Playing with a full deck

My last two birthdays have been quite extravagant events. The 50th was celebrated in downtown San Francisco, (the place of my birth) ensconced in a beautiful suite off Union Square in the Hotel Savoy, surrounded by friends and family who made the journey to join me, and washed down with multiple bottles of Veuve Cliquot. Last year, I turned 51 in Torino, and together with Italian cousins, enjoyed a lovely home-cooked gourmet dinner in a trendy apartment with a full-on view of the Olympic flame. This year, I sat on my sofa, drinking Cabernet, eating Von’s California rolls and watching Sex and the City reruns. (At least they were the ones with Barishnikov.)

Well, it wasn’t quite as bleak as all that. I have a penchant for stretching birthdays into weeklong events, and this year was no exception.

It began at the Montbleu Resort and Casino at South Shore, where I spent Saturday evening enjoying a fabulous concert by Shawn Colvin. I sat about twenty feet from the stage, and was inspired by her evocative singing and awesome guitar work. The next day I lucked into the sale- of-sales at Carson City’s Old Navy and dropped my $80 Christmas gift certificate on 3 pairs of pants, a stretch velour track suit, a jean jacket and two tops (okay, I had to fork in an extra $9). I popped into Maytan Music next door to pick up guitar strings and an instructional book (Shawn motivated me) and then visited the Nevada History Museum before stopping in at Red’s Old Highway 395 for a pulled pork sandwich and a microbrew.

I tried to set up a massage for my b-day (using another gift certificate) but no room at the spa. My office mates were oblivious to the special day, but after a well timed phone message from my friend Nancy in Sandpoint, gift and card appeared along with lunch at Robertos. The evening of my actual birthday was spent in the aforementioned manner, enhanced by numerous calls from family and friends. I had a belated herbal hotpack massage the following day and it was a sweet indulgence.

Last night, T-Mark and I enjoyed out ritual birthday fine dining event, this year at Alpenrose, sharing marinated black cod and ginger chicken, a split of champagne and goat cheese ice cream for dessert (sounds disgusting but it’s really divine).

And now, I’m just a year older – and beginning to feel the effects of looming senior citizenry. The outlook a little less optimistic, the hopes and dreams more muted. But I can still manage to have a heck of good time, and maybe this will be the year I finally get good at guitar.

A House Not Crowded

Fear is a perplexing emotion. Apprehension prevents us from doing many worthwhile things and should often be ignored. However, if we don’t heed our inner voice at the appropriate moment, we may find we no longer have an inner voice. It’s a tricky balance.

I ventured to SoCal this past weekend with a sense of dread. This would be classified as a normal reaction for someone facing a 2 ½ hour long dental appointment to take care of two crown restorations and two fillings. Hardly a life or death situation - yet I don’t know anyone who would greet this scenario with eager anticipation. I also needed to break in a new auto mechanic, which can be a bit daunting for a single (blonde) woman. In addition, I planned to visit Largo for the first time on Saturday night, a club which carries some mystique and a fairly high intimidation factor.

Friday arrived without its usual upbeat lilt. The pesto chicken ciabbata splurge at Appleby’s in Palmdale felt like a special treat for the soldier about to be shipped off. Yet as Saturday dawned, a sense of peace and calm descended. The good doctor was handy with the anesthetic and the dental experience was an annoyance rather than an ordeal. The new Mitsubishi dealer was fast, friendly and charged less than quoted. As I headed off to Hollywood puffed up with newfound courage, I sensed significance for the evening ahead..

Here’s the deal with Largo: it’s in the Fairfax District, right across the street from Canter’s Deli. It’s a small club, perhaps holding 70 people – but it hosts remarkable musicians. You cannot make reservations unless you reserve a table for dinner. You cannot purchase tickets in advance. You cannot talk during a performance. You cannot pay with anything except cash. You can line up outside and wait (doors open at 8:00), hoping for a seat at the bar or standing room. I was eager to see (“planning to see” sounds a bit too bold, given the circumstances) Grant Lee Phillips (formerly of Grant Lee Buffalo) who I’ve been fascinated with since hearing briefly on stage at House of Blues a few years ago.

Since my car was ready early, I ventured straight from Glendale to Hollywood and quickly found a parking space two blocks from the club. It was about 4:00 p.m. and I was starving, so I did the pastrami and borscht thing at Canter’s (heaven). Even better, they had cheap and frosty cold Coors draft to wash it down. I savored the meal as long as possible, but re-emerged on Fairfax a little before five. Of course, it was too early for a line to be forming for the show.

I spent the next 2 ½ hours prepping for a future role as a homeless streetwalker. Since I didn’t want to stray far from the sightline of the Largo front entrance, I strolled up and down the six blocks between Beverly and Melrose an uncountable number of times. One pass was on side streets to check out the 30’s era Spanish-style apartment architecture. Another time, I picked up an LA Weekly and settled on a bench in front of a storefront skateboard bowl and chatted with wheelie punks on their smoking breaks. I spent time in a thrift shop, a graphic novel book store and now know where the best Yiddish delis and bakeries in the Southland are located. I discovered Shoe Pavilion and left with some $55.00 funky Mary Janes by Chinese Laundry for $14.99 – it was right next to the $3.00 cinema. I walked by Canter’s so many times that a random lady asked if I was alright. With each pass, I expected hordes of Grant Lee Phillips fans to materialize from nowhere, but they never did. At 7:40 one solo guy was standing by the Largo door and I prayed that it was “the line.”

We started chatting and were soon joined by about 16 others. The dinner reservation crowd started arriving and shortly after eight, 10 of us were admitted to sit at the bar after paying our $15.00 cover charge. It was wonderful to have a seat after three hours of aimless wandering! Even better, a Harp draft cost only $5.00 – $1.50 less than at Auld Dubliner in Mammoth.

After hanging out for about 30 minutes, my new companion announced “Neil Finn spotted in the room.” Both of us had gotten there early hoping there was a chance the Crowded House frontman might show. He was known to be in LA auditioning drummers for the re-forming band, he has played Largo in the past, and has worked with Grant Lee Phillips (in fact, when I saw Grant Lee at House of Blues, he was a special surprise guest at a Neil Finn show.)

You should know that Mr. Finn is probably my favorite musician in the world, so you’ll understand how excited I was. Since he lives in New Zealand and England, bumping into him isn’t statistically probable. I couldn’t be sure that he came to perform, but it seemed unlikely that like he was there just to eat dinner. As he walked by my bar stool the second time and returned my smile – I felt as giddy as a sixteen-year old just named head cheerleader.

The show opened with a droll comedienne in possession of a few good one-liners. Next up, the band I came to see. They were so good; I would have had a great evening, even if no special guests were announced. Grant Lee Phillips is an amazing songwriter and he was so much funnier than the comic. But, joy of joy, after about five songs he announced that both Neil and Nick Seymour of Crowded House would join him on stage, along with Jon Brion. The first song of the new grouping was “Only Talking Sense” and I was transported. I realized once again that, for me, life’s richest moments are when I get to hear my favorite songs live.

Eight musicians crammed onto the tiny stage and jammed for about an hour and a half, taking requests from the audience, playing Neil Young songs, “Ashes to Ashes” by David Bowie, the Kink’s “Lazing on a Sunny Afternoon” and even an impromptu version of “96 Tears.”

When they bid their farewell at around one in the morning, I couldn’t move from my seat. It was the happiest I had been in a long time. I chatted briefly with Grant Lee Phillips’ keyboard player, and floated out into the moist Hollywood air.

That’s the thing about fear, nothing beats the feeling of overcoming it. And the rewards are sweet.