Got that Leonard Cohen quote from "Famous Blue Raincoat" in my head - I hear you're living for next to nothing / I hope you're keeping / some kind of record. I decided I should keep a record of this time for me here in LA. It's new time - I'm alone again, out on an adventure; sober, adventuring with my eyes open and memory keeping track.
I have also decided to say yes to every invitation I receive. So tonight I ended up at a blues bar in South Central called Ricky's & [a woman's name I forget]. Monday night is Jam Night and for a $3 cover you get entertainment on a variety of levels, and a full plate of soul food. Goooood soul food. Tonight I ate collards and black eyed peas, potato salad, a fried drumstick and cornbread; I knew it was made right because I almost passed out fifteen minutes after eating.
I went to celebrate the 60th birthday of a new friend, Debbie (I have 2 older friends here named Debbie, this one is FITLA Debbie, not Producer Debbie). Debbie works for Festival Internacional Latino - LA and we met at the National Performance Network conference this year. She's this midwestern white lady who has some deep abiding connection to Cuban artists who defect to the US, and LA specifically. So it was me--mr. whiteboy--her, several Cubans, and a few more Afro-Carribean folks at a blues bar in South Central LA (where I had to be escorted to my car because I was "too white and skinny to go out alone.")
How do I get myself into these situations? Oh, right, I say Yes.
But what seemed even funnier to me is that the blues bar at one point became overwhelmed by what I will call "Central Casting LA Hipsters." Skinny and pasty white, they wear really tight clothing that shows off some large arm tattoo, often have two-tone shag-cut hair, and are either completely hairless so as to appear airbrushed (men and women) or sport 2-5 days of facial hair (men...so far as I can tell). You can't tell who's the Next Big Thing and who's the Entourage. In the face of this barrage of cool, I become even more squeaky-clean gee-whiz (if such a thing were possible!!!). Hence the need for an escort.
I loved watching the musicians cycle through - so many different kinds of people all weighing in with their own blues. Except it seemed clear that many of them had no "blues" to speak of, just a desire to show how good they were at playing The Blues. Which was...fine. I mean, I'm Mr. Squeaky White Boy, what do I know about blues? I record what I observe. Vinnie, this is for you: One lead guitarist showed up looking like Prince - Members Only jacket, flat shiny gold chains--remember the kind that go around the neck, then drop down to the chest to a second loop...circa 1985? He was cleaaaaaaarly on the H-train, but could he ever play a lead guitar. Not only did he look like Prince (Purple Rain era), he hit a solo riff in the middle of some twelve bar blues that sounded like the end to "Let's Go Crazy." The band behind him looked all jumpy, like "Dude, it's a _twelve_ bar blues for a reason..." but he just kept following the sound up and down the fretboard, diving into the whammy bar, hitting the right note every time. That's the benefit, I suppose, to drugs: time slows down so you can find your way perfectly; if you stay just this side of the abyss, you can translate it into brilliance.
Oh I miss drugs. For that reason: I had some really good creative moments when I could stay out of the abyss. But now that I'm sober, and also live in a complex of meth heads, I think it's best I just leave that shit alone until I'm mature enough to know what I'm doing. Like the grampa in Little Miss Sunshine: While you're young, fuck a lotta women, and stay away from drugs. When you get old, do as many drugs as you like.
Hmmmm. Better get back on that "fucking a lotta women" horse. Yeesh. My heart still hurts. And no drugs of any kind to help me ignore the pain. I hate being a grownup. I hate being "good for myself in the long term."
;-) <<>>
The jam musicians rocked all the way through. Even the guy who looked almost exactly like me but sounded exactly like Otis Redding. He played "That's How Strong My Love Is" which made me sad: Carey and I would have had a really good time together there.
Ugh.
Further ugh: I am now too self-conscious of my Spanish to speak it, even when everybody's speaking it, making it much more pleasant and easy for everyone if I would just speak Spanish. WTF? Is it worse to try and mess up, or to not try and not mess up?
Finally, the place--remember, the bar, full of dissident Cubans, the black folks who run it, and a mix of Orange County and West LA white folks--was all dolled up in red, white, and blue while this motley crew of muscians (Vietnamese bass player, Mexicans, big white dudes with death metal tattoos on their hands, hipsters, and dudes who remind me of Chris) made a joyful noise out of heavy vibes. The clock has just struck 12 here in LA, signifying the end of the Bush nightmare. Barack Obama is probably already awake, getting ready to be sworn in tomorrow. I can't fucking believe it, I can't believe something good is happening after 8 years of so much shit. I know, I know, caution, he could be just as bad...but come on. Seriously? The symbolism alone will last me through the next election. Then I'll get cautious. Until then...
FUCK YEAH!!!! I LOVE AMERICA AGAIN!!!
I actually can't wait to get up at 7am to watch it all live. Talk about a new day dawning: that's like Christmas 1980s all over again. Merry Obama! God bless us, every one.
I have also decided to say yes to every invitation I receive. So tonight I ended up at a blues bar in South Central called Ricky's & [a woman's name I forget]. Monday night is Jam Night and for a $3 cover you get entertainment on a variety of levels, and a full plate of soul food. Goooood soul food. Tonight I ate collards and black eyed peas, potato salad, a fried drumstick and cornbread; I knew it was made right because I almost passed out fifteen minutes after eating.
I went to celebrate the 60th birthday of a new friend, Debbie (I have 2 older friends here named Debbie, this one is FITLA Debbie, not Producer Debbie). Debbie works for Festival Internacional Latino - LA and we met at the National Performance Network conference this year. She's this midwestern white lady who has some deep abiding connection to Cuban artists who defect to the US, and LA specifically. So it was me--mr. whiteboy--her, several Cubans, and a few more Afro-Carribean folks at a blues bar in South Central LA (where I had to be escorted to my car because I was "too white and skinny to go out alone.")
How do I get myself into these situations? Oh, right, I say Yes.
But what seemed even funnier to me is that the blues bar at one point became overwhelmed by what I will call "Central Casting LA Hipsters." Skinny and pasty white, they wear really tight clothing that shows off some large arm tattoo, often have two-tone shag-cut hair, and are either completely hairless so as to appear airbrushed (men and women) or sport 2-5 days of facial hair (men...so far as I can tell). You can't tell who's the Next Big Thing and who's the Entourage. In the face of this barrage of cool, I become even more squeaky-clean gee-whiz (if such a thing were possible!!!). Hence the need for an escort.
I loved watching the musicians cycle through - so many different kinds of people all weighing in with their own blues. Except it seemed clear that many of them had no "blues" to speak of, just a desire to show how good they were at playing The Blues. Which was...fine. I mean, I'm Mr. Squeaky White Boy, what do I know about blues? I record what I observe. Vinnie, this is for you: One lead guitarist showed up looking like Prince - Members Only jacket, flat shiny gold chains--remember the kind that go around the neck, then drop down to the chest to a second loop...circa 1985? He was cleaaaaaaarly on the H-train, but could he ever play a lead guitar. Not only did he look like Prince (Purple Rain era), he hit a solo riff in the middle of some twelve bar blues that sounded like the end to "Let's Go Crazy." The band behind him looked all jumpy, like "Dude, it's a _twelve_ bar blues for a reason..." but he just kept following the sound up and down the fretboard, diving into the whammy bar, hitting the right note every time. That's the benefit, I suppose, to drugs: time slows down so you can find your way perfectly; if you stay just this side of the abyss, you can translate it into brilliance.
Oh I miss drugs. For that reason: I had some really good creative moments when I could stay out of the abyss. But now that I'm sober, and also live in a complex of meth heads, I think it's best I just leave that shit alone until I'm mature enough to know what I'm doing. Like the grampa in Little Miss Sunshine: While you're young, fuck a lotta women, and stay away from drugs. When you get old, do as many drugs as you like.
Hmmmm. Better get back on that "fucking a lotta women" horse. Yeesh. My heart still hurts. And no drugs of any kind to help me ignore the pain. I hate being a grownup. I hate being "good for myself in the long term."
;-) <<>>
The jam musicians rocked all the way through. Even the guy who looked almost exactly like me but sounded exactly like Otis Redding. He played "That's How Strong My Love Is" which made me sad: Carey and I would have had a really good time together there.
Ugh.
Further ugh: I am now too self-conscious of my Spanish to speak it, even when everybody's speaking it, making it much more pleasant and easy for everyone if I would just speak Spanish. WTF? Is it worse to try and mess up, or to not try and not mess up?
Finally, the place--remember, the bar, full of dissident Cubans, the black folks who run it, and a mix of Orange County and West LA white folks--was all dolled up in red, white, and blue while this motley crew of muscians (Vietnamese bass player, Mexicans, big white dudes with death metal tattoos on their hands, hipsters, and dudes who remind me of Chris) made a joyful noise out of heavy vibes. The clock has just struck 12 here in LA, signifying the end of the Bush nightmare. Barack Obama is probably already awake, getting ready to be sworn in tomorrow. I can't fucking believe it, I can't believe something good is happening after 8 years of so much shit. I know, I know, caution, he could be just as bad...but come on. Seriously? The symbolism alone will last me through the next election. Then I'll get cautious. Until then...
FUCK YEAH!!!! I LOVE AMERICA AGAIN!!!
I actually can't wait to get up at 7am to watch it all live. Talk about a new day dawning: that's like Christmas 1980s all over again. Merry Obama! God bless us, every one.
