Yearly Archives: 2005

Wild Root Cream Oil

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wild_root.jpg

“Helen, do you remember WildRoot Cream-oil?”

“It sounds familiar. Do you mean Brylcreem?”

“No, WildRoot Cream-oil. Brylcreem came after it.”

“That was oily wasn’t it?”

“Those old time radio shows, that I’ve been listening to on CD, play the original commercials. I remember that stuff. Can you imagine smearing something on your hair that they call cream oil, and that they boast has lanolin in it? They talk about using it on your kids to train their hair. Probably train it do situps.”

“I remember when you and Stevie Brown would slick your hair down with Brylcreme. Then you’d put your leather jackets on to look like Elvis Presley.”

“We looked pretty sharp, didn’t we?”

“Not too.”

“In my twenty years I have never seen anything wired in series like that?”

“What do we have to lose? Let’s run that copper wire between the two terminals as you suggest and eliminate it.”

My father and I had been, for most of the morning, banging our heads on the puzzle that was my nonfunctioning, driver’s side power window. We’d pulled the whole door apart, and I had in my hand, the small motor that lifted the window. Next to me on the ground were exposed wires, flapping plastic, screws, and multiple trim door parts. We had tested and retested and tested again resistance and voltage, but mostly we had tested our will to succeed.

We were sure we’d isolated the problem to the motor, which is as simple a device as the abacus. But we couldn’t determine the root problem. We’d get to a point, after checking every lead, where we were sure it should work, but when we reconnected the motor to the electrical harness – nothing. In frustration I called the local parts store – $210.00 for a new motor. Fat chance. I’ll continue to roll slightly pass those toll booths, and open my door before I pay that kind of money.

In the old days my father would have never given up. I knew he had the answer- he always had the answer, no matter how esoteric the problem- and all I had to do was keep him at it.

“Let’s take the motor into the breakfast room and work on it at the table.” Remember, this is not a greasy car part, but an isolated, compact, metal and plastic device. We’ve done much of our most important work at this table. Our last resistance check revealed an inline chip of some sort, that when wiggled, would either register as a closed circuit – good – or an open one – bad. That was the problem, and that was the in-series gizmo that made no sense to my father. We wired past it, reinstalled the motor and sure enough, the window went up and down.

I smiled to myself knowing that the only other person in the family who would truly appreciate the inventiveness of this solution would be Matthew. He had discovered countless part workarounds on the old BMW, oddities even his teacher at Minuteman Tech was clueless about. I just wished Matthew had been here for this one. Need I say, I miss Matthew?

Which reminds me of my phone call to Diane on Saturday. I stood on the porch in Evansville, warmed by the sun, as she watched the rain patter against the windows from inside her kitchen in Acton. With the lovey dovey stuff out of the way and a quick synopsis of Patti’s health, Flo’s progress, Kate’s broken foot, Matt’s tire purchase in NH, the overworked sump pump, her upcoming trip to Montreal, Susan, Jimmy, what movie I should watch with my mother, when I might be coming home and how things are here, I popped the most serious question. “How has the blog been without my editor?” Meaning, my posts from afar without Diane’s eagle eye.

“It’s been great. I love it.”

“But wha about punctuation and typos and … ?

ëI didn’t see any.”

Then it dawned. I can, write; anything: I want, in pretty, much my usual stlye. an as long sa it ends, with: I miss Diane – it’s perfect.

slugger.jpg
Louisville Slugger

Iberia Bound

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Chapter I

Some pictures to go with this may be found at:

Pick and choose as you like.

3/18/05 Viernes, Dia zero: Iberia bound
When Papacita Ed & Mamacita Beth set off on their trip to visit NiÃ’a Katie in Sevilla, for her Junior-year semester abroad, they got a more promising start than NiÃ’a did back in Februario, when she faced blowing snow and closed airports. Now there were only warm breezes from the south to speed us on over Delaware Bay on the sunset flight from Baltimore to Newark. Flt #4791 turned out to be a smaller plane than Mamacita likes–she hates prop planes– but at least this was a small jet and the air was smooth. Papacita, however, loves small planes, and enjoyed the views while perusing “Breathing the Blogosphere” by James Patrick Kelly: 40 recommended weblogs. (No the millerblog wasn’t there).

3/19/05 Sabado, Dia uno

Adventure #1 started in the hour of landing in Lisbon. Mamacita, her lovely hermana Kathy and I (papacita, your dutiful scribe) had groggily worked our way thru the airport customs, picking up the bags and heading towards the main lobby. I was in the lead and glanced at the Customs-Declaration-only area we didn’t have to pass through as I headed for the opaque glass exit doors. Exiting that sector, while pushing my two rolling bags, I assumed that Mamacita & Hermana were following, but as the one-way doors closed irrevocably, I found myself in the main terminal, in the midst of Portuguese fast food, and ex-passengers fleeing from the never-never land of Customs into the light and air of Portugal. I stood there, looking back at the opaque sliding doors, wondering where my companions were. Going back was a “n„o-n„o”, as two uniformed guards informed me. In fact, waiting close to the doors was also a “n„o-n„o”. So I moved a few m away by the wall and waited and waited.

Meanwhile behind the “n„o-n„o” doors, our poor Hermana was desperately looking for her jacket, maybe it had been left on the plane or the luggage concourses, but no luck, no jacket.

Finally, about when I had concluded that mamacita & hermana had been dragooned by the Customs-declaration people, and the agencia were searching every seam of every garment, they emerged, somewhat downcast, from the opaque door. So we walked out to find a taxi to the hotel and NiÒa. A quick ride thru the avenidas to the Orion Eden in the PraÁa Dos Restauradores (The Plaza of the Two Restaurants?), and we strolled into the lobby, finding NiÒa Katie waiting for us. She had ridden 6 hours on the midnite bus from Sevilla, navigated the Metro to get to the hotel, and looked (through our sleep-deprived eyes) refreshed and relaxed.

We found that our suite had a kitchenette, a living room with pull-out couch (2 beds) & bedroom with bath. We all blew Z’s for a couple of hours. After waking, we tried unsuccessfully to get cash at an ATM, and then had lunch. Luckily Hermana Kathy had the foresight to bring euros from the estados unidos.

Following our invaluable Rick Steve’s guide book, we went to the funicular around the corner and rode up into the Barrio Alto (high city) to see the views of the lower city (Baixa) and the opposing hill (the Alfama). Again following Rick’s advice, took the train to the Torre do Belem, a castle in a mixed Gothic-Manuelite style on the river, but it had closed a little early, this being almost the beginning of Semana Santa (about which lots more later).

Back into town by taxi, we searched fruitlessly for the trolley that takes visitors up the hill to the castle on the Alfama, and ended up taking a taxi. The Alfama is one of the oldest districts of Lisbon, which was mostly devastated by the 1755 earthquake. We found lots of fabulous views down into the now-darkening city. The twilight makes Lisboa look less ramshackl„o and more romantic„o.

We toddled down into the Centro, and found a hidden restaurant on the 6th floor of a nondescript downtown bldg. Recommended by amigo Rick, The Cimmarr„o is a Brazilian restaurante with a special 6.00 euro deal. 4 kinds of meat, hot rice & beans, and a complete buffet of cold salad dishes. Their vinho do Casa was terrific, costing only 8 euros/bottle.

3/20/05 Domingo, Dia Dos

Adventure #2: Somewhere between the hotel and The Cimmarr„o, mamacita lost her wallet. After discovering that, she spent some time burning up the international phone lines to cancel our credit cards and her driver’s license. Luckily she didn’t lose her ATM card, which was not in her wallet. We had now to depend on Hermana and NiÃ’a to pay all our bills!

In the early morning we found the Metro in PraÁa Rossio, after reading the
base of the obelisk in Dos Restauradores, we learned that “Restauradores” means “Restoration” of the Portuguese kingship and departure of the Spanish in 1640. The Lisbon Metro is magnificent. Decorated tiles cover the walls of all the stations. The floors are all marble and spotless, the trains are frequent and rapido. We rode to EstaÁ„o Oriente to pick up our rental car, where it turned out that the sole agent of Avis had gone to the airport for an unexplained reason. We waited for his return while munching on fruit from the “Hiper Mercado”. On his return, Beth showed the agent our rental agreement. “But this is for March 21. That is tomorrow.” Oh well, so we’re a day off. We shifted gears mentally, and revised plans. We would take the train to Belem, a riverside suburb with many Muse„os, parks, monuments and a castle. The castle, unfortunately closed before we got there, but it’s small and compact, so we got to see it from 3 sides. Up the river, there was the Ponte Vasco de Gama, which looks a lot like the Golden Gate Bridge. The reason it does, is that San Francisco’s bridge was designed by the same engineer who planned the Ponte V. de G. Behind it on a high hill is a famous looking monument which resembles the statue of Christ in Rio de Janiero. The locals proudly assert that the Lisbon statue is bigger.

The following day, we got our car and drove to Sentra, a picturesque town near the hilly coast north of Lisbon. Several kings (Manuel, Ferdinand, Carlos?) had lived there, and made their marks architecturally and botanically. The town is surrounded by a temperate rainforest, which is now a UN world-heritage area. The castle at the top of the hill above Sintra is full of (what else) ornate tiled walls, and the views are spectacular when there is no fog. (Unfortunately, there was fog.) The rooms had intricately carved woodwork and rooms stuffed to repletion with art deco furniture. Mamacita said that she was “really glad she was not a queen and forced to put up with such crowded extravagance.”

The forest park below the castle was filled with trees, ferns, and flowers
imported from tropical rainforests by the king and queen in the 1880s & ’90s. it reminded us of the UC botanical gardens in Berkeley, but Sentra’s botonico is far more extensive. We walked down the trails, a rainforest drizzle dripping down on us. wondering where exactly we were headed. At last we came to a road with a bus stop. According to a sign there, the last bus was due at 17:30, in just 10 minutes. We remarked on our perfect timing, but 17:30 came and went without a bus. Maybe we had missed it? So we began hiking up the road, and a km or so later reached the place we had first entered the forest. No bus came. “We’re doomed to walk all the way back to Sentra in the rain”, I thought. But soon the bus chugged up the road to us.

We got on, expecting to ride smoothly onwards, but the road was so slippery, the bus wheels just spun fecklessly. With many gesticulations, the driver had all the passengers move to the back of the bus, weighting the rear wheels so he could get traction. Standing there, we all mentally pushed the bus. We moved upwards slowly, and we could smell burning rubber of the tires. After endless slipping and sliding, we reached the top of the local hill. It was all down hill from there. But the driver popped out of the bus and disappeared. Perhaps he was picking up pieces of hot rubber from our trail and re-surfacing the tires? Or helping some poor driver who was slipping on the asphalt like us? We never did learn, but he returned eventually and we continued on down into town.

Back in picturesque Sintra on a steep, rainy sidestreet, we shared a great dinner with Portuguese Vinho Tinto, pizza, and penne shrimp in a restaurant tiled with marble and blue ceramic. We were surprised to be charged for bread, olives and butter, after they were placed on our table without our requesting them. But that, it turns out, is a common practice in Portuguese and Spanish restaurants, and we adapted, and we geared ourselves up for our next ciudad–Madrid.

–To Be Continued —
–rakkity

Coded

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Follow these directions:

Select any three digit number such that the hundreds digit is at least two greater than the units digit. (For example: 672) Call this number w.
Reverse the digits of w. (For example: 276) Call this number x.
Subtract x from w. Call this remainder y.
Reverse the digits of y. Call this number z.
Add y and z.
Multiply the sum of y and z by 100,000.
From the product obtained in the last step, subtract 8,685,432.

This number is the final answer. However, it is in code. To produce the message, substitute a letter for each digit according to the following key:

0 – o
1 – l
2 – f
3 – m
4 – i
5 – r
6 – p
7 – w
8 – a
9 – g

If your work is correct, you should be able to read the decoded message.

Thanks to shinydome

Stew

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Last night wind rattled the blinds covering wide open windows, and then the sky lit and the thunder clapped and by gosh if we didnít have an old- fashioned midwestern storm. However, it didnít last long, not even waiting for me to fall asleep. This morning the air is damp and much cooler, but I still have plans to move Helen outside for a spell, as was suggested by her visiting physical therapist.

I have been pretty darn helpful, if I donít say so myself. So far I have helped my father fix the driverís side window on my truck and Iíve helped him change the front brake pads. I had to change the oil myself as my creaky body creaks less than his in the slide-under-the-truck way.

Last night, armed with a box of Chicken Thyme Soup and directions from Diane, I proceeded to create this healthy and way-hearty soup Diane made here on our last visit. I started with one pot, began adding what the recipe called for, plus what Diane suggested I toss in – more chicken and more vegetables – but ran out of room. I grabbed a bigger pot, poured everything into it from the smaller one, added more of what I had cutup, but ran out of room again. If there were a bigger pot, Iída grabbed it, but there was not. For dinner we had delicious Chicken Thyme Stew, and afterwards Tupperwared about a weekís worth. That is, if we have it every day.

I do miss Diane.

Yesterday

Helen leads off:

ìMy grandmother hung on so long because she was afraid to die. She was in the nursing home for ten years and the gals there knew her very well. Anyone else wouldnít have lasted so long, but they said she was afraid to go. Thatís the thing with Joan, she thinks I can move in with her; she doesnít know how much is involved. My fatherís sister had pernicious anemia, and his father died in our house. I know what itís like to care for people, Joan doesnít.î

ìHere is the way I see it. Joan doesnít have a thing to worry about because I donít see you hanging around.î

ìNeither do I.î

ìIt is so obvious. Youíre just waiting for the opportunity to see what is next. You get this cold or whatever it was and itís check out time. Your not eating is the same as packing your luggage.î

We are both laughing pretty hard at this. Helen thinks Iím funny or finds my laugher infectious, or she is laughing along with me and plotting ways to cut me out of her will. Could be any of the above.

ìThis is why Iíve put you in charge of me at the end.î

ìIím your health care proxy?í

ìYes. I know youíve worked with dying people before and I know you … .î

ìYou mean you sat down and thought which one of my kids do I want to consign a lifetime of torment to? ëGee, I really thought she was dead, but now that I said pull the plug, I do remember a twitch..oh, dear god, I killed my mother!í

**************
Today

It is only noon and already we have had a full day. The cable guy installed broadband, the visiting nurse popped in to give Helen a quick checkup, and I called a plumber to fix the clogged sink drain. We are having lunch, right before departing to visit the dentist to have Helenís crown re-glued.

HO. ìMy blood pressure is good today.î

Mack. ìGood for what?î

Me. ìGood to keep her alive another day.î

HO. ì I wonít be joining Terri Schiavo today.î

Me. ìIf my prayers are answered youíll die the same day as Paul Wolfowitz, and youíll ride his soul for all eternity.î

HO. ìWho?î

ìWolfowitz. Or Cheney or Pearl or Bush or Powell. Pick anyone of them. If you donít go on the same day you might never find them.î

ìOooo, Iíd love that. Iíd ride ëem.î

ho_under_cover.jpg

Mike's last Stand

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Itís 4:30 AM, Matt and Diane are fast asleep, my truck is packed and Iím about to jump in and drive to Indiana (Peter Finlay refers to all those interior states as ìSomewhere in the middle.î) to visit my parents. A planned trip that follows my sisterís visit where she was able to provide comfort to my mother who is a bit under the weather. Anyway, I figure the blog needs all the commenters it can get, and her absence the last two and a half weeks has been glaring. I hope I can help move her back in front of her iMac; sheíll love la Chicaís baby pictures.

**************************

I have Dianeís permission to have, for the purposes of a non-boring blog entry, a clinical, no strings attached, one night stand with a middle aged, marriage-on-the -rocks, bleached blond named Brenda. Iím pretty sure Iíll meet her tonight in the Motel Six bar just outside of Dayton and sheíll be from Brownsville. Thatís usually the way these things work. In Dianeís exact words, ìIf even Chris is no longer sending witty and poignant stories, well heck, Mike, you gotta do what you gotta do.î

Mike’s last Stand

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Itís 4:30 AM, Matt and Diane are fast asleep, my truck is packed and Iím about to jump in and drive to Indiana (Peter Finlay refers to all those interior states as ìSomewhere in the middle.î) to visit my parents. A planned trip that follows my sisterís visit where she was able to provide comfort to my mother who is a bit under the weather. Anyway, I figure the blog needs all the commenters it can get, and her absence the last two and a half weeks has been glaring. I hope I can help move her back in front of her iMac; sheíll love la Chicaís baby pictures.

**************************

I have Dianeís permission to have, for the purposes of a non-boring blog entry, a clinical, no strings attached, one night stand with a middle aged, marriage-on-the -rocks, bleached blond named Brenda. Iím pretty sure Iíll meet her tonight in the Motel Six bar just outside of Dayton and sheíll be from Brownsville. Thatís usually the way these things work. In Dianeís exact words, ìIf even Chris is no longer sending witty and poignant stories, well heck, Mike, you gotta do what you gotta do.î

Adrift

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An observant reader sent me this link to compare with the the sandy toes picture below. She asked, “Separated at birth?”

out_to_sea_sm.jpg

My crop of this photo prompted Diane to say, “My God, it looks like they set her out to sea.”
View larger image
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In many ways, those first days at school are not unlike being set adrift.
View larger image

Black & White & Gold

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Adam Kibbe
candles_gold.jpg
“Don’t scrunch up your eye like that!” said Tricia to me, laughing.

Hard not to when someone’s trying to get to your eyeball through the unfamiliar, thin skin of your eyelid with an even more unfamiliar eyeliner pencil. I was getting an improbable education in the things women put themselves through in the name of “beauty”, in the service of the theme of this year’s Dorothea Birthday Extravaganza chez Cynthia.

Last year it was “Titian and Topiary”, both color and set piece decor. This year it was the less precise but more flexible “White and Gold”. Tricia had gotten me a nicely pleated white tux shirt and burnished-gold-metal-mesh bowtie for a song at Keezer’s, a Cambridgeport emporium serving the formalwear needs of Harvard students (and others) for many decades, partially through clothing “recycling”. But even atop off-white pants and a metallic belt, we hadn’t yet “nailed it”.

Accessory one was a small paste diamond literally glued to my right earlobe (however good a sport, I wasn’t getting pierced for the event). Arguably, it started the thought process that led to the current excess. The ladies would augment their own splendid wardrobes with gold jewels, gold finger and toenail polish, and gold blush — why not yours truly? So here I was in Lynn’s bathroom minutes before departure for Le Bash, gold & white eyeshadow in place, along with a touch of mascara, and having eyeliner run along my already affronted lids. To say I was acquiring a case of self-consciousness would be an understatement.

But my homage to Valentino and Nureyev (and Chaplin and others from an era of men-with-makeup) was a hit. “God you have beautiful eyes! For a girl.!” A few homophobic come-ons followed, but whether earnest dissembling, flattery or truth, the ladies all seemed to dig my look. Arriving with the complementary clash of a long black cloak and woven black scarf, and unveiled in the obsequious glow of golden drama that is their house — itself tarted up something fierce — I was just another perfect accessory to the evening’s themed party. The melodramatic guest.

The others were “lovely” as well, in gold lame, or shades of varying golds layered with white, one full black tux with gold cummerbund and bowtie, melded tones of softweave whites, and even a cook’s jacket with gold buttons. The house positively shimmered, and the foods would carry the theme, with white mascarpone/Vidalia pizza studded with black Nicoise olives, a to-become-legendary leek/fennel/Pernod cream soup, and other delicious decadence, including the theme drink of cream, white chocolate liqueur and vodka. Cynthia gets her theme from some small inspiration and then uses it as a phrasing structure off of which she can riff as she conducts the songs and set changes of the evening’s opera.

But for all the color ñ white, after all is a blend of all colors and serves to let the use of simple saturated subset colors play in elevated accent ñ perhaps the most memorable passage was of the observance of some classic, colorless “black & white”. Though warned by her husband it could kill the evening, Cynthia eased us sideways into participating in her current rage for the DVD of the 1987 Roy Orbison tribute concert, first released as a CD in the year of his death, 1988, and recently remastered on DVD as “Black&White Night”. Staged in dinner-theater fashion before notable guests, and filmed in black & white in kinetic cutaway style, it features an astonishing ensemble of talent, and a playlist for a generation. Or two or three generations.

By then well-lubricated by champagne, the wines of dinner, and the evening’s signature drink, we were off-handedly asked our impression of/predilection for Roy’s music. With favorable to rave results, the path was clear for a surprise screening. And so, with the epic soundtrack ripping through the soundsystem-on-steroids of our hosts’ basement “Flamingo Lounge” party space, we settled into the demanding task of grooving to the outpouring of a stagefull of legends joyously giving everything to honor their leader for the night, this firmly pedestaled icon of their craft. He of the black helmet of hair and even blacker shades. He of the inimitable, operatic warble, with its deep-baritone-to-falsetto range. He of the quintessential 50’s and 60’s love ballads, such as “Only the Lonely” and “Blue Bayou”. And of the concert’s climactic coda, “Oh, Pretty Woman”, with which his name is arguably more lastingly associated than even that of the richer, more notorious (and still living) Julia Roberts.

But he of an amazing band-for-the-night, too. Elvis (Costello that is) earnestly handled acoustic rhythm guitar, while Bruce (need I say Springsteen?) shared moments of lead guitar with T-Bone Burnett and did backup vocals with Jackson Brown and J.D. Souther, while the oh-my-god trio of k.d. lang, Jennifer Warnes and Bonnie Rait did sweet doo-wop for the gang, and Tom Waits tickled piano and organ into the mix. Through it all, Roy stood stalwart at the center, only occasionally moving about to acknowledge his friends, but emoting whole eras of love and equaling the sonic power of any crooner name you care to conjure with matter-of-fact natural grace.

An epic concert, and this excess of talent melded into the tightest, livest, most professional group of studio musicians you ever saw, their own names and egos damped in the service of this greater name, their rapture to be there in whatever role evident in every move and note. And the enthusiastic audience of yet more names another active component of the visual and auditory energy. Transformed by shared experience, we shook our tambourines and booties, and despite the “just-a-song-or-two” premise of pushing “play”, we participated in the whole damn thing, start to finish. Just one part of how most of us rocked past 2:30 before heading home, leaving the even more hardcore to head for the hottub and their own “enough” of 5:00 a.m.

When we first got the annual invite, I little expected to sit for an application of eyeshadow and eyeliner, and while I knew full well there’d be dancing and tambourines, I also could not have predicted we’d have music royalty for “live” entertainment. There are times this evening seems but over-rehearsed ritual, with little discernible variation from those that came before, however unique and excellent the individual elements that go at great effort into forming each event might be. But through a certain amount of restraint in intoxicants, and the ebullient infusion of energy Roy & Co. gave us, we staggered home more replete of friendship and good times perhaps than usual, afterimages of many colors, but especially of three, still dancing in our eyes well past final curtain.

Photo Gallery

Black & White & Gold

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Adam Kibbe
candles_gold.jpg
“Don’t scrunch up your eye like that!” said Tricia to me, laughing.

Hard not to when someone’s trying to get to your eyeball through the unfamiliar, thin skin of your eyelid with an even more unfamiliar eyeliner pencil. I was getting an improbable education in the things women put themselves through in the name of “beauty”, in the service of the theme of this year’s Dorothea Birthday Extravaganza chez Cynthia.

Last year it was “Titian and Topiary”, both color and set piece decor. This year it was the less precise but more flexible “White and Gold”. Tricia had gotten me a nicely pleated white tux shirt and burnished-gold-metal-mesh bowtie for a song at Keezer’s, a Cambridgeport emporium serving the formalwear needs of Harvard students (and others) for many decades, partially through clothing “recycling”. But even atop off-white pants and a metallic belt, we hadn’t yet “nailed it”.

Accessory one was a small paste diamond literally glued to my right earlobe (however good a sport, I wasn’t getting pierced for the event). Arguably, it started the thought process that led to the current excess. The ladies would augment their own splendid wardrobes with gold jewels, gold finger and toenail polish, and gold blush — why not yours truly? So here I was in Lynn’s bathroom minutes before departure for Le Bash, gold & white eyeshadow in place, along with a touch of mascara, and having eyeliner run along my already affronted lids. To say I was acquiring a case of self-consciousness would be an understatement.

But my homage to Valentino and Nureyev (and Chaplin and others from an era of men-with-makeup) was a hit. “God you have beautiful eyes! For a girl.!” A few homophobic come-ons followed, but whether earnest dissembling, flattery or truth, the ladies all seemed to dig my look. Arriving with the complementary clash of a long black cloak and woven black scarf, and unveiled in the obsequious glow of golden drama that is their house — itself tarted up something fierce — I was just another perfect accessory to the evening’s themed party. The melodramatic guest.

The others were “lovely” as well, in gold lame, or shades of varying golds layered with white, one full black tux with gold cummerbund and bowtie, melded tones of softweave whites, and even a cook’s jacket with gold buttons. The house positively shimmered, and the foods would carry the theme, with white mascarpone/Vidalia pizza studded with black Nicoise olives, a to-become-legendary leek/fennel/Pernod cream soup, and other delicious decadence, including the theme drink of cream, white chocolate liqueur and vodka. Cynthia gets her theme from some small inspiration and then uses it as a phrasing structure off of which she can riff as she conducts the songs and set changes of the evening’s opera.

But for all the color ñ white, after all is a blend of all colors and serves to let the use of simple saturated subset colors play in elevated accent ñ perhaps the most memorable passage was of the observance of some classic, colorless “black & white”. Though warned by her husband it could kill the evening, Cynthia eased us sideways into participating in her current rage for the DVD of the 1987 Roy Orbison tribute concert, first released as a CD in the year of his death, 1988, and recently remastered on DVD as “Black&White Night”. Staged in dinner-theater fashion before notable guests, and filmed in black & white in kinetic cutaway style, it features an astonishing ensemble of talent, and a playlist for a generation. Or two or three generations.

By then well-lubricated by champagne, the wines of dinner, and the evening’s signature drink, we were off-handedly asked our impression of/predilection for Roy’s music. With favorable to rave results, the path was clear for a surprise screening. And so, with the epic soundtrack ripping through the soundsystem-on-steroids of our hosts’ basement “Flamingo Lounge” party space, we settled into the demanding task of grooving to the outpouring of a stagefull of legends joyously giving everything to honor their leader for the night, this firmly pedestaled icon of their craft. He of the black helmet of hair and even blacker shades. He of the inimitable, operatic warble, with its deep-baritone-to-falsetto range. He of the quintessential 50’s and 60’s love ballads, such as “Only the Lonely” and “Blue Bayou”. And of the concert’s climactic coda, “Oh, Pretty Woman”, with which his name is arguably more lastingly associated than even that of the richer, more notorious (and still living) Julia Roberts.

But he of an amazing band-for-the-night, too. Elvis (Costello that is) earnestly handled acoustic rhythm guitar, while Bruce (need I say Springsteen?) shared moments of lead guitar with T-Bone Burnett and did backup vocals with Jackson Brown and J.D. Souther, while the oh-my-god trio of k.d. lang, Jennifer Warnes and Bonnie Rait did sweet doo-wop for the gang, and Tom Waits tickled piano and organ into the mix. Through it all, Roy stood stalwart at the center, only occasionally moving about to acknowledge his friends, but emoting whole eras of love and equaling the sonic power of any crooner name you care to conjure with matter-of-fact natural grace.

An epic concert, and this excess of talent melded into the tightest, livest, most professional group of studio musicians you ever saw, their own names and egos damped in the service of this greater name, their rapture to be there in whatever role evident in every move and note. And the enthusiastic audience of yet more names another active component of the visual and auditory energy. Transformed by shared experience, we shook our tambourines and booties, and despite the “just-a-song-or-two” premise of pushing “play”, we participated in the whole damn thing, start to finish. Just one part of how most of us rocked past 2:30 before heading home, leaving the even more hardcore to head for the hottub and their own “enough” of 5:00 a.m.

When we first got the annual invite, I little expected to sit for an application of eyeshadow and eyeliner, and while I knew full well there’d be dancing and tambourines, I also could not have predicted we’d have music royalty for “live” entertainment. There are times this evening seems but over-rehearsed ritual, with little discernible variation from those that came before, however unique and excellent the individual elements that go at great effort into forming each event might be. But through a certain amount of restraint in intoxicants, and the ebullient infusion of energy Roy & Co. gave us, we staggered home more replete of friendship and good times perhaps than usual, afterimages of many colors, but especially of three, still dancing in our eyes well past final curtain.

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