Sing for Your Supper, or at Least for Your Friends

Isn’t it amazing how you can be friends with someone for years and have no idea about how their special talents?  Then they blow you away, suddenly shining and astounding you with their awesomeness.

That happened to me this week when I went to hear Short Fabulous do an open mic night in the City.  I knew she did open mics, but I’d never been to one.  I sort of pictured her sitting on a stool, strumming a guitar and moping aloud in the way all devastated open mic performers of my imagination do.  But, boy did I have that wrong.

Short Fabulous strolled nonchalantly up to the stage, positioned the mic and introduced herself.  Then, she launched into singing.  A cappella style!  The song was upbeat and it didn’t take long before the crowd was stomping and clapping along.  She had fairly similar participation in her following 3 songs.

I enjoyed the fairly witty lines and her use of technically incorrect grammar, i.e. “more strong,” as we were earlier having a conversation about how people can get away with that in songs.

The open mic night did have several of those standard guitar-playing singers, including one young gentleman who sounded astonishingly like Tracy Chapman.  I liked his set.  The first performer was an elderly piano player who was absolutely amazing. 

Later, there was also a violinist, a balding man in a baggy sweater, likely in his 60s, who then accompanied a young spoken-word artist.  The comedian was a bit odd.  First he explained that lesbians are all angry because there are no – erm, todgers, in their relationship.  Gay men, however, are very, very happy because they have two.  He then proceeded to tell very insulting jokes about his wife, after introducing her in the audience!  Very interesting evening.

Happy Birthday Short Fabulous!!

It’s my friend Short Fabulous’s birthday today.  It’s also World Intellectual Property Day, which is rather appropriate for Short Fabulous since she deals with intellectual property a lot in her cyberlaw practice.

“I thought you’d be bigger.”  Those were my first words upon meeting Short Fabulous in person for the first time.  We were standing near the baggage claim in the Seattle airport about spend the week together sharing a hotel room for the INTA Annual Meeting four years ago.  “Vertically or horizontally?” With a quip like that, I should have known we’d be friends.

There’s this idea that gets tossed around a lot in discussions about applying for jobs.  It’s the idea of the “on paper” version verses the “real life” version.  On paper, Short Fabulous and I should not be friends.  Sure, we both do IP law, but beyond that, we appear to be as different as you can get. 

We’re from very culturally different parts of the country; we’re on opposite sides of the political spectrum; she loves comfy clothes, flat shoes and as little primping as possible; the list goes on and on, we even come up on different sides of IP law issues.  In fact, our opinions on most matters are so far apart we keep a list of things about which we agree.  I think that list has like 5 items on it now.

But despite all our differences, she’s still one of my favorite friends out here.  She’s fabulous, and that’s all you need.  We both have this underlying silliness that sneaks out – ok, hers sneaks out, mine sort of rampages – and it’s super fun to have a cohort in that.  She’s always up for an adventure, whether it’s a boat ride, a new restaurant, a shopping trip or sharing a hotel room with a complete stranger.  When I get stumped on a legal issue or need to brainstorm out loud, she’s on my short-list of attorneys to call.  Plus, I know I can always rely on her when I just need to vent or cry or chat.

Cheers to a great friend!  And very happy birthday wishes!

Shalom to you my friends

Round and round we went, feet crossing this way and that, circle within circle within circle of people, all dancing, all going round and round, breaking to swing a partner, like a giant chicken dance without the flapping.   In the center of our concentric rings, my friend was teetering high on a chair hoisted above the crowds.  We were celebrating her, her Bat Mitzvah and the B’Nei Mitzvah (plural) of seven other adults who hadn’t had the opportunity for a Bat or Bar Mitzvah when they were 13.

I was having so much fun dancing and learning to do the Horah, it was hard to believe that a few hours earlier I’d been standing in the foyer of the synagogue feeling awkward and worrying.  Would it matter that I was German, even though my family left Germany before World War II, the way it matters that I’m white when I’m in a room full of black people even though my family came to the US long after slavery ended?

Deciding not to think about it, I followed others from my friend’s group into the large worship room and tried my best to do what they did.  Not only was it B’Nei Mitzvah, it was also the synagogue’s young adult Shabbat Service and the seventh day of Hanukkah.  There was so much going on.  I opened the worship book and was a bit surprised to find the page numbers going in descending order.  Everything in the book was written in Hebrew, transliterated Hebrew in English letters and English.

The readings, the recitations between the Rabbi and the congregation, all these were in Hebrew.  When the Rabbi spoke to the congregation, that was in English.  She explained the day’s Torah reading, the story of Joseph from Exodus.  She gave the Cliff Notes version of the entire story up to the point of the day’s reading, everything about Joseph being thrown in a pit by his brothers, rescued and then sold into slavery and how his ability to interpret dreams had saved him.  She even mentioned his technicolor dream coat and ended with a soap-opera style “last time on..” and a good “dun-dun-dun.”

The day’s reading was printed in English in the bulletin, but the actual Torah reading was done in Hebrew by the B’Nei Mitzvah.  And they weren’t reading a transliterated version; they were reading real Hebrew.  They took  turns, each chanting a few sentences of the passage, their voices rising and falling in a beautiful rhythm.

Although the chanting was in Hebrew, it felt very familiar and reminded me of Catholic mass. Many things in the service reminded me of Catholic mass.   The way the Torah scrolls were treated, from the time they were removed from the Ark behind the Rabbi until they were returned to that place, reminded me very much of the treatment of the host; the standing, the bowing and kissing of thumbs, the reverence.  I don’t know if that’s evidence of the connection between Judaism and Christianity or if these were only things that are similar across many religions.

The service was full of music.  I didn’t dare try to pronounce the Hebrew words of the songs, yet certain familiar words caught my ear as everyone around me sang.  “Amen.” “Adonai.” Words I knew from my own church services.  As I listened, I looked around the room, watching.  The joy illuminating people’s faces as they joined in lively songs of praise, the tears moistening the corners of their eyes as they sang the somber Kaddish to remember the dead; whether happy or sad, it was all prayerful.

And then, voices began to sing in English.  Not just a song in English, a song I knew.  “Lord prepare me, to be a sanctuary; Pure and holy, tried and true.  With Thanksgiving, I’ll be a living, sanctuary for you.”  Standing there together, our voices lifted in praise all with the same prayer,  it was illuminatingly clear, We truly are all God’s children.

You Say ‘Potato,’ I Say ‘Latke’ (or ‘Twas the Last Night of Hanukah)

‘Twas the last night of Hanukah and on the house boat, Short Fabulous was hosting a party that’d float. 

The potatoes were laid on the counter with care, in hopes that her friends soon would be there. 

The candles were lit in the menorah of tin, burning quite quickly much to goldenrail’s chagrin. 

And Meg&Jack with a bowl and her potato shredder, scraped furiously while Short Fab mixed the batter.

While on the stove top a pan of oil did heat, we all stared at it eagerly, waiting to eat.

Into the pan it dropped with a splash, shredded potatoes and some salt, just a dash.

Potato and onion and egg made up one.  Another to come after those were done.

The second were simpler, they came from a box, supposedly Jewish like bagels or lox.

With a flip of the spatula by Meg&Jack’s man, the potato pancakes were upside-down in the pan.

The grease sizzled and popped and made them all brown, as Short Fabulous hollered out “Gather around.”

“Sit, Meg&Jack! Sit, goldenrail! Sit, Mr and Pole!” 

“Pick up your napkin and fork she did call.”  Now sitzen sie, sitzen sie, sitzen sie all!

A smattering of latkes they sat on our plates, sour cream and applesauce waiting to mate.

Into our mouths one forkful at a time, a piece of potato on each little tine.

“Yummy!”  “Delicious!” “Scrumptious, you bet!”  “Such flavor.”  “Good taste.”  “I haven’t tried that one yet.”

Four kinds we did eat, each made a good latke, except for the box, which were a bit farkakte.

Once the dishes were cleared it was time for dessert, rich marble halava from her friend Bert.*

And with dessert must come games oh happy delight, a long round of dreidel lasting into the night.

With the coins all won and then given away, we packed up our items to make no delay.

Up the stairs to our shoes, our coats and our boots, we said our goodbyes and made our way off  of das Boot.

We heard Short Fab call as we walked up the dock,  “Happy Hanukah friends, now try not to get lost!”

 

*As far as I know, Short Fabulous does not have a friend Bert and purchased the halava herself in Jersey.  But Jersey does not rhyme with dessert.

Exciting (Huey Lewis and the) News

The best friends in life are the ones that challenge you to do something new.  Not just for the sake of doing something different, but to join them in something they enjoy that you otherwise might not have tried.  This is one of the reasons Short Fabulous (formerly Short Artichoke) makes such a good friend.  She’s absolutely crazy.  Crazy about Huey Lewis and the News.

Huey, Huey, Huey

Almost since the time I first met her, Short Fabulous has been trying to get me to go see Huey Lewis in concert, listen to Huey Lewis on the radio, watch Huey Lewis on tv.  If it’s Huey, you name it, she’s tried to get me to do it.

Ok, ok, she hasn’t tried to get me to wear Huey Lewis underwear.  I’m sure it’s only a matter of time, though.

Well, she finally succeeded, taking me a few months ago to a Huey Lewis and the News concert out in Saratoga.  It was a good show, but it was nothing compared to what Short Fabulous got me and another of our friends to do last weekend.

Handshakes, Pictures and Friends

It’s 7pm on a Saturday night and were standing around inside a book store stuck staring at the cd rack next to us, the fake jazz section, oh joy.  The line is growing, we can see the tables arranged near the front.  That’s where they’ll be soon, Huey Lewis and some of the News, to sign autographs and take pictures.

It’s me and Meg&Jack, no Short Fabulous in sight.  Where is that girl?!  She asked us to meet her here at 6.  She’s been going on about this event for weeks.  She can’t wait to introduce her friends to the band, all of whom she knows well.  Huey, Johnny and Bill come out, the line cheers.  Still no Short Fabulous.  The line starts to move, slowly winding around the corners.  Still no Short Fabulous.  Then I feel something down by my elbow.  I turn.  It’s her!  Short Fabulous has finally arrived.

We get up to the front of the line and Huey greets Short Fabulous by name.  A wide smile spreads from ear to ear, “I brought some friends,”  she says.  “You have friends?” Huey jests.  She introduces us all around, Johnny Colla, the sax player, Billy Gibson, the singing drummer, and of course Huey, the Huey.  Then it’s time for a picture:

Meg&Jack, Johnny, Short Fabulous, Huey, me, Bill

We hung out until the end, Short Fabulous and a few others chatting it up with the band for awhile.  The entire band, especially Huey, was in a kooky mood, so it was a lot of fun.  We rounded out our adventurous evening with a trip to the local Puerto Rican restaurant, plantains all around.

 

P.S.  That green jacket on Short Fabulous was one of the finds from the 10 hour fashion day.  Cute, isn’t it?

Fashionita for a Day

I was 10 minutes early.  I’d factored getting lost into my commute time estimate and had somehow managed to get there without getting lost.  That was a first.  9:20am on Saturday morning, and I’m standing on Short Artichoke’s… heck, I don’t even know what to call it.  Porch?  Ramp?  Plank?  Standing outside the door of her houseboat trying to figure out why she’s not answering the door.  Why?  Because I’m ten minutes early.

Short Artichoke invited me over to help her sort through her wardrobe and maybe identify some missing pieces.  I figured it would take the morning, and maybe part of the early afternoon.  Boy, did I underestimate the extent of her wardrobe!  And I thought I had a lot of clothes.  10 hours.  10 hours of clothes.  On, off, store after store, shop, shop, drop.  It was after 7pm, when I finally slumped into my car, exhausted, but happy.  The day was worth it.

Redoing Short Artichoke’s wardrobe, we had our work cut out for us.  Let me start by saying that there’s a reason she’s called Short Artichoke (much to her disapproval).  One day, shortly after I met her, she was dressed head to toe in artichoke green, and she’s short.  You get the idea of where we were starting.

As I settled onto a kitchen stool, Short Artichoke began hauling clothes into the living room.  (Ok, Short Artichoke, in addition to being annoying to her, is a pain in the vampire to type. From now on, she will be SA.)  Shirts, trousers, sweaters, even a couple of dresses.  Piles of hangers, mounds of fabric, everywhere you turned, clothes.

Surprise after surprise came out of those piles.  Including a few goodies for me that were too big for SA.  Sure, there was the expected stuff  - the army green array of every article under the sun, the blazers and crew neck T’s I’d seen her wear.  But the expected was easily dwarfed by the unexpected.  A gorgeous burnt orange gauze blouse that fit perfectly and accented SA’s dishwater hair and green eyes.   A black vintage 1950s sweater from her grandmother.  Two suits that fit better and looked nicer than anything I’d ever seen her wear.  She even owns some heels!

But by far, the biggest surprised wasn’t in the clothing itself; the biggest surprise was what the clothing revealed.  SA has a figure! This discovery reminded me of when the neighbors and Munchkinhead and I played dress up with Alfred when she was in 5th grade and discovered she was really pretty.  Or when they played dress up with me in high school and we discovered I’d finally gotten some shape.  I was stunned, and super excited.  

Pretty Alfred.

The best part was when SA herself discovered just how great she could look.  We’d been jousting back and forth, me saying those jeans looked amazing on her and her griping about how she didn’t like them and yadda yadda.  Or her saying she loved some shirt and me telling her it was too stretched out and didn’t fit her well.  Back and forth, back and forth.  Then, she put on these jeans that were so different from her normal high-waisted tapered old-lady/Aflred style jeans,  resting a bit above the hip, boot cut, and a black button up blouse she’s practically never worn.

“Oh my goodness,” I exclaimed, catching my breath.  “You look amazing!”  Here she was, little ms SA, little ms frumpy t-shirts with the army barracks palate standing in the middle of her living room in a pair of blue jeans and a black blouse, looking like she was about to go out for a night in the City and arguing with me about how much she didn’t like the way she looked.  “Turn around.  Look in the mirror.”  Still muttering her complaints, she rotated around to the full length mirror.  “Oh,” she said, disappointment in her voice, “I do.”

The Examination Room is Ready

Last night Mr. Trizzle and Short Artichoke came over to my place to practice examination techniques.  I wasn’t really involved in this whole deal, but my place is pretty much half-way between the two of them and they’re both my friends, so it seemed an ideal place to meet.

Short Artichoke wanted some help with her cross and direct examination skills.  Mr. Trizzle’s done nearly a dozen trials himself already and Short Artichoke, well, like most attorneys, Short Artichoke has done zero.  It makes good sense that Mr. Trizzle would help her out with some pointers.

Being the good little friend that I am (and very silly), I decided I would help Mr. Trizzle and Short Artichoke by setting up a court room for them.

I pulled out the long plastic folding table Mr. Trizzle’s currently letting me borrow and set it up as counsel’s table with a nice chair behind it.  On the other side of the room, off from center a bit, I put a stall stool to be the witness stand.  Even put a Bible on it.  The Bible’s in Greek, but that hardly matters.

In the center of the front of the room sat the judge.  A very proud and regal judge, dressed in a black robe, sitting high atop his bench.  Ok, it was Daddy Bunny wearing a black bag and sitting on a table, but it looked very judicial.  And on the side of the room opposite the witness stand sat the jury.  It was a very diverse jury, complete with alternate jurors.

Turned out, they didn’t need the court room.  Short Artichoke is doing an agency hearing.  Oh well.

 

 

While the two attorneys worked in the kitchen, I sat curled up in my comfy large chair, hemming the pants on Mr. Trizzle’s newest suit and listening to their banter.  I learned a lot just by sitting in the next room.  I also laughed a lot.

When Mr. Trizzle went into Attorney Trizzle mode and started role-playing the cross-examining attorney to Short Artichoke’s witness, I couldn’t help but giggle.  He sounded just like he does when we get into an argument: short, yes or no, leading questions that give you no chance to explain and twist everything around to sound bad.

“You bought a pair of black shoes today?”  “Yes.”  “Isn’t it true you already have 50 pairs of shoes?”  “Yes, but…”  “Isn’t it true you already have several pairs of black shoes?”  “Yes, but…”  “Aren’t you not supposed to be spending money?”  “Yes, but…”  “And don’t shoes cost money?”  “Yes, but…”  And by the time he’s done, you feel like you’ve done the worst thing in the world when all you’ve really done is bought a pair of black stilettos to replace the pair that broke yesterday and you couldn’t even explain that it doesn’t matter if you have another pair of black shoes if they aren’t dress shoes and that although it costs money to buy shoes, you need them to get a job and wear to work and besides, they were on sale anyway.  whew…

When they switched roles so Short Artichoke could play attorney and Mr. Trizzle was the witness, I really cracked up.  Poor Mr. Trizzle has spent too much time in Richmond.  The minute he went into witness mode, he became so ghetto: ebonics accent, short and casual answers - “You’re the head of this company?” “Yup.”  Poor Short Artichoke!  She kept shaking her head and saying, but my witness isn’t going to answer like that.

The best part was when Short Artichoke asked a question, “Did you do x?” And Mr. Trizzle says “Yup.”  And Short Artichoke vigorously  shakes her head no at him, and he vigorously shakes his head yes back at her.  And she explains, the real answer based on the facts is “no.”  He looks at her, cocks his head and says “Impeach me.”

The court room, Honorable Judge D.B. presiding.

Christmas on the Counter

A sweet smell, familiar but unusual, it smacked me in the face as soon as I opened the door.  “What is that scent?” I wondered to myself as I stepped into the living room.  “Ah! It’s cinnamon!”  “Wait a minute, why does my apartment smell like cinnamon?”

And then it all came flooding back.  I had gone into the kitchen to check on the amount of defrosted bacon and instead found a counter covered in sticky red goo.  The Aftershock!

The bottle was still inside the previously-white reusable shopping bag.  The salt and pepper shaker sat like little islands in a red lake.  The sugar bowl was nearby waiting to drop anchor at Shaker Bay.  If it weren’t for the cloth of the shopping bag and the now-soggy hot pad that had been left on the counter, the floor might have shared in the counter’s unseasonal holiday celebration.

I had brought the bottle home the night before from Short Artichoke’s birthday celebration.  Someone had put it in her freezer at some other party she had and she figured she was never going to drink it.  It had never been opened.

I didn’t expect to drink it myself but figured it’d be good for when my sisters’ come to visit me.  Munchkinhead loves that stuff, calls it “Christmas in a glass.”  Luckily, I was able to salvage a bit for when one of them visits.

The bottle cracked on the bottom near the giant crystal that’s inside.  This prevented the liquid from leaking out as quickly or as fully as it otherwise might have.  From the looks of the bottle, the temperature change from being frozen to room temperature caused the bottle to crack and break open.    Lesson learned: folks, don’t put Aftershock in the freezer.

Actually, I don’t mind that the bottle broke and the liquor leaked all over.  I’d much rather smell spilt cinnamon in the kitchen than the trash!

Go Bears!

No, not those Bears. 
These Bears.

Last weekend, I had the lucky opportunity of attending a Cal football game with my friend Short Artichoke.  She, like Mr. Trizzle, is a Cal alum, so this was a much bigger deal for her than for me.  Although, maybe not since she has season tickets and this was the only college football game I’ve been to. (Maybe I went to one at my undergrad, but that hardly counts.)

The game was at a really weird time because the tv networks decided it would be.  And there were random weird long breaks during the game for the tv network to show their advertisements.  All in all though, it was still a football game.

The stands were less than packed (the team has been less than stellar) and we were able to easily slide on into the students’ section.  I had heard from Mr. Trizzle that this was the place to be on game day, so I was pretty excited about the seats.

The students have some interesting traditions.  One really neat one is where they each have a stack of colored pieces of paper and some instructions.  Someone calls out a number and they all hold up the card that matches that number on the instruction sheet.  The result is a giant picture in the stands!  Pretty neat.  Many of the pictures had to do with insulting Stanford, even though the opponent that day was Arizona, not Stanford.  (What kind of a mascot is a tree?!)

One of the less neat things was this guy with a microphone at the bottom of the stands that was sort of a modern day version of the old cheerleaders with the megaphones.  He led cheers, but he didn’t always do it well.  Still neat to be in the cheering section though.

Most of the game was watching the teams trade punts back and forth, but then at the end it got interesting.  The game was really close, and ironically, Cal almost lost by scoring a touchdown.  Cal was up by 2 points with a minute forty left on the clock when they got the ball back.  So what did they do?  Immediately ran it in for a touchdown, and missed the extra point.  Now, there was a minute thirty on the clock, the other team had the ball and only needed a touchdown and two point conversion to win the game.  They came very close.

My favorite part was when Arizona was within field goal range, going for a touchdown and got a 15 yard penalty, which took them out of field goal range, because they had thrown the ball forward twice on one play!  That almost made up for Cal throwing interceptions in the end zone two drives in a row.

When we arrived, it was a gorgeous sunny day, but the sun soon set and it became blistery cold.  Mmmmm, just like home, memories of watching high school football games.  Even though I was freezing and huddled deep into the Cal sweatshirt Mr. Trizzle had so generously leant me, it felt good.  Yes, I hate being cold.  But I’d forgotten some of the loveliness that comes with being cold.  That tingle all over your body when you go inside.  The sharp air in your nose as you take a deep breath.  The complete awareness of every part of yourself that comes into contact with the world outside your clothing.  Drafts through knits, gusts that send chills up loose sleeves.  You know you’re alive.  It’s wonderful.

I had a wonderful time with Short Artichoke at the game and am very happy she convinced me to brave Berkeley for it.  Maybe I’ll get to go again next year. :)