back to black

I'm just mad about Amy Winehouse. Crazy for her. I think she's the most delicious vocalist to appear in the last 30 years. An amazing blend of Dinah Washington, Shirley Bassey, Ronnie Spector and just a bit of Elvira. Addicted to almost everything, perhaps that is what gives her sound that Valley of the Dolls edge. A troubled sparrow, please pray that she pulls herself through.

Here is Back to Black, a virtually perfect perfect perfect song in every way. I've noticed that she's absolutely nailed me with this one. This is where I've been living since December. Take a listen.....

patsy cline imitation

It started with an phone call from Ken. I don't believe he asked "would you like to go with us and nearly end up in a fiery crash?". At least, I think I would have had the good sense to decline. Oh well, sometimes its better not to know.

No, I think I remember now. Ken was taking the rat pack to the Christies party in Monterey to kick off the Concours weekend. We were hoping for a different year than we had experienced in 2006. And we certainly got that.

It started off perfectly- we had a six passenger Premier I jet, less than a year old, waiting for us in Burbank. We brought our own travelling bar and hors d' oeuvres. We had a slight delay while Nick looked for his misplaced ID, but we idled away the time in a hip retro-chic lounge in Toluca lake where the interior lighting is made of 1959 Cadillac tail lamps. Add faux leopard skin and stir. After a quick round, we were off to the jet center.

My first impression of the Premier I is that it was small but luxurious. It had leather seating for six and a small luggage area in the back which we used for cocktail service. Tami and Nick shared Flight Attendant duties, we nicknamed them both "Trixie".

All was well until about 15 minutes out of Monterey. The pilot advised us we were about to descend into the San Jose area. One can imagine this was a surprise. Ken went to ask the pilot what was going on and was told "Sit down, Sir- we're having an emergency". Note to pilots- best to avoid casual usage of this phrase. Can be upsetting.

So we talked amongst ourselves for a few moments, imagining exactly what was wrong with the plane. Shortly before landing, the pilot came on and told us that the flaps on the wings which extend upon landing had malfunctioned and so they had to divert to a longer runway. MUCH longer, it turned out. The tarmac at San Jose was a full 65% longer than Monterey and thus we were able to land safely, although we touched down FAST. Had we attempted Monterey, we probably would have crashed through the party in the hangar and continued onward to the water. Too splashy of an entrance for me.

So there we were on the ground at the San Jose jet center. Safe, thankfully, but an hour from our destination and with a plane that needs repairs. Not the best. Our team sprung into action. Nick began calling flight services, Ron went online to research hotels in case we were stranded, Ken and Dan took a cab to a liquor store and returned with a bottle of decent vodka. Martini in hand, Tami and I retreated to the pilots lounge where a giant TV was tuned to the history channel, which we both enjoy. We were treated to a program about the history of cremation, which considering the evening, we did NOT enjoy. We chilled. Dan went to the gift shop and got each of us a spiffy San Jose Jet Center hat, and a junior stewardess set for Tami. Gift bags. Just like the Oscars.

After two and a half hours of fun, the maintenance crew finished rebooting the plane's computer and pronounced us fit to fly. We rounded up our merry band, and, much wiser about cremation than we had been, boarded for a return to Burbank. Throughout the hour long trip home, we chatted bemusedly about whether the flaps might really work when we got home. Thankfully, they did and we landed normally this time.

Once we got home, we gratefully deplaned and loaded into our waiting cars. It was about that moment that we noticed that we had never actually reached our destination at all. But neither did Patsy Cline. We raised a glass to her.

That night at home I was reading online about the accident record of the Premier I. It seems that so far, two of the six million dollar jets have been totalled in crashes involving the same failure we experienced, causing them to run off of the end of the runway and crash. Imagine Fred Flintstone trying to stop a plane. I shuddered once I read the reports. At least we were together. We were very lucky.

tori tells it

Tori Amos, recorded in June, with lifestyle advise for Lindsay and Paris, although perhaps someone could get word to Britney.

best duesenberg

Two weeks ago, we went back to Pebble Beach for the Concours. We had all been there last year as well. That was a very emotional time.

Last year, John passed away five weeks before the event. One of his favorite cars, a Duesenberg Model J Convertible Sedan, was already entered in the show for exhibition. His surviving partner Ken made the decision to go ahead and show the car. Longtime friends Tami and Steve came for emotional support. I knew how to drive the car.

When I arrived on Friday, Ken was already in town. He asked if we could go to the Lodge for a drink because he didn't want to go back for the first time without John on show day. We checked in with the show organizers who asked if we wanted to move the car into the judged class, owing to one car having dropped out.

We talked about this over a Martini. There were three Martini stems at our table overlooking what was becoming the show field. One was for John.

Moving the car to judging competition ...at Pebble Beach... with less than 48 hours notice...? "Why not" was my reply- what do we have to lose?

The car had been shipped up to Monterey by our good friend David Gooding and was stored in the Gooding Auction tent. David knew of an excellent detailer named Darryl. A quick conversation explaining our circumstance and he and his crew leaped into action. His crew spent two solid days polishing every tiny surface of the big Duesenberg. The undercarriage, the engine bay, it all shone superbly. We made a friend for life that day. We put the convertible top down, snapped the boot into place, and raised the rear seat windshield. The car looked superbly sporty. We were ready. "How do we look?" Ken asked. "Like a Million Dollars", I blurted out. He looked crestfallen- "That bad?", he replied. We both laughed. It was the first time I had seen him laugh all weekend.

Sunday morning was crisp and perfectly clear. We maneuvered the Duesy into place and polished off the morning dew. By late morning, I put the car through its paces for the judges. They had heard about what had happened and were superbly kind and understanding. It just felt right to have the car on the lawn. We had placed John's picture in a frame leaning against the left rear wheel. This was done so we would not have to tell the story a thousand times. Tami wore a big yellow hat so I could spot her easily. She and Steve took Ken to look at cars. About 1 PM, a gentleman in a blue blazer approached and asked if I was with the Duesenberg. I said I was,and he asked if I would like to follow him. I said I would like that. I called Ken on his cell and told him to get back to the car. We started the J and I pulled her into line a line of stunning classic cars, between two other Duesenbergs in our class.

The Pebble Beach Concours understands the concept of anticipation. The fact that we were in line meant that we had won an award, we just didn't know which award. When our class neared the reviewing stand, the big Duesenbergs were pulled alongside each other bumper to bumper. We were side by side with two lovely cars, a sexy black Speedster and a pale green Convertible Coupe. We were the only convertible sedan in our class.

I looked over at Ken in the passenger seat. He was shaking like a leaf. I told him that considering where we had been five weeks prior, that any outcome was a victory. He agreed, and then the judges gave the nod to the green convertible for third place. I tried to catch the Marshall's eye, but he wouldn't look at me. Just then he gave the nod to the black speedster, and walked up to our car to shake Ken's hand.

We had won best Duesenberg at Pebble Beach.

As soon as we got parked, friends came running. Tami and Steve brought bottles of Champagne for a toast. The tears were not only of happiness. It was a very good day, the first good day in five weeks. But it was very emotional. Looking back, I guess Michael picked up the black hooker to amuse us. He is so very thoughtful.

When Cheney was Smart

Hmmm-

It all sounds intellingent, well reasoned, and compelling. So how was the wisdom of 1994 disregarded?

Blame the Gays

Old Guy

Last week it happened again- the dreaded birthday. Even as a boy, birthdays were problematic. Mine fell halfway between the fourth of July and starting back to school. So while the Hot Wheels were cool, it was a reminder of one month to go before the end of summer vacation.

I'm not sure things have gotten significantly easier in the ensuing years. My Dad told me on my twenty-fifth birthday, that if I were a car I would qualify for Historic License plates. Did I mention that I come from a pragmatic people?

When I hit thirty, I felt that it was the beginning of respectability. By my later 30's, I was feeling about as respectable as I wanted to become. And that was before I moved to California. I've mentioned before about West Hollywood Math- where one counts thusly: 37, 38, 39, 1000. In WeHo, where I seldom find myself actually, I have reached the age of one Thousand and seven. In Chinese culture, it is year of the old guy. And somehow, I am okay with it. I guess after the last year or so I'm just happy to keep counting.

The birthday was celebrated at UberKen's, on his back terrace by the pool. Many of the usual suspects were present. There were two other birthdays in the group, so we shared a party. It was a splendid clear summer night. A jazz combo provided a delightful background. The hors d' oeuvres were as pleasing to the eye as the young waiters who served them. Ask me about Aaron sometime. The bartender was rehearsed to assure his competence at producing the devastatingly cold Martini. Will and I gave him an adequate opportunity to demonstrate his prowess.

Two fun girls, who decorum demands remain nameless, seemed to occupy more of his time than we did. After the more respectable guests departed, those two decided that inebriato skinny dipping was the order of the night. A few others joined them, mostly gay men (the girls seemed to like the idea of men who are hard to get). Michael the chauffeur was among them. I forgot which one he ended up with. It doesn't matter, because they both passed out. It's not as amusing as the black hooker he picked up on the lawn at Pebble Beach. We should have invited her.

I have a whole year to rest up for a thousand and eight.