Something to Wine About

When people ask me, "what don't you like about LA?" and oddly, I do get asked that question (people never ask me what I do like about LA, by the way) I always say, "no one drinks wine in this town." Or maybe I should say, "they don't drink wine like my friends in SF do."

Speaking of my friends in SF, shout out to Paul and Frankie, two fabulous wine drinkers. Good time, boys, good times.

The exception to the wine rule in LA is my wonderful friend, the fabulous Mrs. LL. I don't know if she wants her full name printed, so I will simply refer to her as that. Mrs. LL lives in Rancho Palace Verdes (hope I spelled it right, I'm still new to town) and is having a wine and food tasting this weekend, to which I'm invited. We are going to gorge ourselves on wine and food. Okay, to be precise, some will gorge themselves on food, me and Mrs. LL are going to gorge ourselves on wine. Red wine, white wine, maybe even some blush. I'm just so darn excited. I haven't been this excited about anything since April 6 and 7 when I got to see Bruce Springsteen live. And by the way, I'll be seeing him August 19 on the East Coast. I can't even think about that I'm too excited. I seriously may pee my pants if I think about it too much.

In a year marked with divorce, possible lay-offs, Hillary losing the nomination, recession (THERE IS A RECESSION. IT IS NOT MENTAL, but people who think there is no recession are mental, to be perfectly clear) and during a time when I felt compelled to buy and read, "How to Deal with Assholes in the workplace," Wine and Bruce are seriously all I have to be happy about. So Let the Dogs on Main Street Howl (Bruce reference) it's a wine lovers weekend thanks to Mrs. LL.

I can hear the corks popping now. Ahhhh.

Two Birthdays and a Funeral

Today is the birthday of two wonderful ladies, Denise and Diane. Diane is turning the big 5 0 today, and she and her hubby are celebrating for the next couple weeks in New Mexico. Diane is one of those rare people. She's, frankly, a saint. When I first met her, she taught specially challenged kids who were death and blind. Now, I wouldn't even consider teaching your average seven year-old anything (except to go to their room and leave me alone) but to teach a special needs person takes, well, a special person. That's Diane. She's got compassion, heart and a strength of character that is just unknown to most of us poor souls.

Diane and her husband, my good pal AC, came to see me when I was at a low point in my life, and though she didn't say anything in particular, or do anything in particular, just being around her made me happier, because she has such a good attitude. The only thing I ever held against her was that she switched her affiliation from my gal Hillary to Obama. So Diane, if Obama loses, you will be one of the people whose ass I will have to kick because I still believe that Hillary stands a better chance of whipping McCain. Having said that, I don't hold it against Diane too much, because she supported Obama for one reason: she wanted to see the democrats win. How can you be mad at someone for that?

So happy 50th birthday, Diane. I hope that 25 years from now when I turn fifty, I'll have your level of grace and maturity. I hope for it, but let's be realistic.

Then there is Denise. She is the HR manager at our office. If you knew our office, you would know that the fact that she is our HR manager and hasn't killed herself or anyone else yet says a lot about her character. You have to have an awful lot of patience to do that job, and you really have to like people to do it. Denise is not above joining me in making offhand remarks about our co-workers, we'd have to be angels to not give in to that temptation, but she does tend to see the good in (some) people that I think are a complete waste of skin. But what I love about her is that she enjoys a catty remark, and always has at least one good zinger handy. She also loves to party on a level that I, myself, have not enjoyed since college. She can stay out all night and just live it up. Sometimes she even makes it in to work the next day, but usually she has the foresight to request PTO up front. I love an HR Manager who says on Monday, "Hey, I won't be in tomorrow. I'm getting hammered tonight." If all HR Manager's had that attitude, corporate America would be considered fun. So Happy Birthday, Denise. You aren't turning fifty, but in about 20 years when I turn the same age, I hope I still am as much fun as you are.

Now for the funeral. Madame Marie died this week. Who is that? She was the star of one line in one Bruce Springsteen song, but it made her a legend. Aptly, in "4th of July, Independence Day" (Better known as "Sandy') Bruce wrote, "I hear the cops finally busted Madame Marie, for telling fortunes better than they do." Just a little line with little meaning, yet it is burned into the head of hard-core Bruce fans. He made her infamous, and I hope in the afterlife, she stays out of jail and sees only a happy future (though she's dead, so I'm not sure what she could see in terms of a happy future).

Oh, and yes, Jesse Helms died. What can I say? Good.

Happy Independence Day!

The 4th of July is a little bit like a political Christmas: you have to have good will toward Republicans, just for the day. I can work myself up to a full day, however, so at 2:00 p.m, after I have had a cocktail at my pals Michael and Steven's (who, by the way donated bus loads to Hillary's campaign) I am going to declare a moment of forgiveness and for exactly one minute, I will forgive every jackass who voted for George W. Bush, and thereby, ruined the country.  To further show my commitment to that Minute of Forgiveness, I'm going to encourage my dear pal Robby, who will also be at the party and is the most hard core democrat I know, to join me in my minute. If the two of us can forgive on that issue, even for just a minute, then there is hope in these hard time. 

As soon as that minute is up, however, I'm having another sip of my cocktail, and the grudge will return.

Get off the PA

As I write this, I am sitting in the Las Vegas airport. There are fat people everywhere eating pastries or hotdogs, while I sip on water and think about how much I'd love some damn fries. There are crying children aplenty. There are annoying people on cell phones talking loudly. There is the constant whir, ching and clang of slot machines. Mostly, though, there is the guy on the PA at Gate #4 who just LOVES to hear himself talk. He's been on three times in five minutes, and I swear, he's not saying anything useful. We know the flight from Phoenix is about to arrive any minute and when it deplanes, those of us going on to Burbank, the flight's next destination, can line up. We know the flight is leaving on time.

I'm hoping someone beside me tells this dumb-ass behind the counter to get off the speaker. This is not his crack at his own Fifteen Minutes of Fame. This is an airport, and worse, it's Southwest.

On the upside, there's free internet access at McLaren in Las Vegas. Of course, I can't hear myself think because the dumb-ass just came on the speakers again.

It's easy to hate people when you fly.

Christian Rock: one more reason to hate religion

Sin City needs redemption. The proof is in the radio dial. I lived here for five years and never knew that this town was full of Christian Rock stations. That’s because I had my own car, and blissfully listened to my CDs and the local classic jazz station. As soon as I moved away and started telecommuting, I had to rent cars, which often meant I had to listen to local radio channels. So imagine me, going West on the 215, listening to what I think is some alternative rock station when I suddenly notice a lyric: “And I get down on my knees before you.” At first, I’m thinking, “Porn Rock? Is there such a thing?” Then I realize it’s all about Jesus. So I change dials. I hear another piece of a song, “I will burn in the fire of your salvation.” I let out an alarmed gasp and change the channel. “I worship you, Oh God, blad de blah.” I change the channel again, more holy-roly lyrics disguised as Spoon or even more insidious, Snow Patrol. I change it again. Finally, I hear a Doobie Brothers song. I was never a fan of the Doobie Brothers, but I leave it there. It’s safe. I drive all over this desert town, the radio dial fixed to a classic rock station. I haven’t heard the Eagles this much since 1979.

Christian rock is freaky. Why not just listen to plain old satanic rock and roll, where the real rockers are? Okay, so the lyrics aren’t all, “I love Jesus, yeah, yeah, yeah,” but, it’s rock and roll; it is its own religion, all three chords is enough and less is more. The only fire in those lyrics is about passion, a rock and roll subject du jour, every du jour.

Do Christian rockers and the people who listen to them want to be bad while being good? I just don’t get it; and I find it freaky. I’ve said it before, religion is just freaky. It causes war, it is the originator of hypocrisy and fairy tales and evidently, it’s also the cause of some really horrible music. It’s also the originator of true dorks: who can sing, “I get down on my knees before you,” without the temptation to make a sexual joke? Who talks about getting down on their knees anyway except for hookers and a few gay guys that I know, and oh yeah, a lot of horny men?

The big question is, why does Vegas have so many Christian Rock stations? The better question is, why does Budget continue to give me rental cars without satellite even though I keep requesting satellite and pay through the nose to get a car that has one? Now that I think of it, the real question is, Why don’t I switch from Budget to Avis or Hertz? Well, the answer to that one is that I’m clearly a sucker for punishment. It’s like the W Times Square. Whenever I’m in NYC, I stay there, despite the fact that the hotel staff is rude and keeps trying to put me in rooms next to the elevator. My pal, CW, always asks, “why do you keep staying there,” and I keep saying, “because I like the beds.” I keep renting from Budget because I’m a Fastbreak customer of theirs and its just easier to stay with them and put up with a dial full of Christian Rock then switch over to Avis, for example, where I might actually get satellite radio and can listen to the Bruce Springsteen channel, the true savior of rock and roll. When Bruce sings of getting down on your knees, it’s because he’s telling the chick in the song to do some dirty business. And that’s a different kind of freaky altogether.

Note to self: on next trip to Vegas, bring a CD for the rental car.