THE RUSSIANS ARE COMING, THE RUSSIANS...
On Labor Day I met the conductor of the Pasadena Pops. I don't mean to name drop, but I met her at a small soiree held at the home of IHOP's CEO (yeah, who's rubbing elbows now, mofo?). Let me just say, the International House of Pancakes' head honcho knows how to cook, and her right hand man, Tim, makes a helluva margarita. Aye carrumba!
Rachel was her name. A New Yorker. Been all over the world conducting including stints with the London Symphony Orchestra and the Barcelona Symphony. (I learned this later...she wasn't bragging or anything). You wouldn't imagine her being a conductor, really. Small in stature with extremely long, straight hair. Calm and cool, yet with a presence that indicated she was much bigger than her physical size. (You could say the same about my penis, but that would be cocky. Get it, "cocky." Damn, I'm brilliant.)
OK. Get to the story. She invited me to the Pops. I went. I sat at the IHOP table with a few friendly, if not a little too wealthy individuals wearing $36,000 diamond rings and Burberry jackets. Thankfully, we had plenty of wine to level the economic playing field and the occasional sideline conversation about movies, so I was fine. If they had continued discussing stocks and bonds for much longer, I may have fell into a coma.
The lights went down inside the lovely gardens, and Rachel took to the stage. She wore a long, white tuxedo coat with black pants. Her hair was woven into a bun, and she offered up the "healing power of music" to counter the recent tragedies of Hurricane Katrina, as well as an ode to 9/11. Then she raised her arms with baton grafted to her right hand, and the music pulsed into form. It was fantastic. A little piece by Prokofiev...followed by a myriad of other Russian composers who I had not heard of, but enjoyed nonetheless.
The highlight of the night was something unexpected in the form of a guest: Mr. Carl Reiner, comedian, producer, actor and all-around good guy. Carl read a variety of pieces from Russian authors including one of my favorites, "The Nose" by Nikolai Gogol. I had read this story many years ago, and thoroughly enjoyed hearing it played out by a man of the stage. Carl brought the story to life, animating it with different voices, physical contortions and the longest, "Nooooooooo!" ever performed on stage. It was fantastic. The crowd was in awe as was I; transfixed by this 84 year old man who knew the secret of telling a good story.
Here's one of the poems Carl recited. It's one of the best I've ever read:
The City of Yes and the City of No
I am like a train
rushing for many years now
between the city of Yes and the city of No.
My nerves are strained like wires
between the city of No and the city of Yes.
Everything is deadly,
everyone frightened, in the city of No.
It’s like a study furnished with dejection.
In it every object is frowning, withholding something,
and every portrait looks out suspiciously,
Every morning its parquet floors are polished with bile,
its sofas are made of falsehood, its walls of misfortune.
You’ll get lots of good advice in it -- like hell you will!--
not a bunch of flowers, or even a greeting.
Typewriters are chattering a carbon copy answer:
"No--no--no…No--no--no. No--no--no."
And when the lights go out altogether,
the ghosts in it begin their gloomy ballet.
You’ll get a ticket to leave –- like hell you will!--
to leave the black town of No.
But in the town of Yes--
life’s like the song of a thrush.
This town’s without walls--
just like a nest.
The sky is asking you to take any star
you like in your hand.
Lips ask for yours, without any shame,
softly murmuring: "Ah--all that nonsense!"
And in no one is there even a trace of suspicion,
and lowing herds are offering their milk,
and daisies, teasing, are asking to be picked,
and wherever you want to be, you are instantly there,
Taking any train, or plane, or ship that you like.
And water, faintly murmuring, whispers through the years:
"Yes--yes--yes. Yes--yes--yes. Yes--yes--yes."
To tell the truth, the snag is it’s a bit boring at times,
to be given so much, almost without any effort,
in that shining multicolored city of Yes.
Better let me be tossed around--
To the end of my days,
between the city of Yes
and the city of No!
Let my nerves be strained
like wires
between the city of No
And the city of Yes!
by Yevgeny Yevtushenko
From "Bratsky Station and other new poems" 1966
---
And Carl didn't stop there. He popped up through the entire evening, delighting us with random Russian picks, as well as a story about the "three macho cowards." I can't do it justice, but let's just say that it involved a very bumpy plane ride in a Cessna single-engine, along with Brian Keith, Norman Jewison and Eva St. Marie. The punchline? The three men were scared for their lives but wouldn't admit it when the pilot asked if they wanted to land in an airport far from their destination. It took Eva to say, "I think we should land, fellas" before they could admit, "Well, if you insist Miss Marie, then I guess we better." It was a classic story told with the conviction and memory of a man who has lived an incredible life. And it inspired me to remember this: performing is one of the best things in the world. No matter how much you get caught up in the BS of Hollywood and the biz in general, never let go of your performing.
We all went to the post-show wrap where Rachel thanked her patrons for attending, and gave me a nice embrace. Carl was there, too, and in form as usual. He grabbed the mic from Rachel and hammed it up. It was great. I was ten feet away, laughing and thinking how lucky I was to be there. Funny enough, George Shapiro was there, no doubt as Carl's driver. Here's another guy who has done amazing things on the business side (George manages Jerry Seinfeld, for one). Just two old boys having a good time.
Damn, you gotta love Hollywood.
Thank you, Carl. And thank you, Julia and Rachel. You guys rock my pancakes.
-auGi
PS. I like boysenberry syrup.
On Labor Day I met the conductor of the Pasadena Pops. I don't mean to name drop, but I met her at a small soiree held at the home of IHOP's CEO (yeah, who's rubbing elbows now, mofo?). Let me just say, the International House of Pancakes' head honcho knows how to cook, and her right hand man, Tim, makes a helluva margarita. Aye carrumba!
Rachel was her name. A New Yorker. Been all over the world conducting including stints with the London Symphony Orchestra and the Barcelona Symphony. (I learned this later...she wasn't bragging or anything). You wouldn't imagine her being a conductor, really. Small in stature with extremely long, straight hair. Calm and cool, yet with a presence that indicated she was much bigger than her physical size. (You could say the same about my penis, but that would be cocky. Get it, "cocky." Damn, I'm brilliant.)
OK. Get to the story. She invited me to the Pops. I went. I sat at the IHOP table with a few friendly, if not a little too wealthy individuals wearing $36,000 diamond rings and Burberry jackets. Thankfully, we had plenty of wine to level the economic playing field and the occasional sideline conversation about movies, so I was fine. If they had continued discussing stocks and bonds for much longer, I may have fell into a coma.
The lights went down inside the lovely gardens, and Rachel took to the stage. She wore a long, white tuxedo coat with black pants. Her hair was woven into a bun, and she offered up the "healing power of music" to counter the recent tragedies of Hurricane Katrina, as well as an ode to 9/11. Then she raised her arms with baton grafted to her right hand, and the music pulsed into form. It was fantastic. A little piece by Prokofiev...followed by a myriad of other Russian composers who I had not heard of, but enjoyed nonetheless.
The highlight of the night was something unexpected in the form of a guest: Mr. Carl Reiner, comedian, producer, actor and all-around good guy. Carl read a variety of pieces from Russian authors including one of my favorites, "The Nose" by Nikolai Gogol. I had read this story many years ago, and thoroughly enjoyed hearing it played out by a man of the stage. Carl brought the story to life, animating it with different voices, physical contortions and the longest, "Nooooooooo!" ever performed on stage. It was fantastic. The crowd was in awe as was I; transfixed by this 84 year old man who knew the secret of telling a good story.
Here's one of the poems Carl recited. It's one of the best I've ever read:
The City of Yes and the City of No
I am like a train
rushing for many years now
between the city of Yes and the city of No.
My nerves are strained like wires
between the city of No and the city of Yes.
Everything is deadly,
everyone frightened, in the city of No.
It’s like a study furnished with dejection.
In it every object is frowning, withholding something,
and every portrait looks out suspiciously,
Every morning its parquet floors are polished with bile,
its sofas are made of falsehood, its walls of misfortune.
You’ll get lots of good advice in it -- like hell you will!--
not a bunch of flowers, or even a greeting.
Typewriters are chattering a carbon copy answer:
"No--no--no…No--no--no. No--no--no."
And when the lights go out altogether,
the ghosts in it begin their gloomy ballet.
You’ll get a ticket to leave –- like hell you will!--
to leave the black town of No.
But in the town of Yes--
life’s like the song of a thrush.
This town’s without walls--
just like a nest.
The sky is asking you to take any star
you like in your hand.
Lips ask for yours, without any shame,
softly murmuring: "Ah--all that nonsense!"
And in no one is there even a trace of suspicion,
and lowing herds are offering their milk,
and daisies, teasing, are asking to be picked,
and wherever you want to be, you are instantly there,
Taking any train, or plane, or ship that you like.
And water, faintly murmuring, whispers through the years:
"Yes--yes--yes. Yes--yes--yes. Yes--yes--yes."
To tell the truth, the snag is it’s a bit boring at times,
to be given so much, almost without any effort,
in that shining multicolored city of Yes.
Better let me be tossed around--
To the end of my days,
between the city of Yes
and the city of No!
Let my nerves be strained
like wires
between the city of No
And the city of Yes!
by Yevgeny Yevtushenko
From "Bratsky Station and other new poems" 1966
---
And Carl didn't stop there. He popped up through the entire evening, delighting us with random Russian picks, as well as a story about the "three macho cowards." I can't do it justice, but let's just say that it involved a very bumpy plane ride in a Cessna single-engine, along with Brian Keith, Norman Jewison and Eva St. Marie. The punchline? The three men were scared for their lives but wouldn't admit it when the pilot asked if they wanted to land in an airport far from their destination. It took Eva to say, "I think we should land, fellas" before they could admit, "Well, if you insist Miss Marie, then I guess we better." It was a classic story told with the conviction and memory of a man who has lived an incredible life. And it inspired me to remember this: performing is one of the best things in the world. No matter how much you get caught up in the BS of Hollywood and the biz in general, never let go of your performing.
We all went to the post-show wrap where Rachel thanked her patrons for attending, and gave me a nice embrace. Carl was there, too, and in form as usual. He grabbed the mic from Rachel and hammed it up. It was great. I was ten feet away, laughing and thinking how lucky I was to be there. Funny enough, George Shapiro was there, no doubt as Carl's driver. Here's another guy who has done amazing things on the business side (George manages Jerry Seinfeld, for one). Just two old boys having a good time.
Damn, you gotta love Hollywood.
Thank you, Carl. And thank you, Julia and Rachel. You guys rock my pancakes.
-auGi
PS. I like boysenberry syrup.
posted by auGi at 9:35 AM
