Slightly Slothful Saturday

As I begin this entry, I have just gotten out of the shower in preparation for an evening sojourn at the Hollywood Bowl, the penultimate of my season. Essentially, my day is starting now. I have engaged in deliberate dawdling during the previous hours. Sort of, deliberate. The morning began about 10 with a call from my New York aunt to check on the Los Angelean me surrounded by the smoke of a now determined to be arson fire, the biggest ever on record in this state, and to talk about my aunt in Hawaii who needs more serious physical care than the place she is now in can provide. We talked well over an hour. And by that time, I couldn't actually decide what I wanted to do with the day. So I apparently decided not to decide. I puttered. I ironed, something which I usually put off until I have run out of everyday clothes. I sat outside on a first fairly clear day since the fires began and journalled, while Elwood and Parker, two of three backyard cats, competed for petting attention. I watched several marathon episodes of "House".

Excuse me for now, while I go to put on make up and dry my hair and pop in the contact lenses. Len Speaks, Mr. Anonymous, and a visiting friend from Texas will be here ever so shortly to pick me up.

And so, 12 a.m. of the next day, I am returned to the bosom of my little apartment.

It was "John Williams and the Music of the Movies". Mostly it was his movies. Which was fine except the selections were uneven and seemed to be taken from the most remote of scores. One was from the 1970's "Dracula" with Frank Langella. Not only did Langella then have hair, but it was 70's slicked back. The clip was dated and not because it was in black and white. And, my dear, while I am a big "Harry Potter" fan, having the entire first half of the show devoted to endless selections from the various movies was enough to drive one to become a Deatheater. I was rooting for the show to pick up when Mr. Williams returned with a medley from Warner Brothers, Casablanca, Exodus, The Pink Panther, Magnificent Seven, and, bringing out the light sabers for the first time, Star Wars. But then there was the series of jazz themed pieces from "Catch Me If You Can" which I would have been happy listening to at a dimly lit bar over a cosmo rather than under the full moon at the Bowl. It was pretty, but the momentum from medley was lost. The audience was politely receptive. I was taking a nap. More Star Wars brought out the light sabers, this time, moving in unison to whatever was played. Blue, red, green, pretty much all held by adults well past 30. I am not criticizing, cause truth be told, I wish I had had one and I am well, well past 50. Da Da Da DadaDA dadaDA! One woman, neglecting to bring her saber, waved her cell phone in time with the music. We waited for Indiana Jones, but he never came, musically speaking, as it was 11 p.m. and the ordinance imposed required end of all Bowl presentations. If I seem to be complaining, it isn't my intent, for as I frequently say, here or elsewhere, is that I almost don't care what I see at the Bowl, or whether it is precisely my cup of tea. Mr. Williams has a right to play what he wishes. More power to him. And let's face it, the man is a prodigious musician, and I am just one of 17,000 in the bleachers. Besides dinner at the roof top Patina restaurant before the show, as the sun set over the Hollywood Hills was enough to overcome any deficiencies, real or imagined. That tomorrow is our last foray into the E, K, or M Sections for the 2009 season (Rodgers and Hammerstein) is cause for a tad of sadness. But for now. . . .

It is now a cool summer night in Los Angeles, specifically, the Fairfax District, and my lazy day is just about concluded. It was quite the quiet joy.