Adventures With Volvo In Gigland. #2

The Wedding In The Hills

(phone rings)

“Hey, there baby.”

“Hey, Red.”

“Hey, what you doin’ tomorrow evening?”

“I’m open, what’s up?”

“Can you do a gig? It’s a wedding ceremony reception.”

“Ceremony or reception?”



“ ’Round 5 we gotta get there.”

“Ok, ‘til when?”

“It’s up at the…Jewish place…near Mulholland.”

“The Skirball center?”

“That’s it. It’s a wedding.”

“The reception?”

“Yeah, the wedding.”

“So after the ceremony, or during?”

“I want you to do a jazz set at the beginning, and then we’ll do the Motown and soul set.”

“Ok, two sets.”

“Then you can sing some backgrounds on the top 40.”

“So 3 sets?”

“It’s a wedding.”

“Right. How long do they want us?”

“It’ll pay 250. ‘Bout 2 sets, we’ll do 3 sets of material.”

“So two, or…three...?”

“Alright baby, see you there.”

“Ok, so 5pm to around...”



After getting a phone call from Red, I was always more confused than before the call. Not just about the subject we discussed, but a kind of existential limbo - the “staring into the space between the wall, and the dust particles on your eyeball” kind of limbo. Red was the type of band leader who could jovially train wreck any musical situation he was put in charge of. And the audiences loved it.

The simplest gigs, became a run-on slush of oldies, jazz, and improvised Top 40 hits. His gigs were good money, but he didn’t take breaks, and you had to brace yourself for Gig Twilight Zone; i.e., he never asked if you knew a tune before he pointed at you to sing it.  He always hired me for the jazz numbers, but inevitably, Red would point, and I found myself staring out into the void between the audience, and the dust particles on my eyeballs, singing what I could recall of the vowel sounds to Earth Wind and Fire’s “September.”

“Do you remember the eh-nee ma-naah ba-da mem-ber ah  we-ah ma-nah na-na em-ber ah wa-nah n’na a-waaaaaay….”

This is where the existential limbo comes in. When you get through a song in that manner, and everyone freakin’ loves it, you think to yourself “Why am I trying so hard to write songs with insightful lyrics, when everyone is satisfied with unintelligible, rhyming noises?” Then you grin, and try not to think about that anymore.

In Gigland, there are some things you just have to get ok with.

Volvo and I left my apartment around 3:30. Gigbag, my Lincoln Center bag which held my gig paraphernalia, was riding shotgun, and I had already checked that all four of my green music folders were in there. As usual, I had checked and re-checked my microphone five times since I got on the road. (I am not obsessive compulsive; I am pathologically thorough. Repeatedly.)

Finally slowing down to a pre-gridlock, respectable creep, with the rest of the auto-insects, we entered the pass between the hills. This highway, over the hills to the San Fernando Valley, was the route to my elementary school. The path of the 405 and Sepulveda, up to Mulholland Drive, is branded on my neural core – my soul.

In 1984 I melted a black crayon in the back seat of the family Nissan Maxima on Laurel Canyon coming from Mulholland drive. In 1987 I got in a banana chip fight with Matt Burns, in the back seat of his mom’s car, on the 405 South. Every weekday of my childhood, from the top of Mulholland Drive, to and from school, I looked out over The Valley - a dusty, glittering circuit board of boulevards, low-rise polygons, and tiny twinkling cars, all knit together by a veil of smog blanketing the porn industry.  It was beautiful.  At night, it was a grid of multicolored stars, on a nothing of blackness. It looked like the future.

sav fernando at night

sav fernando at night

One of my last childhood memories up in these hills was when I went to the Bat-mitzvah of Rebecca Snyder at Temple Leo Baeck on Sepulveda Blvd. Rebecca and I lived in the same world of highways, passes, and mountain crest drives. We went to the same elementary school, wore the same uniform, took the same tests, and watched our mothers freak out in the same Sepulveda Blvd. traffic jams. Rebecca also had one of the biggest houses I’ve ever seen, but at the time it didn’t seem like a mansion to me. It was just Rebecca’s house, a place for sleepovers and little girl mischief. Heck of a lot bigger than my dad’s one room studio apartment on Hollywood Blvd, but those things didn’t register the same way in my kid mind.

4:15pm. The hills to my left were scrubby, but still green, it was not yet fire season. Volvo had spit out America: Greatest Hits and the radio was talking to me about American Idol. I thought to myself, “A gig with Red should be one of the tasks on the show. Whoever can get through one of these with their mental health intact, deserves to win.” Volvo and I turned into the stone lined parking area at the Skirball Center, and I followed my side-man spidey-sense to a back outdoor area where I could hear some commotion.

Most of the guests had already arrived from the ceremony, and the bar area was populated with uncomfortable shoes, switching weight from side to side. The bandstand was directly across from the bar set-up, and I saw Red on stage joking with the guitar player. I was wearing my short little black number with the beads on the front, so I walked up the stairs to the riser with my hands skimming my hem.

From the small elevation of the stage, I could see the usual wedding crowd breakdown.  There was the young set, 20-somethings like myself who felt very much like adults, but were still allergic to the idea of marriage. Close relatives of the married couple squinting in laughter and forecasting gossip about future children. Not-so-close relatives, huddled in smaller groups, with out-of-town haircuts. Random unattached humans, either hanging back by themselves, or working, diligently, at processing alcohol into their brain space.

shirley-temple-2 copy

shirley-temple-2 copy

I’ve observed countless LA wedding parties from this vantage point, and one thing always stands out: the unofficial segregation of Los Angeles society. There were all sorts of people attending the wedding, but all attendees were white.  Everyone coming from the kitchen, or on the bandstand were some kind of brown. Maybe not the cater waiters, but the cooks. I’m not faulting the wedding planners, the venue, or the wedding families for this – it’s not an issue of fault, nobody did anything wrong – but it is a reality. Normally, this fact of my job didn’t bother me, mostly because singing for weddings wasn’t my career. Making my own records was (and is) my career. Singing weddings was my necessary income. I had always considered myself slightly removed from this dichotomy, because I had a different musical identity elsewhere - but in this part of LA, these hills, I couldn’t disappear into “gig Raya” as usual.  There were too many memories, too much familiarity in the faces of the crowd. I started to feel awkward. Private school girls aren’t supposed to enter through the kitchen. Then again, gig-hustling jazz singers aren’t supposed to come from private schools.

just-mic-(web) copy

just-mic-(web) copy

So the wedded couple came in, the band played a flourish, and Red cued us into a funk/soul set. So much for starting off with the jazz repertoire. Right away, Red points to me, “Raya! Grapevine!” Wonderful. I stepped to the front as the band began the standard intro. Right away, wedding guests started filling the dance floor, because eeeverybody loves “Heard It Through The Grapevine.” Not actually a good wedding tune, y’know, a song about somebody hearing that someone is going to leave someone? Whatever. Nobody listens to lyrics. Thankfully, because I raised the mic to my lips, put on my best, heart-wrung-soul face, and let it out:

“weeee-eeel I guess you wondered how I knew ba-ta naaaan tuh meh m blue from s-muh-na aaaah! Noo-b’fuh twee na-ba–na aaaaahz luh-b’more.”

Just before the pre-chorus, my eye caught some motion at the foot of the stage. A dude was waving at me. Holy shit, it was Ivan, from my elementary school. I hadn’t seen him since Rebecca’s Bat-Mitzvah. I gave a little wave and continued.

“too-me na-na spaaa-aah I mah-seh

We-do fah-nah yesterday,

Don’t you know, I heard it through the Grape vine...”

By the chorus, the half tipsy crowd was swaying with the groove like lake weed. They were also singing along with me, so I wasn’t as worried about the lyrics.

After that number, Red took the lead on “Love Train,” and I did some ooohs and aaaahs behind him, then the band stepped back to allow for some toasts from the wedding party. I stepped off the riser to get a quick soda, but Ivan met me at the corner of the stage.

“Hey  Raya.”

“Ivan! Oh my God!”

“How are you, wow is this (burp) is this yer band?” Ivan was pretty smashed.

“I sing with them sometimes.”

“That’s cool, wow.”

Ivan was bleary, but I could tell he really thought it was cool that he knew someone in the band. I’d heard he was a musician now himself, but he never did this type of paid gig, so he wasn’t familiar with the whole music-as-work thing. He continued his wobbly conversation.

“So how is...are you doing? Are you doing, playing….making, music and ..stuff?”

“Yeah, I have a couple of records out.” I wished I had one on me. I really wanted to demonstrate that I had more to show for my life since elementary school than a wedding band.

“Wow, that’s great. You sound great. I’m going…over there now.”

“Ok, nice to talk…bye”

I made it back to the bar to get a glass of water, in time to hear Red tuning up his bass. I started to hurry, but a woman touched my arm. I turned around,



“It’s Rebecca, Rebecca Snyder.”


“This is my cousin, Daniel’s wedding.”

“I remember Daniel, he was…”

“A year behind us.”


“So how are you?”

I really wanted something impressive to say, but  a)I couldn’t think of anything, and b) I felt like I was already breaking some Gigland rule by talking to the family of the groom. Only the band leader talks to the family, the rest of us smile and play music – but Rebecca didn’t know that rule.

“I’m good, singing, I graduated ‘SC a couple years ago. Music school.” “That’s great! I have a million more years of med school left, but I’m excited.”

“Wow, congrats.”

“Thanks, hey, you really sound good. It’s cool that you’re still singing, good to see you.”

Rebecca couldn’t have been more sweet, or more sincere, and I could not have felt more out of place.  This wedding party used to be my world, but now I was only a visitor. If I had stayed in touch with her, stayed in her world over all the years, I would’ve been invited to this party instead of hired for it. But then would I have envied the singer on stage? Would I have been cognizant of the social duality at all? By the time these thoughts had been thought I was on the bandstand again.

We only played one more set, as it turned out. Never did any jazz. Red got lost in the chord changes for “I will Survive” and I ended up singing the final chorus about 15 times, running out of breath, wondering if I would, in fact, survive.


The band packed up, and the two corners of society politely parted ways. The struggling musicians thanked the rich people, and the rich people thanked the struggling musical people. Everybody was very gracious and kind.  Everyone was simply living their lives, doing what they do. But I was standing there between two lives. And I couldn’t get ok.

Volvo and I took the long way home, over the crest of Mulholland Drive, overlooking The Valley. The circuit board was half alive with electric dots, and half veiled in chemical sunset. It’s not that I ever aspired to be a doctor, or a lawyer, or any of the respectable professions where my old friends found themselves, it’s just that I never expected to see them again before I “made it.” Whatever that means. So I could show everyone that I stuck to it, did it my own way. Now I was motoring over the same roads I saw every day as a child, wondering if I would ever live out the dreams of that little kid. The little kid who never, ever, intended to sing cover tunes for the family weddings of her classmates, for rent money.

mulholland view

mulholland view

Night was on the valley, and the circuit board stretched to the invisible hills. In this kind of dark you ask the core questions. Do I keep pushing this life? Like this? How much push do I have left?

My phone beeped. I pulled over at a “scenic stop” (they have those along Mulholland). I already had another message on my phone from Red.

“Hey baby, got a call for a…thing at the Beverly Hills , uh..Hilton. Tomorrow.  It’s at 1pm, daytime thing. It’s one set. I want you for the jazz set, and then we’ll do the usual cover thing for the other sets. It’s about 3 sets, but we’ll do it in two. They said they want a band around noon, so we’ll probably go till about 4, if we start at 1. It’s a private party…birthday or something, but we don’t have to sing the song or nothin,’ probably no jazz on this one, ‘bout 2 hours, ok hit me back, baby.”

I thought, “Well, at least I’m unlikely to know anyone at that affair.”

I looked out at The Valley. The long, flat, universe of ordered, blinking, stars. There was a light wind at my cheek, which reminded me of early fall, in the school yard.

I heard myself say, “I wanted so much.”

I sat back down in Volvo. I called Red back. “I still do.” I’ll keep pushing.

Adventures with Volvo in Gigland. #1

The Manhattan

I willed my weary body up the stairs to my apartment. My butt was asleep. I opened my apartment door, and the late night, LA dry-cold wheezed in. The door hinge whined as it opened, bitching that I woke it up after 2am. Then it closed behind me on the hem of my dress.


I was done. I unzipped the frock and kicked out of it, leaving it hanging in the door. I twisted my feet out of my turquoise heels, and did the post-stiletto hobble to my bedroom to dial my boyfriend. After three rings, he startled onto the line with a crusty eyed voice, "Hon?"


"I though you we're going to call me by 11?"


"What happened?"

"I accidentally drove to San Diego."

I have driven to San Diego several times on purpose, but only one time accidentally. This was during the time when there was a weekly competition between gas money to get me to gigs, and grocery money to keep me alive between them.  A grim gig on a Tuesday night could end that competition, so when I got a call to sing, I was game for anything. Even nothing, if it paid.

At 3:30 pm I got a call from a friend of an acquaintance of a stranger from a reference from another singer who worked with a bassist who just did a gig with the guy who called me for a wedding gig one time 2 years ago in Santa Barbara who is homies with the guy who called me. This lineage was established with the phrase "Felice gave me your number." The guy offered me a buck fifty ($150) to do a vocal and piano thing way down South on the highway and off to the left, a.k.a. Behind The Orange Curtain (Orange County). That's a far drive for me, and I usually require more money to cross The Curtain, so after he pitched me the gig, I paused a minute. I reviewed the pitch in my mind: Orange County, 8pm-12pm, four sets, free salad. I made a closed mouth thinking sound,

"Hmm.." as if I had something to consider.

I didn't want to seem desperate, but he had me at "free salad."




I got out my Gig Bag with all my charts. The bones and rotted flesh of gigs past lined the bottom of the sack: wrinkled lyrics, old arrangements in bad keys, parking passes, my Hollywood Boulevard memorabilia pen, and torn paper with scrawled driving directions. Driving directions were a litter epidemic in the days before smartphones (or at least before I had one).  These paper relics sagged in Gigbag, in soft sedimentary layers, like fermenting leaves, and small mammal carcasses.  I got  Gigbag as swag from Lincoln Center when I'd won a jazz composition contest back in 2001, and been invited to play. That was a good gig. Gig Bag commemorated that good gigs do exist.

After filling Gig Bag with my current tunes in a green binder, I zipped into my black dress, one of three or four "gig dresses" in my closet. Nice dresses, not too nice, easy to clean. Nice enough to look good in a catered hotel ball room, not nice enough to compete with the bridesmaids on wedding gigs. I stepped into my turquoise, retro 80s, pointy heels to add a pop of color. They looked good from about 5 feet away, but they were ex-sorority girls who had spent too many days tanning, and the bluey-green skin on their noses was in permanent peel.

By 5pm I was lipsticked, and clopping down the stairs to Volvo, who was meditating in the garage with some pollen still on his brow from a Topanga trip a day ago. He creaked when I walked past, and I hoped he had at least half a tank of gas in him. When I turned his ignition, he jumped more than usual.

"Hey man. I know I said you had the night off, but we got a gig. We gotta bust 60 miles, round trip, you ready?"

I shifted into reverse, and he settled into position, a bull lowering its horns. A Swedish bull.

"We'll be back home soon." Volvo and I pulled out, and headed towards the 405 South.


It’s always an epic journey to Gigland. On these commutes, I would often fall into a mental black hole, a feedback loop in my own mind. Mundane meditations:

"I should wash my hair, but I'm going to run tomorrow morning, I'll wash it after, but I should wash it tonight...did I bring my microphone? Yes I put it in the bag. Am I remembering tonight or a different night? Did I leave the burner on did I leave the burner on did I leave the...I need to become a better songwriter. Maybe I should move to New York. I need to work on that song about the thing. Why does freeway traffic stop and go randomly? If I'd been abducted by aliens, would I know? God, this freeway starts to look so similar on both sides "

I've missed freeway exits lost in this cacophony of brain refuse. And all the way to Gigland, the monologue continued. Through valleys of ticky-tacky housing developments, nestled in beautiful, flammable brush. Past multicolored strip malls. Through miles of actual nothing, where, for their short duration, you can turn down the radio and hear the cosmic OM, just a whisper in the universal background radiation. But you know, an empty lot only beckons the stucco. If it can be seen from the 405, it will become something to mask the entropy. We build things up for fear of the breakdown, although it's not a war, it's only change, but we use every industrious fiber in our post-ape brains and limbs to rage against it - and then "When I Think About You I Touch Myself" comes on the radio. And all heavy thoughts pass like gas through the ass-crack of pop. I zoned back in a mile from Main Street


just mic (pink&teal)

just mic (pink&teal)

"God, this freeway starts to look so similar on both sides, doesn’t it, Volvo?”

“Woosh woosh” he responded through the air conditioning.

I got my shit together to futz with my directions and signal my way off the highway. I pulled into The Manhattan parking lot, and found a space near the entrance. This was suspiciously easy. Gig Bag over my left shoulder, music stand under the armpit, mic stand under the right arm, I walked the asphalt in my turquoise clicks. The pressure points on my feet were already singing.

The Manhattan is a small supper club with the shiny tables. It had, at that time, a lavender and black theme. Actually theme feels wrong, more of a lavender situation. There was a nook in the front of the place, between booths. This area could be used as seating, or cleared away for ensembles and a dance floor. The place had a healthy nightlife on weekends, salsa bands, etc., but tonight there was but a keyboard, a stool, and a small square amp.

We started out with a universal favorite, "My Funny Valentine." I got to the last 4 bars of the last A-section, when the lyrics go "each daaaaaaay is valentiiiiiiines daaaaaay " and then that's the end of the tune when the audience usually claps or something. Or on a night like this one, the keyboard reverb bounces mindlessly into obscurity, you feel a gap in the space-time continuum, and somebody breaks a glass in the kitchen. And that's it. Because nobody was there.

Ah. That's why the parking was so easy. I was singing to a lavender and black accented room, filled with upholstered chairs.


I thought more people were there in the back where it was dark, but my eyes hadn't adjusted. There were two couples, and a dude with a drink and a laptop. I think one pair might have been wait staff. Some years ago this would’ve depressed me, but by then it was more like a dull acceptance, a transcendent apathy, if you will.

A big part of being a jazz musician is performing for chairs. They don't care if you drop a lyric or mess up a chord change. They're easy going and they stay all night, ideal in some ways. They don’t care when your mind drifts, and your mouth goes on auto pilot, which is what happens on really long gigs, when the night has been watered down soda and song requests from the same dude. The whole of your repertoire starts to blend together into one long tune, your neural network hits “critical jazz mass,” and your synapses give you the finger. It's a temporary personality split between the performer, and the person inside your brain, who left the building stark naked and screaming an hour ago.

I zoned back in during the vamp at the end of “Corcovado.” (E flat major7 to D flat major7). I was scatting something like a bass ostinato, it was nice. Worked well with the pianist's Latin block-chords. It was actually a moment of real musical synergy, and ultimately what makes these lonely gigs worthwhile. The bond between musicians is worth a lifetime of shit gigs. That said, I didn't dawdle after the last tune. I packed up Gig Bag, grabbed my stands, and clopped out the door. I patted one of the chairs on the back as I went,

"Thanks for hangin' out."

I took my free salad to go.




Back on the 405 I turned the radio on. When did songs from the early 90’s become acceptable on oldies stations? Nevermind. The sky was black and the road was black and it was actually nice to be over an hour outside of Los Angeles. More relaxed, my mind began its loopy trail. In areas of less light pollution, it feels like the sky is closer to the Earth. Easy to tell yourself you're out beyond the satellites, surrounded by red and white shooting stars, the occasional overpass is the arm of a nebula,.

"...Ahhh, this reality is better."

For the next 45 minutes, the silhouettes of the fuzzy hills on both sides phased out of my consciousness. My only points of bodily awareness were the soles of my feet, which throbbed on and off from my pad-less shoes. I wished I couldn't feel them at all, wished they were like two balloons. Then, as if it were specifically edited into the movie of my life, Pink Floyd's “Comfortably Numb” started on the radio.

"Ooooh yes. Good job, Volvo."

Volvo huffed the air conditioner in thanks, though he knew he really had nothing to do with it. I thought to myself about how it hadn't been such a bad night after all. It was long, but mostly painless. They paid, good music, little traffic, free salad!  And now I'm rolling down a cosmic highway, with a great tune, surrounded by quasars, and overpass galaxies... pulsars and meteors filling up my car. Who says the 5 is always shit?


5? Where's the 4 and the 0? That sign must've been wrong. I'll look for another.

I kept driving. I turned down the radio so I could see the signs better. After about 3 minutes of scanning the horizon, the green, reflecty freeway sign rose into my vision. The highway galaxies and taillight stars crashed to Earth. I was no longer on the 405 North. I'd never been on the 405 North. I'd gotten back on the 405 South, driven for an hour in the wrong direction, and now I was in San Diego.

Way to go, Magellan.

I drove off the freeway into a gas station to turn around. I stopped for a moment to get my head together. I wasn’t lost, I was stunned. After years on the 405, years of foraging for gigs in the Inland county, the South Bay, and the Valley, I got on the freeway in the wrong direction. How could I call myself a native Los Angelino? Shame. This is when I would’ve texted my boyfriend, but these were the days before I had a texting phone, and Facebook wasn't yet the uber-confessor of "OMG WTF events" it would become, so I bore my misdeed without remote technical sympathy. I looked at myself in the rear view. I pulled a tiny comet out of my hair, and pinched  it between my fingers.

"This was your fault."


1:55 am. Volvo grumbled up the driveway into his tight spot next to some neighbor's econo car. I tried to apologize, but he was not speaking to me. I didn't blame him. We ran into construction on the North bound freeway which probably wouldn't have started yet if we'd gotten on the correct road an hour earlier. He hated to drag his feet.

I willed my weary body up the stairs to my apartment. My butt was asleep. I opened my apartment door, and the late night, LA dry-cold wheezed in. The door hinge whined as it opened, bitching that I woke it up after 2am. Then it closed behind me on the hem of my dress.


I was done.

I unzipped the frock and kicked out of it, leaving it hanging in the door. I twisted my feet out of my turquoise heels, and did the post-stiletto hobble to my bedroom to dial my boyfriend.

After three rings, he startled onto the line with a crusty eyed voice, "Hon?"


"I though you we're going to call me by 11?"


"What happened?"

Adventures With Volvo In Gigland #0

Right In The Middle

My black Volvo and I rattled up to the intersection borderline. The light turned green. The smell was coming through the body of my car now, like I was cooking strips of corpse bacon on the hood. I pleaded with my machine,“C’mon, dude, we can make it down Overland." The car in front of me turned, and I pressed the gas. Nothing. “What? C’mon babe.” I pressed the gas again. Nothing.

Volvo gave up the ghost at 5:45pm in the middle, the geometric middle, of the intersection of Palms and Overland. In rush hour.

Not on a side street, nor twisty Motor Ave., no. My car stopped like a dropped anchor, right in the crotch of the intersection. It was obscene. It was flat out surreal. I was on the traffic equivalent of the gallows in front of a crowd of hissing townspeople hanging me for witchcraft.

And AAA had me on hold with Muzak.

Let’s go back an hour or so.

I was on my way to a doctor’s appointment, my ladyparts doctor to be precise, as a follow up to my recent baby-having. Said baby was at home with her dad, tranquil for the moment, but if you have one of these, or even know someone who does, you know the tranquility is more of a stay of execution. My parole was temporary, and daddy had business people coming over. Volvo and I had our mission parameters: get there, get poked at, get home. Hopefully before the full tilt, double screw of baby meltdown and rush hour.

The scorched smell first ghosted over my senses as I was crossing that part of National Blvd which splits, momentarily, into the Quantum universe. The smell registered in my brain, but my brain was navel gazing about the nature of the Blvd. and we ignored it. My brain was conjuring Morgan Freeman’s sturdy, celestial, timbre, from his Wormhole program, telling me that National Boulevard is more a theoretical concept than a street, because it exists in more than one place at a time, and disappears and reappears unpredictably. I agreed with my mental-Morgan, because on one occasion, years ago, I dared to wave my ass at the space-time parameters, and followed National boulevard on its full, mysterious, path. I followed National past the freeway, along the train tracks, through town, away from town, and I ended up perpendicular to another street: National Boulevard. I stopped at the light, and heard my laughter bounce off the dash board, and a silent scream bounce off my inner scull.

Back to the mission at hand, I rolled under the 10Fwy and into Cheviot Hills, as Morgan Freeman continued on, in my brain, about the nature of LA intersections in general. He said that they are something akin to singularities, fizzling with a kinetic insanity which only froths at the mouths of those gaping urban holes, in urban sprawl, in Los Angeles county, in rush hour. They twitch towards their own inevitable potential chaos - orgasms of vehicular absurdity DAMN there's that smell again...and I noticed an odd tone whirring from the front of my car with the funny smell. Hot funny. The stink of burning money for car repairs funny. I pulled over.

Maybe it was some other schmuck’s car, somebody who had foolishly left their oil unchanged and unchecked. I’m not that fool. I often think of changing or checking my oil. No, I haven’t actually done it, but it’s the idiots who don’t even think of it who get in trouble. I think about it all the time.

The smell dissipated, the light greened, and I pedaled the engine back to life. The smell came back. I checked the temperature gauge - just below the red, ok. My Volvo, in all the 8 years we’ve shared, has never overheated on me. We’ve foraged for gigs all up and down the 90 freeway, the 101, the 10, the 110, we’ve parked and rotted together on the 405, when some lunatics decided to crack the chest of the highway at 3am in Orange County, to service the road in front of an army of late commuting zombies. Volvo slogged with me at 5mph passed the construction crews, crept up the asphalt with me, upheld a mantra of pistons and fine Swedish engine craft. Never once did he burn.

So I was optimistic. I kept going. Past the mansions, the other golf course, Fox Studios, right on Pico, and left on Doheny to face the Hollywood Hills in the bleary North. Then I heard a rattle. “Just old car sounds” I told myself.

Volvo and I arrived and parked at the office of my ladyparts doctor to follow up on my recent birth. (Not my recent birth, my baby’s recent birth. Every doctor’s appointment I’ve ever had has been a follow up to my birth.) My appointment took my car concerns off of my mind. We were mostly making sure that I was still not pregnant anymore. We assessed this immediately due to two compelling points of fact: 1)There was not a baby in my body 2)There was a baby at home, who we assumed is the one who used to be in my body. We agreed that this evidence was sufficient to calling the birth a success, and I went back down to the parking garage. (Note: this was a slightly abridged version of my doctor visit, although all facts stated above are true).

I drove Volvo back out of the garage, and turned left opposite the bleary Hollywood Hills. Morgan Freeman reappeared in my brain, continuing his talk on Dark Matter governing downtown congestion patterns. I had forgotten about the smell and the whirr, but now it returned like a grey olfactory fog . Volvo began to take on a heave and a shake, like the phlegm which vibrates through the chest after a virus. Morgan Freeman paused, and I started making deals with God. God, let me get home before my 1 month old daughter starts screaming, and I will finish reading a book instead of Facebook updates. God, let the traffic be light, and I will take shorter showers...

Finally I made it back to Cheviot Hills heading toward National Blvd. - but by now the rattle had turned into a shake, and I could feel it through my shoe every time I pressed the gas.

I crossed National and Motor, but still had a ways to go, so my engine just had to keep the dream alive. Had to find the fear of God and keep churning. I started talking to my car. “C’mon man, we’re almost home, you know the way.” But Motor Ave. started creeping because 5:30 in the evening is “Every Asshole” hour in LA, because Every Asshole in LA is trying to drive somewhere. Right in front of you.

So Every Asshole in LA was between me and my house, and my car was losing the dream. I couldn’t hear Morgan Freeman anymore. I turned off Motor Ave. heading towards the intersection of Palms and Overland. This intersection seems like an upstanding bit of road, but it’s a sociopath too. It’s another vortex where laws of physics do wrong things, and good people make bad lefts. Where people cross the streets in late-80s colored pants, and drivingpeople notice this, and become confounded, and make slow decisions, and horns resound, and Every Asshole misses their turn. But I had no choice, I got in line.

Volvo and I rattled up to the intersection borderline. The light turned green. “C’mon, dude…” The car in front of me turned, and I pressed the gas. Nothing. What? I pressed the gas again. Nothing.

Volvo gave up the ghost at 5:45pm in the geometric middle of the intersection of Palms and Overland. The car behind me began to beep, the cars which were stopped at the red began to beep, the cars 4 cars behind me began to beep, and I started scrolling in my phone for the AAA number.

The dude behind me starting yelling something, so I made the universal signal for vehicular non-compliance. You know, you look up into the rear view, and extend your limbs into flappy-arms on either side of your body translating to “I have no power over the current situation of my vehicle!” And you mouth the words as if they can see you. I made this tribal gesture several times before the cars began maneuvering around me. Then the cross traffic started towards me and I sat, in the slowly swarming sea of Every Asshole.

In the cross currents of horns, obscene hand signals, and indecipherable hurled insults, I had a moment to reflect. Wow, I was that guy. That guy, who’s car is in such an obnoxious situation, that Every Asshole who maneuvered around me went home and told their friends/family/pets about that human zit who was stuck in their car in the middle of the intersection. They probably started by talking about what a shit-storm it was, and then moved on to what kind of an idiot winds up like that, probably somebody who didn’t even think about checking their oil (which is wrong, I often thought about it), and then moved on, in a moment of self congratulatory, high-mindedness to hoping that I ended up ok and get my life together. “Man, that poor asshole,” said the asshole, to his friends and family and pets who nodded over their quinoa or designer cupcakes.

Finally got through to AAA, and selected the “I’m fucked, save me” option from the voice menu. I was then transferred to the holding music. So I listened to the Musak, sitting in my one ton automotive shell, in the middle of the intersection. I didn’t think that this would ever be a thing, but now it was. And I was in the thing, and I couldn’t find my hazard light, as if I needed to alert anyone that this was a hazard.

Then a non-LA thing happened. A dude actually ran out into the intersection and offered to push my car out of the street. Really? So I put Volvo in neutral and he and his friend pushed my car to the shoulder of Overland. I got out and shook his hand, what a kind thing to do, just above and beyond the call, a real selfless act. He must’ve been Canadian.

So the Musak finally ended and the AAA person asked me the questions, and I forgot the year of my car as always. They told me they’d be there in 30 minutes, and I sat back to ponder what my Facebook post for this would be..wait, would that go back on my deal with God to read less Facebook? Is the deal off since my car broke down anyway? What if I post that on Facebook- BANG! I craned around in my seat, expecting to see some road-rage fallout from my car drama - some Asshole for whom I was the last straw, barreling towards my dead Volvo with the precision of a lit turd - but what I actually saw was another car, ANOTHER car, spin out into the intersection, and skid into the stopped cars on my side of the street. All traffic stalled. The intersection held it’s breath again. No sooner had I gotten pushed out of the middle by that nice Canadian man, than the roads had claimed another. I heard the Morgan Freeman voice return: “another vehicle has fallen victim to the pull of the gravitrons in the eccentric quantum vortex of the urban sprawl intersection.” It was at this point when my emotional meter became overburdened, and everything became funny.

I stepped out of Volvo, and walked towards the corner, where the other car was dented and smoking. The driver (not hurt) was standing by with her phone, making the “what did I learn in Drivers-ed about this?” face. Then the tow trucks began to arrive, and got confused about who went to who, then the fire truck, full of firepeople looking around at my black, broken, car - and the other black broken car, stopped around the corner from each other. I made the universal arm-flappy, shrugging gesture for “these are two separate incidents!” and the fire people tilted their heads.

While the professionals sorted everything out, another wave of odd began, since this corner happens to contain a convalescent home. Like a scene from a B-horror flick, all these people with walkers started dribbling out of the building and gathering around the event. The corner looked like a mid-80s patterned couch from a Florida motel - the bright greens of the firepeople’s vests, starched white of the AAA shirts, pale pinks, yellows, and florals of the seniors, the purples of the caretaker's scrubs, and the incongruous red and orange flare of the emergency trucks. It was a chaos salad. My nerves were shot, my car is probably finished, my baby is definitely throwing a fit by now…and all I could do was laugh. A lady in orange crocks looked at me sideways as I giggled behind my cell phone.

So Volvo got hooked up to the tow, and away we went to my local mechanic. I looked back at my ride and thought to myself, “the intersection had its sacrifices,” the wormhole was closed. I looked out my right window and saw the crowd dispersing, traffic returning to flow, and down at the edge of the block, I saw Morgan Freeman wink and walk away.

My very coherent, not drunk at all (one glass, whatever), thoughts on Miley Cyrus' "Wrecking Ball" Video:

( after seeing an onslaught of tweets and Facebookings on the subject, I decided to give it a look-see. These were the immediate drippings from my head-sponge)


First off, Those nails were impractical for the handling of large hammers. Second, when doing construction work, boots alone are not enough for proper safety - although the tiny tank and undies certainly offer free range of movement and good ventilation. I assume the lipstick was flame retardant and SPF 30 or above?

True analysis:

As for proper wrecking ball etiquette/best riding practices, nudity is not common any longer. Nude wrecking ball riding was abandoned in 1896 after a Mrs. Betty Smythson of Cincinnati suffered what was referred to at the time as "the pink twerk" (no doubt the inspiration for Miley's other musical exploration) which was the colloquial term for clitoral injury.



Mrs.Betty Smythson, "ball rider," in her

Cincinnati home, 1895

After the unfortunate ride of Mrs. Smythson, wrecking ball saddles or "Ball huggers" were instituted into common use and considered standard (although true standardization was not instituted until 1900, when the production of wrecking balls intended for riding was taken over by the Ford Motor Co.) Clitoral guards, or "vag-vests," became somewhat of a fashion statement and status symbol for upper class women who could afford the luxurious accouterments of the Wrecking Ball set.

Although Cyrus was somewhat lambasted for her "sparkly onesie" from the VMAs, it is important to understand that it was not, in fact, a "onesie" but a historically accurate "vag-vest" of excellent quality.

A 19th Century doctor attends to a woman suffering

the "Pink twerk"

Lastly, the handling and licking of the hammer, though clearly an homage to cold war propaganda communist murals, seemed a bit blatant, but not to be hasty on judgement, it is probable Miss Cyrus meant the gesture as a public service hint for Tetanus awareness, reminding us all to stay on top of our booster shots.


and...Good night.

Before I meet the cast...(countdown to the show)

It's been this way at this time of night lately, when I'm puttering around the house with no goals lasting more than 30 seconds before they dissipate and I forget why I'm in the kitchen. I'm walking in odd geometry, no economy of movement, I'm literally bouncing off the walls.Very, very slowly.

crazy eyes me

crazy eyes me


You see, it's been 3 days since the casting calls have gone out for NOSWOV ("North of Sunset, West of Vine" my musical), so I actually have something tangible to wait for. It's all been in my head, on my own schedule, making words and tunes for my imaginary people, and now they're going to be real.

I'm going to meet them.

I've never been on this side of the casting table. My director, Mary Jo Duprey, says it's really fun, but I don't see how I can avoid having sympathetic nerves for the auditioning people. I was always nervous for auditions.

The music is almost done...I mean it was done being composed a while ago, but now I'm tasked with actually making legible, the stuff that rolls out of my brain through my mouth. It's more complex than I thought. And drippy. Many 16th notes (it wasn't just the caffeine), but a lot of it is also open to interpretation by the actors, that's what they do, and it will be so exciting to hear my tunes rolling out of someone else's brain and through their mouth.

music snap

music snap

Lo...and behold the 16th notes. Actually a very slow song, not scary.

So here I am. The end of Wednesday night, with nerves like it's opening night, wandering in shuffles with excessive blinking. Turning lights off obsessively, then on again when I come back to do something I already forgot about. We're not up for a month (June 28-30)I should probably smoke a joint but I never got into it. I should meditate. Last time I did, my chakras were full of old emails.

Ok. Time for the inner house cleaning before I meet the cast. More soon...