday night. On Wednesday, Terry treated me to a pre-birthday dinner. And on Thursday, I went on a perfectly pleasant date with Mark.

Then it happened. Late Thursday night, I was felled by a vicious parasite. The resulting illness has overtaken my body and rendered me a coughing, congested wreck. This disease is so virulent and potent, it has paralyzed me. I am a miserable shell; a shivering, hacking wreck. All at the hands of a virus so malevolent it defies description.

Although, I believe, in the parlance of the vernacular, it is known as a cold.

After work last night, I was supposed to party hop from Tara's holiday cocktail celebration to Lucy's birthday soiree. And today I had planned a visit to the gym, followed by a pedicure and shopping for a birthday dress. Then back to work. Well, none of those plans have come to fruition. I attended no parties last night. I can't exercise (the horror!). My dress shopping and pedicure will have to wait, and I'm not even going to work tonight. I rarely, if ever, call in sick to work; so you know this is bad. Not that being exiled to my couch while succumbing to frequent coughing fits isn't fun, too.

Always one to find a bright side, I do recognize that this forced relaxation will allow me time to write my newspaper column, which is due Tuesday, as well as my Christmas cards, which should have been done two weeks ago. Of course, I haven't done any of that yet. But I have caught up on my television watching and my lack of sleep due to chest congestion. My Friends dvd box sets are providing me with some lovely company during this trying time. HBO has stepped up to the plate, as well.

Hopefully this will all be wrapped up soon, though. I have a birthday coming up on Friday, and I must be in top shape for that.

Ooooh, My Head

So, my company holiday party was last night.

I actually missed most of it because, ironically, I was at work, but I made it for the tail end of the free cocktails. That would have been well and fine, as I had planned simply to swing by for a drink or two on the boss and go home. Good plan, huh?

Well, I had forgotten that I work with a few serious partiers. And once we got kicked out of Bimbo's at the far too decent hour of 10:00, about ten of us took the after party to Tony Nik's down the street. I didn't stay out terribly late, but suffice it to say I drank far more than I had intended. Ouch.

The good news is that I don't have to work today, and I plan to lounge for the next couple of hours before I sweat out this mini-hangover at the gym. The bad news is that my downstairs neighbor seems to have chosen today to practice his electric guitar. Urban living, I suppose.

How Duh Became This Season's Hottest Buzz Word

We'll get to the title of this post shortly, but first, a moment in musical history.

Throughout the summer and fall, Rosa has played many an open mic night at McGrath's in Alameda. I have occasionally joined her, and Doug has occasionally joined the both of us. It's been a while, but we regrouped this weekend to take our show out of McGrath's and up the hill to Doug's holiday party. Fake Band took the "stage" first, and we followed. While practicing on Wednesday night, Doug christened our little trio The Sub Rosas, which is absolutely perfect. We created a set list consisting of two of Rosa's original numbers, plus six cover songs. And with all due respect to Tony Hatch, Kirsty MacColl, Stevie Nicks and Melanie Safka, Rosa's songs were the best. Rehearsed and ready to go, we planned to knock 'em dead come Friday night. Or something to that effect.

Well, everyone's health was safe, as we certainly knocked no one dead. Make no mistake, our performance wasn't bad at all. I'd go as far as to call it pretty good, and people even paid attention. However, by the time we began to play, Doug had perhaps imbibed a little too much. So he wasn't as sharp on the bass as usual. That's a nice of way of saying he hit at least one wrong note in every song, which is very unusual for him. He's really a very good bassist... when sober. Plus, we had to start one song over because Doug was obliviously blocking Rosa's view of her music.

Regardless, it was super fun, and I caught a few people singing along with our rendition of "Downtown." (I know, aren't you just shocked I wanted to sing that song?) In addition to "Downtown" and Rosa's originals, we did "They Don't Know," "Lay Down," "Somewhere Only We Know" and a marriage of "Landslide" and "Dust in the Wind." I really wish I could figure out a way to sing for a living. Hmmm.... that seems a highly doubtful prospect, so I'll definitely stick with my day job.

Well, Rosa and I are planning to conquer the musical world during our spare time.

After Doug's party on Friday night and work on Saturday, I was ready for a Saturday night out. First, I went to Katie and Steve's annual holiday party. Or more accurately I should say, I went to Katie and Steve's annual holiday spread with a party in the background. They had the most delicious snacks of the season so far. Totally yummy!

Once full on champagne, sausage-stuffed mushrooms, meatballs, sliced fruit and sweet and spicy nuts, I made my way across town for my friend Beth's birthday party. Beth and I posed for this little photo at the end of the evening, after I'd met a host of interesting people, including a woman with the same first name and birthday as me. I'm not kidding. She is four years my junior, but imagine, another December 21st-born Sassy at the same party! Needless to say, we bonded instantly.

Sadly, Beth's husband broke the news to me that they will not be having their annual New Year's Eve party this year because Beth has been asked to open for Cake at the Warfield that night. Sadness... because that is a truly fun party. But I told both Beth and Eli that I would forgive them if Beth set me up with Xan McCurdy. I wonder if they knew I was serious?

At one point during the evening, I was talking to my Birthday Twin, this guy named Kamau and some other guy, who was rather inebriated. Kamau is African-American with kind of cool hair, which seemed to prompt The Drunk to look at the two of us and proclaim, "Oh, my God, you guys obviously should know each other. Duh!" Kamau, myself and Birthday Twin were all a tiny bit shocked by this statement, but the idea that the black man and the half-black woman at the party were somehow obligated to meet was far too stupid to inspire true offense. So in laughing at the poor drunken lout, we decided that for the rest of the evening, we would punctuate every sentence with "Duh!" And we found it works with pretty much anything.

"Hey, I'm going to get another beer. Duh!"
"Wow, that's a super cute coat. Duh!"
"I think I need the loo. Duh!"
"You should come see my comedy show next week. Duh!"

Little did The Drunk know that his ignorance provided us with much merriment for the rest of the evening. See, even the drunk and ignorant can't ruin a truly good party.

'Tis The Season

I am a Christmas fanatic. I generally start singing Christmas songs in mid-September, and by this time of year, the halls of my apartment are fully decked, my heart is four sizes larger than normal and 60 to 100 holiday cards have been written and mailed.

Not so much this year.

Not that I'm the least bit unhappy. In fact, I went through a teeny, tiny depressive period this fall, and I think I have fully pulled out of it. (Knock wood.) It's just that a lot is going on, and I seem to have no time for Christmas. No halls have been decked, no holiday cards written and don't even talk to me about shopping. My heart is pretty large, but I'm not sure how much the Christmas spirit has to do with that. So perhaps 'tisn't the season for holiday madness in my world yet, but I'll you what 'tis the season for.

1. Celebrity sightings
Okay, I should say celebrity sighting. Singular. This afternoon I met my friend Wendy at the Grove on Fillmore for one last bonding session before she moves to New York on Monday. We'd been discussing boys and all topics related to boys for a while when I realized that the man next to us with his two small children and two female companions was, in fact, Dave Chappelle.

Dave had looked over at us a couple of times before I realized who he was, but I'd thought perhaps my and Wendy's boy talk had a gotten a little too saucy for the nearby small tots. So I just made a mental note to speak more quietly. Once I recognized Dave as himself, I admit, I kind of looked for excuses to engage him. With two kids in the mix, it was pretty easy. One of his sons started bopping around to "The Letter" by the Box Tops, which was playing on the Grove's sound system, and I took that opportunity to congratulate the little boy on his good taste. The Box Tops featured Alex Chilton, after all.

As Dave as his brood were leaving, he fixed his gaze on me for a minute, smiled and asked me how I was doing. I was caught a little off guard and didn't really know what to say. I was too embarrassed to gush over his talent, so I just told him how cute I found his children to be (and the were super cute). He seemed to appreciate the compliment. I appreciated that, at the end of the day, I ran into a celebrity, and he spoke to me first. Ha!

2. Socializing
I guess this sort of falls under the category of holiday madness because some of my socializing involves holiday parties. But there have also been and continue to be birthday parties, as well as other social events. And fate has been kind to me this year, as most of these parties fall on evenings when I don't have to work. Or I have been able to adjust my work schedule to accommodate my playtime. That was not the case last year, so yay!

Plus, next week I have a date with a guy I met at Wendy's going away party. I'm not sure what, if anything, will come of this date, but it is always nice to be taken out by a decent fellow.

3. Overindulging
Unfortunately, the close companion of all this socializing is a lot of eating and drinking. I have already decided to relax my two-day a week only drinking rule for the month of December, and for the past couple of weeks, my alcohol consumption has grown from one or two days a week to three or even four days a week. Add the abundant snacks that are also available (and I can never resist), and I foresee a little dieting and a whole lot of exercising come January.

4. Singing
There hasn't really been more singing this season than any other month, but Rosa and I will be singing at Doug's holiday party tomorrow night. Doug will join us on bass; Rosa will play guitar; and Rosa and I will sing five songs each. Fake Band is also playing this party, but I will not be reliving my days with them by joining in on any numbers. Not that they asked, but I'm very happy to be doing my own thing.


The long and short of it is that while I may not be my usual Christmas-obsessed self right now, 'tis still the season for some very good times.

Rock Star Weekend

I should clarify right away that this weekend was a rock star weekend for me. Any self respecting rock star would scoff at my partying prowess over the last 48 hours, but it was a good showing for the old lady that I have become. Don't get me wrong, I socialize quite regularly, but these days I like to go out relatively early and return home relatively early. So to attend four parties in one weekend, and to stay out until after 3 a.m. Saturday night/Sunday morning is kind of big deal in my world. Especially since I work weekends, as well.

But I am getting ahead of myself here.

The rock star weekend began Friday night with the very sophisticated cookie and cocktail party at Jim and Molly's. They have a lovely apartment in Russian Hill, and it was packed with cookies, savory snacks and delicious wine. Not to mention fun people. Most of the Gourmet Group girls were there, as well as various husbands, boyfriends and friends. Laughter filled the air, cookies were consumed, and an impromptu dance party began at about 11:30.

I got home at the fairly decent hour of 12:30 that night, but I had to be at work at 11 o'clock the next morning. Take into account that I go running before work every day, and you'll understand that I didn't get quite as much sleep as I would have liked. But I was okay and ready for work Saturday afternoon.

Immediately following work, I hit the first of three Saturday night parties: Kim's birthday soiree. It was also a sophisticated and adult affair at a private room in a Financial District restaurant. Talk about good snacks; they were not only tasty but very fancy. The wine was also flowing in celebration of Kim, and we had delicious birthday cake. Some of the partiers are pictured above: Katie, myself, Birthday Girl Kim, Gretchie, Paul and Bill.

After about two hours at Kim's party, I hopped in a cab and made my way to the Marina for Emily's birthday bash. Emily and her friends had staked out their space in a crowded wine bar, and I arrived just in time for champagne. After a glass of bubbly and some good conversation with Emily, her friend Isha and a random (to me) anesthesiologist, I was off again. This time to the Lower Haight for Wendy's going away party.

The fair Wendy is moving to New York in just about a week, and in the middle of her super-fun goodbye party, I realized just how much I'm going to miss her. Wendy is an actor, yoga instructor and superhero whom I became friends with about four and a half years ago. She's positively neato, and New York will be very lucky to have her. Wendy and I posed for this picture as I was waiting for my cab home at about 3 a.m., after a night of nothing but good times.

At Wendy's party, I got a chance to see Camilla, whom I hadn't seen since July, as well as Jake, Davin, Mark, Rick, Jordan, Bernadette and a host of other people. I also met Wendy's old friend Mark (about half the guys at this party were named Mark), whom I think I'm going to hang out with again before he heads back down to L.A. in a week or so. You know if you read this space with any kind of regularity that I visit L.A. fairly often. So I'm excited to have another friend down there.

When I finally arrived home after the party marathon that was my Saturday night, I didn't settle into bed until almost 5 a.m. I don't know if I remember the last time I stayed up that late because I was socializing. (I'm thinking it was my birthday almost a full year ago.) Luckily, I don't work until 5 p.m. on Sundays, so I was able to get enough sleep, go running and still show up to my job feeling fresh.

Oh, yes, in my own way, I am a rock star.