2013. DECEMBER 21-23. LOS ANGELES. BOB'S BIRTHDAY WEEKEND.
BOB'S BIRTHDAY WEEKEND IN LA
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 21Well we're both in one or another stage (Bob more final) of a cold that has gripped us since our return from the cruise of a lifetime, so we decide to skip the Saturday morning gym regimen and donning our leather jackets (it's brisk out) take a walk to the park instead. It's been a while since we've done that and once again we glory in the beauty of our extended neighborhood.
Back to pack and our usual at-home lunch of soup and sandwich before bidding Don goodbye and heading to LA. A grueling 2 1/2 hour trek as it turns out. Is it just holiday traffic that's to blame?
But here we are at the Omni, the Four Seasons we stayed at in its glory days, and, I suppose, ours.
The clerk wishes "someone is having a birthday" and when we enter our beautiful 16th floor Club room there's a mini-birthday cake greeting Bob. (Yea Reuel.) Almost the first thing we do after Bob unpacks (birthdays do not excuse him from this task) is go up to the 17th floor and case the lounge, a pleasant commodious space with the same great views we have, only one floor higher.
We note as we walk in the neighboring area that everything is the same but a little shabbier. Nevertheless there are the public sculptures, the photogenic skyscrapers, the obligatory Christmas trees here and there and
After our walk we watch a bit of the Wizard of Oz, entirely appropriate since it too is celebrating its 75th birthday, my pretty. We're not the first in the Club Lounge. Help ourselves to Vodka on the rocks and Bruschetta with ratatouille and various cheeses. The server gets us another vodka and all is very fine.
After an hour of all that loungey pleasuring we hear the weather report in our room "We're so lucky," says Bob. The Rest of the country is wreathed in cold and snow. And then fortunate that it's fundraising season for PBS (when isn't it?) we see a Barbra Streisand special Back To Brooklyn concert. The voice isn't there but an icon is an icon. I lie here and watch, coughing dammit. But time to appear for our dinner at Noe downstairs.
I sort of remember dining at Noe but Bob doesn't so we're both unsure. "I think the peak has peaked" he says. We've present our vouchers for the 3 course tasting menu, add a bottle of Chalone (which the cellarmaster not the lightheaded waitress finds) and thou in this wilderness.
healthier than the other choice, Rock Shrimp), lovely presentation; very nice. B "I like this a lot" R the excellent salmon B the roasted free range chicken, "I'd say we're a happy people" the pianist playing "Somewhere in Time" and for dessert R the PB&J (“peanut butter and jelly") lemon poppy seed cake with raspberry craime fresh. And why is there a strip of sugared bacon? Hey it's a pound cake. Not a great success. And B the beer ice cream. Nice. (BTW Noe needs the assistance of the Princess Ruby's pastry chef.)
Since we are so foodie involved, Bob discusses his menu for Christmas lunch, h'ors deuvres, soup, barbecued chicken, baked sweet potatoes, salad and a number of desserts etc. Sounds enticing. Then he suggests we'll probably watch a NetFlix program. Of our waitress who to Bobs suggestion that she might be a grad student I reply that she probably does have her GED. Her clattering heels have an urgency.
After dinner Bob sees a woman of a certain age in a Christmas sweater. "Quite shocking".
Bob wants to go for a "turn around" and so we shall. Frankly I'm not feeling particularly perky. Sniffly etc. But damn we're going to do this right. And this little part of the city has magic at night.
After our walk Bob says "So far I'm having a wonderful time." That's the idea I reply. It is. Then I lie in bed and cough and cough. I'm not doing well and I hope I don't rain on his parade.
SUNDAY DEC 22
Omni wins the great bed sweepstakes, so easy to sleep (of course the doses of NyQuil help). Bob can't remember the last time he stayed in a bed this comfortable. Getting ready for a busy day in the commodious bathroom, travertine floors, separate (from the bath) spacious shower stall. Actually the finishes are upmarket and well chosen throughout the suite. Amenities (shampoo, body lotion, etc. are so pretty that I don't want to use them, just add them to my collection back home [I know, that’s perverse]). Bob catching me stuffing the vials into his ditty bag is appalled. "Put it back!"
I desist.
O la la! We really didn't expect a full breakfast in the Club Lounge but such there is. Very impressive. Eggs, bacon, bagels, lox, delicious little muffins, the full monte. And a classy "tea forte" infuser for moi as Bob happily gulps his coffee. We sit by the window overlooking downtown out to the Hollywood Hills and have the place to ourselves.
9:30 and Bob asks/requires "Should we go for a walk". Sure.
I note as we walk that LA had a love affair with colorful girders for its public space art sculpture. Did one metal mad sculptor flourish for a few years in the sixties?
Back for Meet The Press ad al and supposedly a nap (Bob says he can prove I napped because he snapped my picture) the weather is lightening and after stops in the MOCA and Philamonic stores to finger all the clever goodies (my thing--if I can't own it I can spoil it, harking all the way back to Olin's Housewares and Gifts) we join the many folks frolicking around the central fountain at the Music Center before the play begins and settle at a table nearby taking in the lively scene.
THE STEWARD OF CHRISTENDOM starring Patrick Denehey an actor we've seen in Long Days Journey on Broadway who after a career in the movies generally as a "heavy" came into his own in theatre in the last decade or so. Don't think we saw his acclaimed Willy Loman.
Stark set greets us. “This isn't going to be a musical," I remark. According to the notes, the play begins in 1932. Irish. About the playwright's great grandfather who as a Catholic Dublin police superintendent was loyal to the British crown and responsible for maintaining the established order in a time of revolution.
So you'd think that we'd have guessed something was amiss when we see a half empty house. And I think they are "papering" because I hear something about Screen Actors Guild from my neighbor and recognize a famous black actor (just saw in a commercial; name not recalled as usual) on the aisle and Bob, who reads LA Times reviews in advance, reveals just before curtain (good timing ) that this one got a pan.
Denehey is almost unintelligible and we think when the lights go down after an hour and a half that it's over. No. Intermission. "Where can it go from here?" asks Bob quite reasonably. We know the central character has misbehaved, was a loyalist, has regrets and can't be understood for all his ranting and mumbling though the secondary characters who visit him realistically or metaphorically in his nursing home can.
This is why after a moment of discussion at the entrance I rush back in, grab my jacket and shouting "I feel liberated!" we for the first time as Taper playgoers do not return.
This is why after a moment of discussion at the entrance I rush back in, grab my jacket and shouting "I feel liberated!" we for the first time as Taper playgoers do not return.
Upstairs for bananas, chips, coffee and tea cadged from the ever-helpful lounge and we're set for the balance of the afternoon.
A TV police procedural drama is far far more riveting than the play we almost completely saw. And, perfect, the cocktail hour spread in the Club Lounge is more munificent than last nights. We have delightful curried shrimp, bruscettas and a variety of cheeses along with a couple of vodkas (guess who) and glasses of Chardonnay. I say this has got to be an annual pre-Christmas idea and Bob says we should stay over on JAN 26 when we will see the Christopher Plummer show at the Ahmanson so he doesn't need to drive home in the dark (not great for an ahem older personage). Like Done!
Here we are in the Disney lecture hall (magnificent of course in Ghery swirly fashion) for the pre-concert lecture with Alan Chapman a local radio host and Grant Gershon, the music director.
Anecdotes. Tenor: I'll jump on your harpsichord. Handel. More pp will come to hear you jump than sing.
Auditioning for H. I can sing at sight but not at 1st sight.
About master chorale. All candidates Must sight read.
Reception inLondon on the 1740's--a combination of hostility and indifference.
Most oratorios were operas without sets and costumes--old testament subjects. But Messiah is New Testament. More choruses than arias ratio. H wrote it in 23 days.
This season is a celebration of the 50th anniversary of the master chorale.
We have the best seats in the house--nothing too good for Bob's bday--2nd row center. In one if the great concert halls of the world. (We liked the Sydney Opera house concert hall too. Showing off.) I note that the organ which ordinarily represents harmony here is chaotically depicted (pick up sticks Bob says) but that's Gehry for you.
Last time we sat at different sides of the hall and exchanged seats at intermission. Great acoustics.
And Handel's Messiah tonight? Magnificent. The master chorale flawless as is the chamber orchestra. The begowned and betuxedsoloists are all quite good, having mastered the baroque arpeggio flourishes, and sit emotionless and still like classical statues. Bob wonders if they take special classes to achieve that look. The bass, a Puerto Rican, pronounces his words Spanishtically; the tenor reminds me of the famous British film actor "the one who wins all the awards". (Bob laughs because neither of us can remember his name--it's come to that.) The soprano's resume wedged in between her opera credits shows she also sings on cruise ships. We can't get away from cruise reminders on this LA hiatus. It gets better and better as the oratorio wends it's way through the three parts toward Easter. And we rise dutifully for the Hallelujah chorus (I remembering that it, probably apocryphally, started when King George, awakened by it, jumped to his feet.)
Once "home" we order a club sandwich and red wine which comes in less than ten minutes, barely enough time to finish my home-imported vodka cocktails.
Alas i fall asleep just shy of magical midnight to wish Bob Happy Birthday. Well tomorrow's another day.
MONDAY, DEC. 23
It's after 7 and I cough loudly waking Bob up."That's your birthday wake up cough. I will regale you with spittle on this day of days." He accepts that offer with grace and pulls the curtains apart to let the morning light and the LA vista in.
I tell him you made it! Now you can take to your bed for the next quarter century, which he dutifully begins to do. "What's there to live for? They've invented the plane," he croaks. And other birthday irreverences continue.
I offer him my birthday card and say that's all you get. He says he already got two cards today, from his optometrist and Princess cruises. All of us who depend on you I say.
An even more commodious breakfast upstairs and cheerful Candace at the desk hearing Rocco's happy birthday call is full of wishes for Bob. The protective bubble that wraps around us is again reminiscent of the cruise experience, attentive, personable service people, long hallways (Bob's contribution to the list), constant good food, luxe accommodations, places revisited faintly remembered, entertainment, even a lecture happened upon. What's the real world like? It doesn't exist for us (except as MSNBC droning in the background?); this, the bubble of the incessant visitor, is our reality.
All packed up (with those grabbed amenities--I've cleaned out the room) Bob enjoys his favorite telephone conversation: please send round our car, I try to make reservations for that January 26 show night "at the same or better rate" only to discover that it's $379 for one night (twice as much); we'll try again later thank you very much.
Once en route Bob says thank you for a lovely birthday weekend. I'm immensely pleased (plus I managed to benefit too).
I begin to Read my notes of the weekend to Bob who protests that he had just lived it but he's a captive audience. It's 76 degrees out and this is late December--incredible--and traffic is light.
Home by noon, we discover on our dining room table a lovely gift package with a card to "Bobolink Divas", a lovely bottle of merlot and a selection of tea tins with a card "thank you so much to both of you for being such great persons to me! I will never forget all what you've done!" And more in that vein. Ai yai. But who is it? Moment of truth. Who have we been good to? Nobody! Hmm. We knock on Don's door. He found it on our door. Doesn't know. He says Welcome Home you peripatetic two. I say pathetic two. Bob, a researcher, checks signatures on our leases and discovers that the extravagant gift is from Luis Borbon, a young resident, whose rent I've just raised. Well Bah Humbug Luis but um touching. They like us. They really like us. ??? He still gets his raise.
I pour more wine as Bob prepares soup and salad lunch. "I've decided to be dissolute on your birthday."
As a matter of fact (your honor I was innocent) I'm getting potted on available whites and terribly enjoying our tree top vistas from our wonderful balcony--not too shabby. Objective: being able to Nap.
Beth appears bearing gifts after work (hers) and the champagne pours and pours and the family tales pour out and that's the evening. Bob's 75 and there's nothing to be done about it.
TUESDAY, DEC 24.
Needing to write a card to Luis for his unexpected gift and to some business people we deal with, leavening the imperatives that I must communicate with holiday and new year wishes.
Bob and I have been a little frosty as a result of a contretemps after Beth left which for the life of me I'm unclear about but what's life sans a teeny drama. Rocco, ready to work (as he will be on Christmas itself), is unaware and normality reigns. Bob collects $100 in gift certificates to Morton's steak house (we have another one impaled on my bulletin board from years ago; one of these days we vow to have gigantic steaks hinting broadly to be taken in large measure home). Then there's machines at the Y before picking up a sandwich for home.
Not many hours later Don joins us and we are all on our way to Rick's for his annual Christmas Eve party--a wonderful event in his gorgeous north park (on the park) home--it's food and drink central! and we get to pass the seasonally decorated houses and that amazing over the top one with its light animals and cheesy accompanying music on the way.
Home. How can we miss The Nutcracker on TV? We're children again. Not really but the melodies have been known since childhood.
WEDNESDAY DEC 23, CHRISTMAS.
Rocco, yes working the holiday, begins ranting when we come in and wish him Merry Christmas. "My nephew died today three years ago. It's not merry." Ok it's about you. Make it miserable for us in a holiday mood. (And me Jewish yet.) but he calms down into his more typical geniality (now that he's a rich man and is almost ready to acknowledge it—“I’m comfortable”) though he complains that this year he lost more customers than ever before.
We call Brian and Danny to wish them MC and find out where they're at. They're in a Hyatt hotel room, still not in the DC apartment, theirPalm Springs home still unrented. Sounds like limbo.
Then Don arrives bearing gifts!
Dinner. Autumn squash. "A lotta cream." "My inclination today is that noone will go home hungry." Chicken done on the grill. Baked sweet potato. When all is said, Bob has done a magnificent job of creating a superb holiday meal for the 3 of us. OK I did manage to have a choking problem, did black out and fall and scare Bob and Don to death. But the mirror I fell against didn't break and that was pretty much my immediate concern.
Later as a sop to normalcy we watch on Don's advice the next episode of the British mystery Midsummer Murderx which he's probably seen a hundred times but which is devastatingly boringly convoluted though beautifully shot on a limited BBC budget. This was how our long ago friend Sheldon Larry sharpened his directorial teeth and burnished his resume but after Don says goodbye only several episodes of the ridiculously satisfying tres American "Scandal" can erase the memory of the much less pungent British morsel.
A TV police procedural drama is far far more riveting than the play we almost completely saw. And, perfect, the cocktail hour spread in the Club Lounge is more munificent than last nights. We have delightful curried shrimp, bruscettas and a variety of cheeses along with a couple of vodkas (guess who) and glasses of Chardonnay. I say this has got to be an annual pre-Christmas idea and Bob says we should stay over on JAN 26 when we will see the Christopher Plummer show at the Ahmanson so he doesn't need to drive home in the dark (not great for an ahem older personage). Like Done!
Here we are in the Disney lecture hall (magnificent of course in Ghery swirly fashion) for the pre-concert lecture with Alan Chapman a local radio host and Grant Gershon, the music director.
Anecdotes. Tenor: I'll jump on your harpsichord. Handel. More pp will come to hear you jump than sing.
Auditioning for H. I can sing at sight but not at 1st sight.
About master chorale. All candidates Must sight read.
Handel in Italy in his 20's. Learned Italian melodic style. Like Thames always full but never overflowing. Messiah 40 movements many that Start with "and". So flows.
1st half of Handel's career opera. Oratorios 2nd. (Had moral value.) displays his delight on the interplay between words and music.Reception in
Most oratorios were operas without sets and costumes--old testament subjects. But Messiah is New Testament. More choruses than arias ratio. H wrote it in 23 days.
This season is a celebration of the 50th anniversary of the master chorale.
We have the best seats in the house--nothing too good for Bob's bday--2nd row center. In one if the great concert halls of the world. (We liked the Sydney Opera house concert hall too. Showing off.) I note that the organ which ordinarily represents harmony here is chaotically depicted (pick up sticks Bob says) but that's Gehry for you.
Last time we sat at different sides of the hall and exchanged seats at intermission. Great acoustics.
And Handel's Messiah tonight? Magnificent. The master chorale flawless as is the chamber orchestra. The begowned and betuxedsoloists are all quite good, having mastered the baroque arpeggio flourishes, and sit emotionless and still like classical statues. Bob wonders if they take special classes to achieve that look. The bass, a Puerto Rican, pronounces his words Spanishtically; the tenor reminds me of the famous British film actor "the one who wins all the awards". (Bob laughs because neither of us can remember his name--it's come to that.) The soprano's resume wedged in between her opera credits shows she also sings on cruise ships. We can't get away from cruise reminders on this LA hiatus. It gets better and better as the oratorio wends it's way through the three parts toward Easter. And we rise dutifully for the Hallelujah chorus (I remembering that it, probably apocryphally, started when King George, awakened by it, jumped to his feet.)Once "home" we order a club sandwich and red wine which comes in less than ten minutes, barely enough time to finish my home-imported vodka cocktails.Alas i fall asleep just shy of magical midnight to wish Bob Happy Birthday. Well tomorrow's another day.
MONDAY, DEC. 23
It's after 7 and I cough loudly waking Bob up."That's your birthday wake up cough. I will regale you with spittle on this day of days." He accepts that offer with grace and pulls the curtains apart to let the morning light and the LA vista in.
I tell him you made it! Now you can take to your bed for the next quarter century, which he dutifully begins to do. "What's there to live for? They've invented the plane," he croaks. And other birthday irreverences continue.
I offer him my birthday card and say that's all you get. He says he already got two cards today, from his optometrist and Princess cruises. All of us who depend on you I say.
An even more commodious breakfast upstairs and cheerful Candace at the desk hearing Rocco's happy birthday call is full of wishes for Bob. The protective bubble that wraps around us is again reminiscent of the cruise experience, attentive, personable service people, long hallways (Bob's contribution to the list), constant good food, luxe accommodations, places revisited faintly remembered, entertainment, even a lecture happened upon. What's the real world like? It doesn't exist for us (except as MSNBC droning in the background?); this, the bubble of the incessant visitor, is our reality.
All packed up (with those grabbed amenities--I've cleaned out the room) Bob enjoys his favorite telephone conversation: please send round our car, I try to make reservations for that January 26 show night "at the same or better rate" only to discover that it's $379 for one night (twice as much); we'll try again later thank you very much.
Once en route Bob says thank you for a lovely birthday weekend. I'm immensely pleased (plus I managed to benefit too).
I begin to Read my notes of the weekend to Bob who protests that he had just lived it but he's a captive audience. It's 76 degrees out and this is late December--incredible--and traffic is light.
Home by noon, we discover on our dining room table a lovely gift package with a card to "Bobolink Divas", a lovely bottle of merlot and a selection of tea tins with a card "thank you so much to both of you for being such great persons to me! I will never forget all what you've done!" And more in that vein. Ai yai. But who is it? Moment of truth. Who have we been good to? Nobody! Hmm. We knock on Don's door. He found it on our door. Doesn't know. He says Welcome Home you peripatetic two. I say pathetic two. Bob, a researcher, checks signatures on our leases and discovers that the extravagant gift is from Luis Borbon, a young resident, whose rent I've just raised. Well Bah Humbug Luis but um touching. They like us. They really like us. ??? He still gets his raise.
I pour more wine as Bob prepares soup and salad lunch. "I've decided to be dissolute on your birthday."
As a matter of fact (your honor I was innocent) I'm getting potted on available whites and terribly enjoying our tree top vistas from our wonderful balcony--not too shabby. Objective: being able to Nap.
Beth appears bearing gifts after work (hers) and the champagne pours and pours and the family tales pour out and that's the evening. Bob's 75 and there's nothing to be done about it.TUESDAY, DEC 24.
Needing to write a card to Luis for his unexpected gift and to some business people we deal with, leavening the imperatives that I must communicate with holiday and new year wishes.
Bob and I have been a little frosty as a result of a contretemps after Beth left which for the life of me I'm unclear about but what's life sans a teeny drama. Rocco, ready to work (as he will be on Christmas itself), is unaware and normality reigns. Bob collects $100 in gift certificates to Morton's steak house (we have another one impaled on my bulletin board from years ago; one of these days we vow to have gigantic steaks hinting broadly to be taken in large measure home). Then there's machines at the Y before picking up a sandwich for home.
Not many hours later Don joins us and we are all on our way to Rick's for his annual Christmas Eve party--a wonderful event in his gorgeous north park (on the park) home--it's food and drink central! and we get to pass the seasonally decorated houses and that amazing over the top one with its light animals and cheesy accompanying music on the way.WEDNESDAY DEC 23, CHRISTMAS.
Rocco, yes working the holiday, begins ranting when we come in and wish him Merry Christmas. "My nephew died today three years ago. It's not merry." Ok it's about you. Make it miserable for us in a holiday mood. (And me Jewish yet.) but he calms down into his more typical geniality (now that he's a rich man and is almost ready to acknowledge it—“I’m comfortable”) though he complains that this year he lost more customers than ever before.
We call Brian and Danny to wish them MC and find out where they're at. They're in a Hyatt hotel room, still not in the DC apartment, their
Bob busy in his kitchen and as if making up for lost carols when we were away cruising plays a host of them and other traditional seasonals on the cd, if it's not the Vienna boys choir it's a jazz pianist playing Chestnuts Roasting while I, in bed with a Steisand biography and then editing my blog, do otherwise.
Then Don arrives bearing gifts!
Later as a sop to normalcy we watch on Don's advice the next episode of the British mystery Midsummer Murderx which he's probably seen a hundred times but which is devastatingly boringly convoluted though beautifully shot on a limited BBC budget. This was how our long ago friend Sheldon Larry sharpened his directorial teeth and burnished his resume but after Don says goodbye only several episodes of the ridiculously satisfying tres American "Scandal" can erase the memory of the much less pungent British morsel.
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