Crooked Los Angeles
As you may remember, a couple of weeks ago Gayle and I flew down to LA for exactly 40 hours so we could catch a Crooked Fingers concert at the Knitting Factory in Hollywood the day before we saw them again at Great American Music Hall in San Francisco. Yes, we saw Eric Bachmann of CF in November and in January. Yes, it's a little crazy to fly 400-plus miles on account of a dreamy guitarist. Yes, for one weekend we were "those girls," but we're not at all embarrassed, even though the band did this totally gay swaying thing at the end of both concerts.
Here are pictures from the concert in LA, where we could be spotted right next to the stage, so close to the lead guitarist that I could stick out my tongue and lick his strumming hand. Many vodka tonics and whiskey sours were consumed, but we didn't lose our cool and pounce Eric when the band came down to the floor and played a few songs acoustically (*swoon!*). I also got some amazing video, but I haven't yet figured out how to make Quicktime movies on my PC, so just go to their website for a listen of some of their quieter songs.
I didn't take any shots at the first concert because (1) we were at a table on the second balcony where we could only see the stage on a tv screen, (2) I was busy defending my and Gayle's taste in a musical group that, as Heather said, sounded like a Neil Diamond cover band, and (3) I was talking to Will--Will who was gracious and calm in the face of my being a total spaz and who was even cooler than I'd hoped. There are some people you meet and you're drawn to them because they seem familiar or they reflect some part of yourself, and it's like you've known them your whole life. And then there's the rare time when you're drawn to someone because you've never met anyone like him before and everything he says is a surprise and you can't wait to hear the next story. That's Will. I *heart* this guy.
The rest of the trip was great too. Although there was Radiohead and little kid vomit and getting locked out at 3 a.m. and a loud Mardi Gras party in the backyard and a cranky flight back to SF, there was also the best clam chowder, a perfect day at the beach, brie and blackberries and avacados, a Siamese cat, Jesse Nelson, Mexican coke, lobster quesedillas, beach cocktails, the Pogues, and fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies for breakfast. By the end of the weekend, Gayle and I were starting to sound and act an awful lot alike, which is good because I adore her and bad because, really, the world doesn't need two of either of us.
Here's Gayle and our lovely hostess Heather (and her "bunny" Quentin) at Old Tony's on Redondo Pier. Heather was recovering from the flu, so instead of dragging us out to clubs and parties as I'd feared, instead we sat around in her kitchen and ate cookies and I inhaled my weight in secondhand cigarette smoke. Heather's apartment is devastatingly cute and her toilet paper was like a really thin pillow and the night I spent on a bed instead of on the floor was extraordinarily comfortable. I took notes so I can be a good hostess when I grow up.
On Friday before the concert, we walked the two blocks from Heather's place to Redondo Beach and sunburned our ankles and the tops of our feet. Isn't it nice to have photogenic friends who don't mind if you put them on the Internet?
Life is full of little trade-offs, and something I traded off too many years ago was the ability to hop on a plane and go somewhere just because I wanted to. Have to say I miss it. Follow your bliss, girl! Neil Diamond isn't so bad. :-)