Weeks

Jeez -- it's been weeks since I've posted.  Could it be possible that I just don't have anything to say?  Not much happening, no jobs or special events to report on.

Ellen and I went up to her friend Cam's house in Lake Arrowhead last weekend, joining a group of about 8 just relaxing and enjoying the mountain air.  I read most of Obama's book "Dreams from my Father," which I found alternately boring and deeply insightful.  Kind of like therapy, or professional wrestling.

I also took a few hours off to go to a local bar to watch Game 6 of the Red Sox attemtp in vain to reach the World Series.  It was fun -- there's always some half-in-the-bag guy near you wanting to chat or tell you his life story.  One guy introduced himself as a Dr. from Lowell.   At the end of the game I bid him a "see ya Dr. Lowell."  He said, slurring his speech a little, "I'm from Tewskbury."  I mentioned his earlier reference to the once-bustling Massachusetts mill town.  "Oh -- well no one's heard of Tewksbury, so I say Lowell."  I replied with a smile, but to myself I thought, how many more people have heard of Lowell than Tewksbury?

Tonight we head to Cam's annual Hallloween party; this year the theme is "Denizens of Emerald City."  I'm going as the guy who first answers the door.  Also, I'm playing ukulele while one of Cam's singing cousins sings that ukulele version of "Over the Rainbow."

The Swell Season

You might have thought this title was about summer in the Gulf of Mexico.  But actually it's about a concert Ellen and I attended last Saturday night at the historic Greek Theater in the hills of Hollywood.

The Swell Season is the name of band that really only has two members, Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova, of the movie "Once."

What's that you say -- you haven't seen "Once"?  Shame on you.  I think it was the best movie of last year, a beautiful small Irish musical.  Of course it hooked Ellen and me from the start, since its first scenes take place in a part of Dublin where we had just walked months before seeing the movie.

It's a tiny-budgeted movie, about an acoustic-guitared broken-hearted Dublin busker who meets and has a brief (platonic) love affair with an Eastern European girl.  She encourages him to record his music, helps him do it, and in the process also helps him to heal his heart.  In the end, he decides to go find his old lost love in London, so it has a bittersweet ending.  But beautiful, I thought.

In real life, there were happier endings.  Hansard and Irglova fell in love (he a boyish 38 and she a very mature 18 -- we'll see how long it lasts) and they pulled off the upset of the year at the Oscars by winning best song.  Unfortunately they forgot to thank the director of the movie but hey -- they were nervous.

Ellen and I just loved the movie, and listen to the soundtrack all the time.  I even have learned to play a few of the songs (poorly) on the gee-tar.

So when tickets went on sale several months ago for their show, I snapped them up.  Literally the minute they went on sale.  Which of course in today's modern world means my tickets were about 30 rows back.  It's an outrage.

The day of the show it rained off and on, but the clouds parted for the show.  Glen Hansard is a real showman and the crowd was totally with him.  A high point was when he stepped away from the mike to play "Say it To Me Now" -- a favorite of mine -- without any amplification at all.  This in an outdoor arena that seats maybe 5000.  But it worked -- everyone could hear him, especially when he stamped his feet and sang at the top of his lungs at the climax of the song.

He's also a guy who really seems to wear his heart on his sleeve in relating to the audience.  He told a little story at the beginning of each song, encouraged people to sing along and seemed genuinely pleased and grateful when people did.  But this fragile connection has its downside too.  When a few drunkards yelled at him (somebody yelled "come on!" during one of his stories) he seemed truly offended and the show suffered.  At first I thought, hey you're a professional, get over it.  But then I realized, if you're really going to put yourself out there, offering your heart and soul to the audience, I guess the thin thread of give-and-take can be easily broken.

Luckily later in the night the crowd got more and more enthusiastic and the broken thread was reconnected.   People sang along eagerly.  Hansard smiled.

Then a very unexpected, oddball treat.  He told us of his and Marketa's crazy time in LA during the Oscars, and how they had met a lot of people.  One such meeting was with an older gentleman, who was asking very specific question about some of Glen's songs, like what key were they in.  Then the stranger let on that he had written songs, too.  Oh, like what, responded Glen.  You ever hear of The Jungle Book? asked the man.  He turned out to be Richard Sherman, co-writer (with his brother) of several classic Disney song scores.  Then Glen invites him out on stage!  And he sits down at the piano and proceeds to sing and play "Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious!"  The band was all smiles, and the stunned but pleased audience clapped and sang along.  I don't think anyone knew all the words except the woman to my immediate left - Ellen -- who sang them out loud, con mucho gusto.

Can't wait til they come around again. 

P.S. I took the above picture.

Obama-rama

This past Saturday I volunteered to makes phone calls on behalf of Barack Obama.  You know, the black, inexperienced, terrorist-associating, smear-mongering, liberal Democrat.  I like him because he has a good fade-away jump-shot.

Anyway, although this photo makes me look a bit hippy, I had a fun time.  My old friend Steve Tao runs the phone bank with an iron handset, but I think I got into the groove pretty quickly.

Basically, we were calling people in Nevada, a "tossup" state.  It's only a few electoral votes, but of course every electoral vote counts.  If it was up to me, I would junk the electoral college and go with direct voting for president.  Why can't we make that happen?

I was given a sheet of phone numbers, detailing the name, age and party affiliation of likely or possible Democratic voters.  I picked up the phone and started dialing.  Of course, it being Saturday afternoon, no one was home.  Someone answered maybe 15% of the time.  And at least half of those, the person I asked for wasn't home, which has to count as a "not home."

But if, on the off chance I got the person listed, I was supposed to go by my script.  First, to ask if they were going to vote for Obama.  Most just said "yes," although one lady sharply pointed out to me, "it's a secret ballot, you know."  I replied, "Well Senator Obama wants you to know you can shove your secret ballot up your ass."  No, I didn't.  If they told me they were going to give their vote to Obama, I had a box to check off on my sheet.

Next, we were supposed to encourage them to vote early, an easy option in Nevada.   (I was instructed that it's "Ne-va-da" with the middle "a" rhyming with "bat," not "Ne-vah-da.")  A few people told me they were going to vote early, but one chatty middle-aged lady told me she liked the rush of people at the polls.  I agree, although maybe for different reasons.  I like the ritual of voting at my local fire station.

My favorite call of the day was to a man of 91.  An old lady -- his wife? -- answered, and slowly told me to hold on.  Then, I swear to God, literally 2 full minutes went by.  I chatted with the phone banker next to me while I waited.  Finally a very old-sounding man picked up an extension and said hello.  I introduced myself and asked if he was going to vote for Obama.  Oh yes, he answered.  But then as I asked him the subsequent questions I was supposed to, I got the distinct impression he did not know who I was or why I was calling.  I can't remember what gave me that impression, except how he signed off, after I told him goodbye.  He said, "thank you dear" and hung up.

Still, he responded yes, so I checked the "yes" box.  I hope he makes it to the polls and punches the right box.