* For making smoothies
** Only the finest
March 29, 2006
March 27, 2006
Pater familias
It's no secret that Ellis Marsalis has phenomenal genes. I've been a fan of his two older sons for years, but I'd never been to see their father by way of charting their prodigal talent. Ellis is also a lauded jazzman in his own right, a fine pianist as well as an educator, mentor, and gentleman.
For his show the other night at Herbst Theatre, Marsalis brought along a pair of youngsters on sax and drums (including fourth son Jason) and a subdued but skilled older wingman on upright bass. They opened with a hopping version of King Oliver's "Dr. Jazz" and a tip of the hat to the Duke with "Just Squeeze Me," then dusted off a beautiful set of classics: "A Train," "My Favorite Things," and a touching, quiet rendition of "Do You Know What It Means."
In the hands of a lesser or faded artist, this list might have fallen flat, or at least banal. But Marsalis plays with subtle deliberation and relaxed grace, anchoring his quartet and allowing them to float up to the next level. Jason has an explosive style that nearly overwhelmed the general vibe—I'd love to see what he could do with a group of more modernist innovators, à la Terence Blanchard's current band—but it was a pleasure to watch Ellis Marsalis watch his boy tear it up.
And Marsalis is a master of unflustered stage patter, delivered with all the casual ease of a seasoned performer. A song ended, and he leaned in just barely perceptibly to the mike. "I believe we'll take take a short break now. Then we'll be back...to swing some more."
It's inspiring to see a huge crowd of people leap to their feet and go crazy for a gentle old man who gazes back at them, unblinking, then shuffles offstage in no kind of hurry. It's not that he doesn't appreciate the compliment. He's just seen it all before, and he's ready to kick back for a minute before retaking his much deserved seat at the head of the table.
Tipping my hat.
For his show the other night at Herbst Theatre, Marsalis brought along a pair of youngsters on sax and drums (including fourth son Jason) and a subdued but skilled older wingman on upright bass. They opened with a hopping version of King Oliver's "Dr. Jazz" and a tip of the hat to the Duke with "Just Squeeze Me," then dusted off a beautiful set of classics: "A Train," "My Favorite Things," and a touching, quiet rendition of "Do You Know What It Means."
In the hands of a lesser or faded artist, this list might have fallen flat, or at least banal. But Marsalis plays with subtle deliberation and relaxed grace, anchoring his quartet and allowing them to float up to the next level. Jason has an explosive style that nearly overwhelmed the general vibe—I'd love to see what he could do with a group of more modernist innovators, à la Terence Blanchard's current band—but it was a pleasure to watch Ellis Marsalis watch his boy tear it up.
And Marsalis is a master of unflustered stage patter, delivered with all the casual ease of a seasoned performer. A song ended, and he leaned in just barely perceptibly to the mike. "I believe we'll take take a short break now. Then we'll be back...to swing some more."
It's inspiring to see a huge crowd of people leap to their feet and go crazy for a gentle old man who gazes back at them, unblinking, then shuffles offstage in no kind of hurry. It's not that he doesn't appreciate the compliment. He's just seen it all before, and he's ready to kick back for a minute before retaking his much deserved seat at the head of the table.
Tipping my hat.
March 22, 2006
Revelations 3:22
Disclaimer: Beyond what Rolling Stone tells me (and my friend whose last roommate grew up in the fold), I really don't know much about Scientology.
It seems to have something to do with alien bits living inside you, excessive tithing, forced separation from friends and family who aren't OK with your expensive new spiritual lifestyle, entrepreneurial sci-fi authors, Tom Cruise, and Beck. I also heard somewhere that L. Ron Hubbard was quoted in the 1940s as saying that writing is fine, but the real money is in inventing a new religion.
So, we've established I'm no expert, but the whole thing seems pretty sketchy. And now I have this new theory: I believe L. Ron Hubbard stole the premise of his so-called religion from the plot of The Snow Queen.
In case your childhood was a while back, let me refresh your memory. Hans Christian Andersen's fairy tale begins with an evil demon:
"One day, when he was in a merry mood, he made a looking-glass which had the power of making everything good or beautiful that was reflected in it almost shrink to nothing, while everything that was worthless and bad looked increased in size and worse than ever."
The naughty students at the demon's school decide to take this mirror up to heaven to mock the angels, but it slips out of their hands and shatters, and the pieces fly all over the world. One shard winds up in the eye of a little boy named Kay, and another shard pierces his heart. Drama ensues, and he spends the rest of the book trapped in a castle, trying to escape the curse the glass has placed on him. He shuns his friends and family. His heart must be melted to be healed.
Now let's take a look at the basic premise of Scientology, as stated on a list of FAQs for newcomers to the religion:
Your soul, called a thetan, has a problem. It has several (perhaps millions) of unwanted house guests stuck to it. These other souls, called Body Thetans (or Clusters if they are in a bunch), are stuck to your soul and must be removed to enable your own thetan to function properly.
I could do a quote-by-quote comparison between the text of Andersen's story and texts pertaining to Scientology, but I don't have time and you probably aren't that interested. But the parallels are very present and very . . . I already said sketchy, right? Well, I'll say it again. Sketchy sketchy sketchy.
The whole thing just sets off alarms for me, especially the part where followers have to pay tens of thousands of dollars to achieve the highest stages of Scientologist "enlightenment."
Which leads to my other theory: The reason celebrities and other super-rich folks are so into this religion is because they think anything they have to pay for must be higher quality than what they can get for free. The more expensive, the better.
Amen! Wait—no.
It seems to have something to do with alien bits living inside you, excessive tithing, forced separation from friends and family who aren't OK with your expensive new spiritual lifestyle, entrepreneurial sci-fi authors, Tom Cruise, and Beck. I also heard somewhere that L. Ron Hubbard was quoted in the 1940s as saying that writing is fine, but the real money is in inventing a new religion.
So, we've established I'm no expert, but the whole thing seems pretty sketchy. And now I have this new theory: I believe L. Ron Hubbard stole the premise of his so-called religion from the plot of The Snow Queen.
In case your childhood was a while back, let me refresh your memory. Hans Christian Andersen's fairy tale begins with an evil demon:
"One day, when he was in a merry mood, he made a looking-glass which had the power of making everything good or beautiful that was reflected in it almost shrink to nothing, while everything that was worthless and bad looked increased in size and worse than ever."
The naughty students at the demon's school decide to take this mirror up to heaven to mock the angels, but it slips out of their hands and shatters, and the pieces fly all over the world. One shard winds up in the eye of a little boy named Kay, and another shard pierces his heart. Drama ensues, and he spends the rest of the book trapped in a castle, trying to escape the curse the glass has placed on him. He shuns his friends and family. His heart must be melted to be healed.
Now let's take a look at the basic premise of Scientology, as stated on a list of FAQs for newcomers to the religion:
Your soul, called a thetan, has a problem. It has several (perhaps millions) of unwanted house guests stuck to it. These other souls, called Body Thetans (or Clusters if they are in a bunch), are stuck to your soul and must be removed to enable your own thetan to function properly.
I could do a quote-by-quote comparison between the text of Andersen's story and texts pertaining to Scientology, but I don't have time and you probably aren't that interested. But the parallels are very present and very . . . I already said sketchy, right? Well, I'll say it again. Sketchy sketchy sketchy.
The whole thing just sets off alarms for me, especially the part where followers have to pay tens of thousands of dollars to achieve the highest stages of Scientologist "enlightenment."
Which leads to my other theory: The reason celebrities and other super-rich folks are so into this religion is because they think anything they have to pay for must be higher quality than what they can get for free. The more expensive, the better.
Amen! Wait—no.
March 19, 2006
The tax guy cometh
Remember my Tax Guy? He's still the best. And this year, he's making house calls.
Tax Guy is based in Colorado, but he has so many Bay Area clients (including fellow freelancing bloggettes Nomad Amy and Miss Mobtown) that he arranged to fly in and meet with all of us in person. He'll be here any minute.
But now is one of those moments when I wish I had an etiquette book handy. I mean, what do you wear when your Tax Guy comes over on a Sunday morning? Pajamas? A suit?
And what do you offer your Tax Guy at this hour (besides tea or coffee, I get that part): Cereal? Eggs? If I were Donna Reed, I'd totally have a batch of fresh-baked muffins ready. But my inner Donna must have stepped out for a while.
I'll probably just go with coffee and paperwork. I've got plenty of both, and that's why he's here. But if he saves me as much money this year as he did last year, I'll go buy us both the finest muffins in the land.
It's the least I can do for my Tax Guy when he comes to call.
Tax Guy is based in Colorado, but he has so many Bay Area clients (including fellow freelancing bloggettes Nomad Amy and Miss Mobtown) that he arranged to fly in and meet with all of us in person. He'll be here any minute.
But now is one of those moments when I wish I had an etiquette book handy. I mean, what do you wear when your Tax Guy comes over on a Sunday morning? Pajamas? A suit?
And what do you offer your Tax Guy at this hour (besides tea or coffee, I get that part): Cereal? Eggs? If I were Donna Reed, I'd totally have a batch of fresh-baked muffins ready. But my inner Donna must have stepped out for a while.
I'll probably just go with coffee and paperwork. I've got plenty of both, and that's why he's here. But if he saves me as much money this year as he did last year, I'll go buy us both the finest muffins in the land.
It's the least I can do for my Tax Guy when he comes to call.
March 16, 2006
Dames and Drambuie
Where have I been? The homestead. Oodles of family bonding, but not much email access.
My grandma turned 86 over the weekend, so we all happily flung ourselves across time and space to go remind her that she rules. How much does she rule? Here's the guest list for her birthday party: Her son and current daughter-in-law, her ex-daughter-in-law #1 and boyfriend, her ex-daughter-in-law #2 and husband, and her four grandkids (who live in four different places).
But wait! There are more daughters-in-law. Ex-DIL #3 and current DIL #2 called to wish her well, and ex-DIL #4 sent a box of glorious chocolate-covered strawberries. Suffice to say, the lady inspires loyalty.
Toasts duly drunk and strawberries duly snarfed, I headed to Boston to visit D&D, stellar friends on the cusp of moving to France for a while. Walked with them, shopped with them, discussed the nature of human change with them, drank whiskey with them, envied their travels, absconded with one of Mrs. D's paintings at dawn.
The epic journey back began at 5:15 a.m. EST and ended at 3:15 p.m. PST. That's...um...a fat wheelbarrow of hours. My direct flight had to touch down in Denver to refuel because of high winds, so we spent more than nine bumpy hours in our sweaty leather seats.
But when I finally dragged my weary self home, the sun came out and the air was dry and warm. My winter coat is shoved back into the depths of the closet, where it damn well belongs. My laundry is done.
Now, if I'm lucky, I'll get a long night of saturated sleep and dream of becoming a grande dame, surrounded by as many daughters-in-law as circumstance is generous enough to send along.
My grandma turned 86 over the weekend, so we all happily flung ourselves across time and space to go remind her that she rules. How much does she rule? Here's the guest list for her birthday party: Her son and current daughter-in-law, her ex-daughter-in-law #1 and boyfriend, her ex-daughter-in-law #2 and husband, and her four grandkids (who live in four different places).
But wait! There are more daughters-in-law. Ex-DIL #3 and current DIL #2 called to wish her well, and ex-DIL #4 sent a box of glorious chocolate-covered strawberries. Suffice to say, the lady inspires loyalty.
Toasts duly drunk and strawberries duly snarfed, I headed to Boston to visit D&D, stellar friends on the cusp of moving to France for a while. Walked with them, shopped with them, discussed the nature of human change with them, drank whiskey with them, envied their travels, absconded with one of Mrs. D's paintings at dawn.
The epic journey back began at 5:15 a.m. EST and ended at 3:15 p.m. PST. That's...um...a fat wheelbarrow of hours. My direct flight had to touch down in Denver to refuel because of high winds, so we spent more than nine bumpy hours in our sweaty leather seats.
But when I finally dragged my weary self home, the sun came out and the air was dry and warm. My winter coat is shoved back into the depths of the closet, where it damn well belongs. My laundry is done.
Now, if I'm lucky, I'll get a long night of saturated sleep and dream of becoming a grande dame, surrounded by as many daughters-in-law as circumstance is generous enough to send along.
March 08, 2006
Joe's cup runneth over
It's official: Trader Joe's is taking over the world. Not that NYC is the world—I chose to live 3,000 miles from it, after all—but it's a definite gateway.
I think this is just as it should be. Die-hard gourmands out there, noses elevated, might shun the idea that any grocery chain is worth their attention. But budget foodies know the real score. TJ's has excellent food staples that don't require a second mortgage on your home or your soul every time you go shopping. (Whole Foods. Ahem.)
Not that Joe does everything well. TJ's brand hummus and yogurt are too bland, and you won't catch me buying produce wrapped in plastic in this lifetime. But all the other top-quality essentials are on the shelves, they're yummy, and they're 10 times cheaper than anywhere else that's not scary (Grocery Outlet. Ahem.)
Joe Coulombe, you're my hero.
I think this is just as it should be. Die-hard gourmands out there, noses elevated, might shun the idea that any grocery chain is worth their attention. But budget foodies know the real score. TJ's has excellent food staples that don't require a second mortgage on your home or your soul every time you go shopping. (Whole Foods. Ahem.)
Not that Joe does everything well. TJ's brand hummus and yogurt are too bland, and you won't catch me buying produce wrapped in plastic in this lifetime. But all the other top-quality essentials are on the shelves, they're yummy, and they're 10 times cheaper than anywhere else that's not scary (Grocery Outlet. Ahem.)
Joe Coulombe, you're my hero.
March 05, 2006
Reason #9,737 to live in the Bay Area
Last night, I met up with one of my favorite people from college, plus (get ready): his girlfriend, his uncle, two of his cousins, his sister, his sister's boyfriend, his friend from grad school, his friend from grad school's girlfriend, and his friend from grad school's girlfriend's friend.
And where does a group like this go for a big night out in San Francisco? One guess.
A gay karaoke bar, of course.
Because nothing says "family bonding" like watching a prizefighter-sized drag queen sing "Unchained Melody" while a wedding party dressed in medieval costumes slow dances in front of himher.
I love this town.
And where does a group like this go for a big night out in San Francisco? One guess.
A gay karaoke bar, of course.
Because nothing says "family bonding" like watching a prizefighter-sized drag queen sing "Unchained Melody" while a wedding party dressed in medieval costumes slow dances in front of himher.
I love this town.
March 02, 2006
Communicado
I didn't start using email until my sophomore year of college, but now I have six active email addresses—three that I check daily (work, freelance, and personal) and three that sit around collecting spam.
I also have five accounts with networking sites (Friendster, MySpace, etc.), three phone lines, three IM accounts, two blogs (the defunct original plus this one), a sporadically updated website, and a shelf full of journals.
You know what I miss?
Letters.
Especially those thin blue airmail ones that fold over on themselves, so they're impossible to open without ripping a little bit of the precious stuff inside.
Maybe what I really miss is other people's handwriting.
I also have five accounts with networking sites (Friendster, MySpace, etc.), three phone lines, three IM accounts, two blogs (the defunct original plus this one), a sporadically updated website, and a shelf full of journals.
You know what I miss?
Letters.
Especially those thin blue airmail ones that fold over on themselves, so they're impossible to open without ripping a little bit of the precious stuff inside.
Maybe what I really miss is other people's handwriting.
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