Late night insomnia induced internet searching turned up this photo of the cast from the world premier of Cumberland Blues (a musical of Dead songs) with LJR as Bertha.
Go in Peace
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June 30, 2005
June 29, 2005
June 28, 2005
Class Act
There is, in me, a strong sense of class awareness. What with the Food Network and all it might appear that being a Chef is the same as being today's Solid Gold Dancer, but it ain't so. Most Chef's aren't kings of their own little fiefdom/restaurant, they are managers in large corporate chains if they feed the bottom third of society, mid-level management in hotels/resorts/upscale-chains for the middle third, and when you get to serving the rich and powerful you graduate to server class. Think Gossingford Park with less sepia.
I was on the opening staff of The Rattlesnake Club in Detroit, it was my first conscious experience with how the rich view arts. We opened with a party for some Erte' auction or exhibit and my clearest memory was of all the underling "volunteers," who were doing the menial tasks of hosting the event, having to come out into the same lobby as we poor cooks and waiters while the speeches went on. Sent to the equivalent of the Thanksgiving children's table, they suffered the same brief humiliation that so many of our waiters would soon go through, the realization that you are not part of the party, that the guests may be gracious and polite but that is not the same as friendly.
It always makes me bristle when I watch my black and blue collared friends orbit the world of the rich, because I know that somewhere out there looming is the place that they will put you in, usually in a polite yet dismissive way that stings a bit more than a direct statement would. Florists, Assistant Directors, Event Co-ordinators, photographers, floor managers, hostesses . . . all of us moths around a monied flame.
And I guess that's why I take a little too much joy in the foibles of my hometown rich. In Detroit the Illich family are the new royalty- they parlayed their pizza empire into a quasi Sun City like district of the city where they own the theaters, the restaurants, the ball team . . .everything but the hookers, which they have to rent. But even as Ronald does his small town Hugh Grant routine, it is nothing compared to the comeuppance that his brother got back in the '80s as a failed pop star and actor. That's hm holding the guitar on the poster to Slumber Party Massacre 2.
It's a bit embarrassing to admit that one of the biggest snort laughs I ever had was at his expense. During his Pop phase, all around Detroit were posters promoting Atanas's album release. While any number of us were toiling in the relative anonymity of the alt/indie scene that we thought a sort of meritocracy, here was this kid born with a silver spork in his mouth getting press, radio, and billboards as if to say that all our values didn't match up to a promotion budget, a famous name, and a sport's coat bought from Miami Vice catalog. One night during the height of the ad blitz, the Junk Monkeys were playing Paycheck's and db was a bit fed up with it all, I think. Earlier in the night the "advance guy" for Atanas had stopped by to try and convince me to give his client a gig. I handed the guy back his album and press kits, telling him that this was the wrong venue for him and that there would be better places to play. He left the press kit and album and I think that how, later on, db ended up on stage doing a poetic reading of Atanas's lyrics. At some point he stopped reading and said, "I seem to see an ABAB rhyme scheme developing here." and laughing in the way of peasants everywhere when their betters are mocked, I laughed out a snort heard down Caniff.
I'd like to think that I've matured since then and that I'd overcome this, but it still rises up once in a while. Usually at events where artists/performers are fund-raising. Who knows what pep talk the Soprano is given before she is trotted out to sing while the Galette is served and then dismissed before coffee? Whatever is said, it might as well come across as the command Dance, Monkey! Dance!
So it was class loyalty, more than anything, that had me enjoy last night's San Jose Stage Company annual Monday Night Live. Rather than spin plates, have actors pass cheese puff "in character" or dress the chorus in clingy black pants, SJSC puts on a night where they make fun of local politics, politicians, and, of course, San Francisco. My English friend Luke tells me that his people call this "taking the piss out of someone" and if anyone understands class awareness, its a Brummie son of a Cab Driver.
I have no idea who the supervisors, clerks, and other locals are but we all know the type so the jokes worked with a sort of insert-name-here sensibility. I went to support LJR, who co-writes and performs the news segment. The crowd howled at all the appropriate points, the same places where I laughed at Atanas all those years ago. At least the Company filled their coffers with more than just self satisfied indignity.
They also used the event to publicize their next production Idols of The King. Of course I'd go because LJR is in it and she's always worth the price of admission, but to finish off last night's show they brought out the guy who plays Elvis to do a couple of numbers. Damn, he's good. Not in a impersonator sort of way, there is nothing cheesy about him. He and I talked for a while at the after party, mostly about cooking. Nice guy.
Once the evening's take was counted we built a barricade in the street, sang songs from Les Miz and started calling each other "comrade." Then I went home.
Go in Peace
June 26, 2005
June 25, 2005
June 24, 2005
Summer Rerun
Because it amuses LJR to no end, here's a photo of me and a bear. I'm the one on the left
Go in Peace