Good Vibrations

California Girls

Last night my friend scored tickets to see a live, intimate taping of Brian Wilson at the Nissan-Yahoo concert series. It was the two of us, Brian's amazing band, and about 200 of our closest friends, including
Harry Shearer, a/k/a
Mr. Burns, a/k/a

Derek Smalls.

And Rodney Bingenheimer and Darrell Hammond.

Plus we saw Kelsey Grammar walking by.

Star sightings aside, it reminded me why classics are classics. I was never a huge Beach Boys fan -- never had anything against them. That music is just packed into the soundtrack of my life, along with Billy Joel and Earth, Wind and Fire and the Monkees and of course the Beatles. Among, oh, about a hundred other bands.

But last night, Brian, like a stately old king that had barely lived through many wars, headed up a band bursting with fresh young talent. They played classics and new stuff. And as hokey as "Good Vibrations" may sound on your AM radio, it brought me chills. He was masterful, rode easy on his legacy.

After a rendition of "California Girls," I realized that's what I am now. And that makes me happy.

I Made It - Part 2

And no, the red is not the blood. But maybe.

When I was in college, greedily lapping up all the art-history and classical civilizations classes I could, I dated a sweet, sweet waiter named Christian. He was from Hell's Kitchen. He didn't know a lot about art, or literature, or anything that involved aesthetic sensibility. But he was a great cook, supersexy tennis player, fun to dance with, and good, good, good as gold.

But there were three "strikes" that led to the ending for me. The first was that he wore gray jazz shoes when we went on a date. Mind you, this was the late '80s, but still. Um. I have always looked to a man's shoes as a way to decode him, a kind of cultural and personality Rorschach test, if you will. That may sound very unfair and slightly unkind, but hey, it was the '80s. Enough on that.

The second strike was something he said at a private moment. It was so private, in fact, that I will not even share it on this blog.

The third strike was that we went to MOMA, the modern art museum in NY. We were looking at some Mondrians, and I was reguritating all I had learned about abstract art: That it is not representative. Rather, it's more about the impression the work leaves, that it's how a piece plays, how it makes you feel, the geometry and balance of it all, blah blah blah. And after this lengthy explanation, he nodded in deep understanding, took a long look at the piece, and turned to me and said, "So the blue is the water?"

Personally, as the product of an AMAZING artist mother and grandmother, I have always felt particularly untalented when it comes to painting. But I took this abstract art class from the Annie Wharton (she's so cool and lovely and funny and chic. I can't believe she's my friend) and I was really pleased with some of my creations. I felt satisfied, like I did when I was about 5 and made this series of posters of a guy looking at a clock that I thought were so hilarious and I put them on my wall and laughed and laughed for a year, it didn't matter if anybody else got it.

This is a nice surprise about being 40licious -- there's more to tackle. I will never run out of stuff to learn.

tallpoppies

pink oyster


smellroses


breakfree

fatpoppy


blue oyster

One of Those Things I Wish I'd Thought of ...

... but probably wouldn't have pulled it together anyway if I had.

See more funny videos and funny pictures at CollegeHumor.

40licious and a half

Lesson #7, above. Lucy didn't get a say in this executive decision.

I've been 40licious for six months. It's been amazing, really, the journey to here, so far. The best way to mark it, I think, is to outline 20 things I've learned since I got to this point.

1. Sometimes you just have to let things go. Take the high road, especially when ego is involved. Mine or otherwise.
2. Sometimes you can't figure out the route to the high road until after you've passed it, and by then it's just a faraway squiggly blue line on a map.
3. Dogs and egg yolks: No.
4. PMS is kind of like some weird sneaky parasite demon that makes you do all kinds of whacked-out stuff. It's just best to schedule around it.
5. It pays to buy good face cream. I am particularly fond of Kiehl's Abyssine Cream SPF 23 for day, and Dr. Andrew Weil for Origins Plantidote serum and cream before bed.
6. It's OK to tell your shrink you're not coming back. Very liberating, actually.
7. In terms of furniture, less is more. I got rid of my rugs and love how my floor looks now.
8. Try something new that makes you uncomfortable. I took an art class last weekend from the lovely Tinkerbellian Annie Wharton and I feel like my life has changed. She unlatched a new door for beauty and truth. Now if I can just nail F on the guitar ...
9. Good work follows you and pays you back when you least expect it.
10. Family is everything. There is nobody I'd rather be with, now that I understand the proper dosage. They have the basic dossier on you and love you all the more for it.
11. Better to spend $3,000 on an amazing trip that you'll remember for the rest of your life than do some stupid stock gamble with the money.
12. Never, ever trust your instincts on the stock market.
13. There is an intrinsic irony in making jam: Fruit ripens at the hottest time of the year, and you have to be standing over a hot stove for hours to make it. There's really no way out of that one.
14. I would put my hard-earned principles aside if it meant that someone else would be deeply, deeply hurt. Kind of like the Dalai Lama would do.
15. You will really only eat half as much popcorn as you think you will. Just get the small.
16. There is great liberation in not having to be right all the time.
17. There is power in stillness and silence.
18. When you love a book or find it particularly useful, buy at least five copies of it and give it away.
19. It costs about $50,000 to adopt a child, $20,000 to go through the state system and get one that's hard to place, and $100 (or more if you serve good tequila) to throw a last-man-standing dinner party.
20. Republicans can be cute and funny and charming and even big-hearted. In fact, this whole political labeling thing makes absolutely no sense. One of my dearest friends, who considers herself an "R," is socially liberal but fiscally conservative. I consider myself a "D," and I am socially liberal and fiscally conservative. So, um ... I guess we're voting for the same person.

Today Now!: How To Pretend You Give A Shit About The Election

I Made It

I re-cut my movie, "40licious!" and this, folks, is the God's honest truth of what happened when I went to see Barry Manilow for my 40licious birthday in February. I invited about 75 people. Eight came. Perhaps not a great turnout, but I was shocked -- it was, probably, not the kind of thing I'd go to myself -- that these people loved me enough to get their heinies on a plane and check into the Las Vegas Hilton. There were even two from work who went with me, and of course I plan to repay their kindness and affection by blackmailing the hell out of them.

I don't know why it's fuzzy. Sorry about that. But anyway ...

Friday Night and the Lights Are Low ...

ABBA performs on Wonderama, 1976. My mother dated Bob McCallister, the host, in the '80s. He dumped her when he realized she wasn't rich. Jerk.


I remember being about 9 years old, at the height of the Disco Epoch, and imagining my teen and adult life being somewhat like the songs I listed to under my pillow on a Snoopy AM radio. There were a lot of songs about going out dancing. In fact, I think musicians were jailed and tortured if they produced a song that didn't involve the concept of looking fine and hooking up over a couple well executed Hustle moves. My adult life, I was convinced, would involve lots of lip gloss, some kind of boyfriend in a flared-leg suit, shiny long hair and of course, unlimited disco dancing, occasionally on roller skates.

I do rock the lip gloss occasionally, but I'm not sure when my other dreams bowed out. However, the music will always be with me, laser-etched into my DNA, my hard wiring. Disco is perennially happy and sexy and infuses hope and beauty into the most trite of activities (Car Wash, anyone?)

A couple years ago Special K snagged tix to Mamma Mia!, which is a "jukebox" musical built upon a skeleton of ABBA songs and a wacky story of a girl who isn't sure which of her mother's three lovers is her father -- so she invites the all! To her wedding! Dancing and copious alcohol consumption ensue! We saw Doogie Howser there and got up and danced with everyone, even though it was the "B" company in Thousand Oaks and there was an understudy!

And now (I am only explaining this to those who have been locked in the trunk of a 1973 Olds Cutlass for the past five years) Benny, Bjorn and Tom Hanks and Rita Wilson went ahead and made a movie of the musical. With big stars. Which we decided we HAD to see on opening night at the ghastly Americana at Brand theaters where it's all mediocre and American and crowded and too expensive. HOWEVER, it was fun to see Meryl Streep and Pierce Brosnan cutting loose.

We didn't dance in the aisles this time, nor did we see Neil Patrick Harris. My advice to you: Even if you're not nutso over the movie, sit through the credits.

And to ABBA, I say, thank you for the music, for giving it to me.

So Many Surprises at 40licious

Someone I work with died.

I knew her well enough that we had a mutual admiration for each other as "the other non-corporate wacky redhead."

The first couple months I got there, Charlene McComas was planning a trip to Seattle. I did a brain dump and told her all the things I'd do if I were going home. She brought me back a mug.

But I didn't know her well enough to know that she'd had a recurrence of breast cancer that spread through her body, to her spine, made her nearly blind, made her body simply stop working early last Sunday morning.

Nobody at work talked about her all week. Then tonight, at the "Celebration of Life," we talked about vacations, food, art. I could only really talk about Charlene when I met her siblings and her sweet, Irish ma. We held hands.

I never know where they go when they die. But I'm sure they're somewhere close. They'd fucking better be.