A couple weeks back now we saw UB40 at Humphrey’s, a wonderful outdoor arena that is more poster for the good life in San Diego than hardcore concert venue. Surrounded by the waters around Shelter Island, Humphrey’s is open to the marina on one side and fringed with up-lit palms around the 1,400 seat arena. As the sun sets over the ocean, the lights come up on the opening band.
Dave and I arrived early enough to stand in line for an $8 beer and an $11 mojito. But hey, we go out so seldom, for all I know that could be the going rate at every night spot in town. Before heading to our seats, we hung around the perimeter, nursing our drinks and listening to the opening act, a very energetic reggae artist called Elan who reminded me a bit of Ché Guevara (here’s his MySpace link).
We’re big people watchers at events like this — fascinated by the cross-section of locals who consider themselves fans, digging each other in the ribs every time someone talk-about-later-worthy passes by: The surgically enhanced, forty-something Barbies wearing way too much jewelry, cleavage, and not quite enough clothing. The fifty-something surfer dudes with natural highlights and leather flip-flops, casually dressed in expensive Tommy Bahama shirts.
I digress only to set the stage. The mojito was mostly ice and since Dave was driving, I wound my way through the crowd, back to the bar to get another drink — Ché was still well into his Marley-esque treatise on World Peace. The line up was by this stage ten or twelve deep and I happened to join it at the same time as a guy who looked to be about my age. We smiled and did the classic “Go ahead … no you … no, please, you go ahead.” So we ended up standing together, chatting, and I found out that he was from the Dominican Republic, had lived in New York for many years, had seen UB40 before and was now at the concert with his aunt.
Dancing is a BIG thing at daycare. Often when I drop Tau off or Dave picks him up, the music is cranked, the kids are tricked out in floppy hats, sunglasses and all kinds of dress-up gear, and they are getting down! A big favorite is Disney Radio’s Move It! CD, especially the Cha-Cha Slide song (check out the sound clips on the Amazon page).
That my 22-month-old knows what a cha cha is (well, sort of) blows my mind.
Tau’s teachers have tried to catch “cha cha” on camera for us a couple times but no luck. As soon as the boy sees the camera, he loses interest. The one clip we did get included a couple of the other kids and I don’t feel cool posting movies of other peoples’ kids without their permission.
Yesterday evening, after a very short (45 min.) nap, which came after a very long afternoon of trying to coax him to sleep (just too hot in our place), he asked Dave for music to “dahse.” Since the laptop was on, Dave fired up Cha-Cha Slide on YouTube.
Apologies for the bad light and quality of the clip. And the wobbles and general goofiness are due to the fact that he’d just woken up, still tired, after resisting sleep all afternoon!
Yes, he does get lots of “good” music at home too — whatever that is! One of the new favorite words is “jazz.”
We are not that big on lavish birthday gifts and such. Tend to buy what we need as we need it. And we both hate getting gifts that are not quite right or, worse yet, downright awful. Money and gift certificates are our best thing.
So a week or two ago I said to Dave, “Haven’t got anything for your birthday yet. Is there something you’re crying on your pillow over?”
… you’ll see the large L (for Loser) in the middle of my forehead.
I’m always looking for ways to fill in my cultural blind spots. Stuff we’ve missed out on, not growning up here. Especially from TROA (The Rest of America) — not the altered reality that is California. Because (cringe) I’ve never been east of Palm Springs.
So I’d heard good things about Prairie Home Companion, the movie. And some time back I’d read a bit of Garrison Keillor, and though life away from the ocean always seems a bit foreign to me, I kinda liked his down-home sense of humor. It sort of reminded me of Stuart McLean’s CBC Vinyl Cafe series, which I liked.
Other reasons I added it to our Netflix rental queue:
I’m a home-drive NPR listener, so even though I’ve never heard Prairie Home Companion the show, I figured the fact that I appreciate public radio probably boded well for a film written by one of their longtime team.
Also figured it would be a sort of Cliffs Notes version of the real thing. Serious culture in a palatable form, like buying multigrain toaster waffles because they’re a good way to get fiber in your diet without having to eat tablespoons of bran husks.
And then the cast was promising: Woody Harrelson, Kevin Kline, Meryl Streep, Lily Tomlin and Robin Williams, among others.
Humphreys is a fabulous venue — small, open air, on the water. The tickets say “No Smoking.” Hmn. A UB40 concert and no haze in the air? Should be interesting.
So the one night I don’t go whooping it up at the House of Blues, Britney Spears shows up. Sheesh!
“It lasted only 14 minutes but Tuesday night saw Britney Spears’ first live performance in nearly three years.
The 25-year-old mother of two, whose life has been dominated by wild partying and a stint in rehab since divorcing husband Kevin Federline last year, returned to her day job as she took to the stage at the House of Blues in San Diego.
I don’t write enough here about movies. We watch a lot of them. For those of you who haven’t visited our home, Dave and I don’t have cable or any of the new-fangled on-demand stuff. In fact we run a very low-tech casa. An old TV/DVD combo in the livingroom and a 13-inch TV/VCR combo in the guest room. (No snickering Declan.) I know, inconceivable; I have no idea who ought to be kicked off American Idol this week but I imagine I’ll go to my grave at peace with that one.
Instead, we use Netflix to watch movies, HBO series and documentaries of our choice and, except for March Madness, Tour de France and the odd must-see (yeah, I did miss The Police at the Grammys), we’re quite happy in our oblivion.
But what I wanted to talk about was the baggage. Last week Blood Diamond arrived in the mail. Set mostly in Sierra Leone, about illegal diamond smuggling to fund a rebel movement, this film cracks open African civil warfare like no other I have seen. Unlike the NPR interview I heard a few weeks back with a child soldier from that country, Blood Diamond is very graphic about the way young children are stripped from their villages and turned into drugged-out zombies with machine guns. And just for this, I recommend this movie: the ability to bring into focus an issue most turn their heads from the second they see it. Hollywood done good.
Around Christmas, I bought Tau the Sesame Street Sings box set expecting to get the very best of this famous series. Neither Dave nor I grew up with Elbow or Big Bird and we don’t have cable, so thought it best to find another way to introduce Tau to these characters.
The selection on this three-DVD set of classics seems pretty mediocre to me, but then hey, what do I know? I grew up watching* a frenetic bee and a half-blind worm. Tau seems to like them just fine.
Time for me to wear my age, along with my thing for Sting, on my sleeve.
Yes, Dave knows about it. And, yes, I know it’s not hip (see how old I am?) to admit you think Sting’s dishy (see? I have a secret stash of Botox just waiting to be used).
"We live in a culture that discourages empathy. A culture that too often tells us our principle goal in life is to be rich, thin, young, famous, safe, and entertained."
