Go...(What was the name of the team again?)!

Went to my first basketball game last night.After establishing that 1) Shaquille O'Neal, Charles Barkley, and Magic Johnson do not play for the Celtics and that 2) two of them are not even playing basketball any more, I realized that my knowledge of the sport is pretty limited. It was a Partner's event, yet everyone was scattered about the nosebleed section, so there are no good stories to relate except my absolute annoyance that when they welcomed the groups on the screen, we were listed as Harvard Business School. Um, excuse me? It was a Partner's club event, and as much as the group may tick me off, we should take our own credit. The students were only there as guests of us, the nonstudents. We didn't stay for the whole game, as I had to get home and pack (yeah, right. I woke up early and did it this morning), so we missed the end, and yet, I felt like I had seen it all. The flashing boards, the rotating ads, the screaming fans. Someone even told me there was a game being played somewhere down there, too! All the flashing and weird ads running all around the TV screen that circled the floor reminded me of those Japanese programs that was causing seizures in kids. I kept waiting for someone to go down.

As I alluded to, I'm off on another long weekend, this time back to Seattle. If you're in the area (and you know me), come by FX McRory's on Friday night at 5 to say hey. The rest of you will just have to wait until next week to hear from me again.

This One Is Just for Simon

Out of the Mouths of Geeks

1) Adam said to me about a blogger he reads, "I wouldn't like him. He's too geeky for me." Um, hello, pot? You're black.
2) For those who wonder why I don't blog more: Apparently, my entries are too lengthy. At least for Adam who took one look at the previous entry and said, "Oh, jeez, what are you trying to do to me? It's going to take me all day to read that!"

Flashback

Driving home from sewing class (where I made a be-yoo-tiful book cover), I kind of cutoff a driver as I was merging onto Storrow Drive. I say "kind of" because I'm not exactly sure. But it reminded me of being a junior in high school, when I had a one a.m. curfew unless I was driving in which case the curfew was midnight (my mom would say, "I'm not worried about your driving. I'm worried about the driving of all the crazies out there"). One night in late March, my father had a friend from high school coming to stay with us, and I was supposed to entertain his son, who was about a year or two older than I was. He was a strange guy, with a mop of dark hair and an almost cross-eyed look to his eyes when he took his glasses off, and he seemed to have a crush on me so I let him kiss me because there really wasn't anything else to do. Anyway, he was okay, but there wasn't much to do at home, so we decided to go out. I begged for a curfew extension, to which my mother agreed, saying one a.m. would be fine. But (and isn't there always a but?) we had to stay on Miami Beach. Sigh. There was nothing to do in Miami Beach. Remember, this was in 1985 when the hottest place in town was Blackie's on the Beach. No Madonna, no Sylvester Stallone, no hip clubs, no trendy restaurants, no happening Ocean Drive. Just a lot of old people. So we did the requisite loop around the Beach, and figured it was bogus. I mean at that hour, the only thing open was Wolfie's. We were going to cruise the Strip. That's right. You heard me. The Strip. Because we were young and cool and I was behind the wheel of my mom's silver gray/blue Rabbit with the dark blue canvas seats, with no power steering and windows that had to be cranked. It even had a cassette player that worked if you jiggled the tape when you put it in. We were stylin'. And for those of you not in the know, the Strip was none other than the Ft. Lauderdale Strip, home to Spring Break, capital S, capital B. (Remember the movie?) Yep, that's where we were going. And so we went. We got to the Strip. And we sat in traffic. And more traffic. As every college student in America, it seemed, looked for his or her chance to get drunk and lucky (remember, 1985? Drinking age was 19). So we made one loop around the Strip, which took forever, sitting in the car, not having any idea of what we were supposed to be doing. We only knew that we were there. We both acted as if there was not the most boring place on earth. At about midnight, I realized we needed to head back so I didn't break curfew. There were only so many rules I'd break in one night. So we headed back. Only I got a little lost. After a few wrong turns, I pulled out onto the main drag back to I-95. Cutting off a car. A cop car. The lights went on. Panic hit me. The guy is trying to be cool, but I know he's got to be worried, as he'll get in just as much trouble, because after all, he's a big college freshman, corrupting me, an innocent high school junior. We pull over and the cop comes out, a big burly guy--or at least that's what it seemed to me. He could have been four feet three for all I remember. All I knew is that a moving violation at 12:30 a.m. in Ft. Lauderdale wasn't going to go over well with my parents. The cop took a long look at me. "Where you live?" "Miami. Miami Beach." "This your car?" "My mom's. Really, my mom's." "You been drinking?" "No, sir! No, sir!" "Drugs?" "No! No!" I couldn't stop repeating myself. Long pause. He stared at the guy, trying to make him out. "You got a license?" he asked. "Yeah, yeah," I stuttered, rooting around for my purse. "I didn't ask to see it," he snapped. I finally could breathe again. No license, no ticket. My parents didn't need to know. He finally let us go, and the guy acted all tough, but by now, I was really annoyed with him for no other reason that I had decided that he was an idiot. We made it home twenty minutes past curfew but my folks let it slide. Of course, the next week they found one of the guy's cigarettes in the car, and assumed it was mine. Which would have been logical--I was a smoker--but it wasn't my cigarette, because I wasn't stupid enough to drop them in the car. And it wasn't my brand. But I was out as a smoker because of this guy, and it started a whole chapter in my life that included my mother leaving obits of people who died of lung cancer on the kitchen table for me, but that's a story for another night.

Ostrich Mode

In my early twenties, I went through a phase where I swore off the New York Times, because I had been reading it daily, and it was simply depressing me. I find myself sinking back into the no-news phase. I used to wake up to NPR on my alarm, turn NPR on the radio as I got ready for work, and then listen to it on the way to and from work. A couple of weeks ago, I was waking up to it on my alarm and listening to it on my way to work. As of yesterday, I am waking up to it on my alarm. The news is just too much for me these days. Instead, I'm now listening, on my way to and fro work (did I use fro properly there? It's such a lovely word to just drop in), a compilation from HMV of hits from the '90s. Funny thing is, I hadn't realized that the '90s had their own music. I mean, there's definitely a '70s sound and certainly an '80s sound. But discounting grunge, what is the sound of the '90s? Whatever it is, these discs have it. The best part is I picked it up in London so it has all the songs I listened to when I was on a kibbutz that I never heard back home. Classics such as Shaggy's "Boombastic" and Babylon Zoo's "Spaceman." How did I live without this collection?

Cabin Fever

The winter is seriously getting to me. I've got that lethargic-slept-too-much feeling that I just can't shake off. Yesterday, I made Adam go for a walk in the rain with me, a lap around Fresh Pond, complete with massive puddle jumping and slush wading. Didn't help. We went to a co-ed baby shower for Wendy, which was really fun (we got to paint onesies, the best party activity I've ever tried), but that didn't wake me up. Came home. Adam had tons of work to do. But I was so tired, so I lay down for a little bit and Adam kept me company for a minute at about 6 p.m. When I woke up at 8:20 p.m., I noticed the electricity was out. Since it was too dark to do anything, we just went back to sleep. At 9 something the electricity came back on, but we barely noticed. I finally turned off the lights at 12:35 a.m. Adam, remarkable, slept through the entire night (I woke for a brief dive into Mrs. Dalloway, which I'm reading for book group--which I hear is an incredibly trendy thing to do, which makes me resist it even more--and somehow, I'm just not getting into it). We finally got up at just before 7 this morning, only I am once again confronted with the same lethargy, that cleaning the kitchen, reading the Sunday Times, and making berry waffles didn't fix. I'm going to try yoga and then hopefully I'll have the energy to begin all the organizing tasks I have for myself. That is, if I don't decide to take a nap first....

Maybe It's the Minature Salt and Pepper

Why do I find this site so fascinating?

Need... More... Sugar

It's never a good sign when it's not even ten a.m. and the entire package of Marshmallow Peep Bunnies that Adam got me (how is Easter candy out already?) has been devoured and I'm scouring the office for more signs of sugar. This is entirely due to my sheer and total annoyance at someone here, someone messing with one of my articles out of pure ignorance. Now, I have no issues with being edited--in fact, I adored the helpful critique I got last night from my new writing group--but arbitrary changes just to exert control steam me. Especially ludicrous ones that leave an article ending flat. I'm also steamed that even when I copy pages from The Chicago Manual of Style and Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary to prove why the words ad interim and emeritus should not be italed, it is insisted that they are italed because of the whim of a head honcho. And you know what? I said I'd never rant about work, because it's unprofessional, but the politics in academia are horrendous, and at this point, if they want to fire me, let them at it, but they'll have to move quickly to beat me in giving my notice. Okay, so I'm not quitting. And they're not going to fire me, because I smile nicely and say, "Can I rewrite the ending for you again? No? Well, that's just fine. I'll take it out and make the article weak and boring." But a girl can dream, can't she?

Home Again, Home Again

Have you missed me? I've been off gallivanting around the world. Well, not exactly. Just a weekend in London that turned out to be a longer weekend than expected. I could go chronologically through the days, but I'm just not in that kind of mood. I'm in more of a free-floating, not-feeling-terribly-grounded-right-now kind of mood so I'll just let it all spill out and see what comes of it.... In all honesty, I'm not a huge fan of London. I don't dislike the city, but I don't think I get it like so many of my friends do. I have a coworker that goes doe-eyed at the thought of the city and just raptures at its marvels. Sure it's a fun place, but given my druthers, I'd take Paris (or Budapest or Haifa or...) any day.... I hate flying coach. I don't care how CWIT that makes me sound; it's just a statement of fact: I detest coach. Those tiny seats and my constant shifting to avoid economy class syndrome. The backs of the seats have video monitors and on them you can watch the flight path of the plane, which would be very cool except when you get close to your destination and you can see the plane flying past the city, around the city, and in zig zags (which is what our flight did). I couldn't figure out if we were dodging terrorist missiles or just lost....Rick Steves's guidebooks rock. True, he lacks on things such as where to eat or where to stay (unless you're unusually budget-minded; we were watching what we spent, but we're no longer traveling on absolute poverty student budgets), but his guides through the museums are the best. I tend to get overwhelmed when faced with a museum. I start out reading every description and looking at every painting, but then I'm only an eighth (or whatever) the way through, and I'm tired and cranky and art-ed out. Rick Steves's books have museum tours that let you hit the highlights. Every time I do one of his museum tours, I think, "Oh, when I'm done, I'll go back and look at everything else." It's never happened. His a one-and-a-half hour tour of the National Gallery was just the right length to keep my interest. What can I say? I'm just not a cul-tahed person....The cigarette smoke in London is fierce.... The Underground is horrendous. The central line runs right past our hotel, only it derailed about a month ago and hasn't yet been fixed. And it seemed that every time we had to go somewhere, we'd get on a train only to hear, "Green Park station is closed" or "This train isn't running between Liverpool Street and Baker Street" and we'd end up circumnavigating London to go what should have been two stops.... Visiting my friend Emily from the kibbutz at her home in Ipswich was the highlight of the visit for me. She and her husband made us lunch, while I played with her gorgeous three-and-a-half-week old son.... Family actually seemed to get along this trip. Of course, there was lots of whispering behind backs, but that's better than the outright punches often thrown to people's faces (please understand, I'm not talking about my immediate family, who all get along more or less fabulously; I'm talking extended family only). My cousin asked me when I'd write the tell-all book, but the fact is, no one would believe it if I wrote it.... People keep asking me if the wedding was nice. I tell them the truth: I have no idea. The rabbi's accent was thick enough that if he had been speaking Chinese, I might have understood more of it. It may have been a traditional ceremony, a personal ceremony, a humorous ceremony. Who knows? The synagogue was incredible--oddly enough it looked a lot like a church, with a podium for the rabbi to speak from (not the bima, but an actual raised podium like in churches) and stained-glass windows. My cousin looked beautiful and the reception place was fancy-shmancy (and now I know why I couldn't find it when I Googled it. Everyone kept saying the reception was at the "Barclay Hotel," which is indeed how it's pronounced, even though those silly Brits spell it "Berkeley Hotel"). We had drinks at the hotel bar between the wedding and the reception, and I was impressed that the Tweedle Twirp didn't say anything completely obnoxious when the waiter leaned over and half-whispered, "You know, Gwyneth Paltrow was sitting in that exact chair last night." As someone astutely pointed out, for the price of those drinks, Gwyneth Paltrow should have been serving the drinks.... Adam and I missed the big anti-protest rally because that's the day we went to Ipswich. The Tweedle Twins and my mom went. However, even if I could have gone, I wouldn't have, because in the U.K., the protest wasn't just against war, but against Israel, which of course, I have strong feelings about (from the BBC: "Anas Altikriti, of the Muslim Association of Britain, told BBC News Online that the demonstration had got its message across peacefully - that campaigners wanted justice for Palestine and no military strike on Iraq."). Let it be known that I'm not against a Palestinian state--I'm actually in support of one. However, I'm not comfortable amongst the anti-Israeli sentiment that I saw....Moira Redmond writes in the Slate Diary of the U.K., "You can talk to friends, acquaintances, chance-met fellow shoppers or other passengers on the train, and you will never meet anyone who supports the war whole-heartedly." Redmond obviously hasn't been talking to the cab drivers. Adam and I got an earful from one who went on and on about how it was important to do something about Iraq, and that the French weren't supporting it because they were supplying the Iraqis with weapon parts. His speech really felt more anti-French than pro-war, although he was most definitely pro-war. There were lots of snips about how the French needed the Americans to save their butts during WWII, and how ungrateful the French are (again, from the British cab driver).... We were supposed to leave London on Monday, but because of the massive snow storm, we were stuck in London for an extra night.... I'm sure there's loads more to write--how Adam kept trying to get into the driver's seat, wandering through Mayfair, freezing our noses on the upper deck of a tour bus, our delight at the treasures of the British Library, the fun of playing with my favorite cousins, lunch in the pub, dinner and a show with my family--but I don't feel like writing anymore, so we'll call this enough.

Cheerio

I’m really not normally a tense flier. But given all the news lately, it’s hard to not be worried as I get ready to head to London for the weekend. Tanks are surrounding Heathrow and and two suspicious people have been arrested, which I guess should be seen as a hopeful sign that the Brits are doing their jobs. I know that half of it is just the anxiety of trying to get work done before I leave and figure out how we’re going to get to the airport (I think we’re forced to drive given our schedules) and then figure out where to park (Logan has the most expensive airport parking I’ve seen yet). But I checked the plane out--it’s a 777 and our seats aren’t great seats (right across from the toilets), but they are convenient seats (right across from the toilets). And we got a section of two instead of one of those ghastly long rows of five. The inflight movies suck (yes, I checked out everything), but I’m hoping to sleep anyway, as we arrive at 6:25 tomorrow morning. We’ll take a quick nap in my parents’ room (unless, by some miracle, the hotel will give us our own room at 7:30 a.m., which I doubt) and then off to sightseeing.

I picked up Rick Steves's London 2003, which looks like it has some great walking tours of the city (walking around it my favorite way to get to know a place). The Rick Steves books are also great because they have highlights of all the museums, and given our very short time frame, it will be helpful. But I think we’ll have enough time to get the flavor of the place. Since my parents arrived first, I’ve asked Peter to make reservations for us and the Tweedle Twins for afternoon tea tomorrow at the Orangery at Kensington Palace. You probably didn’t know this about me, but I’m a sucker for crustless cucumber sandwiches and real scones (not those hard as rock things you get from Starbucks) with clotted cream. With a nice pot o’ tea? Brilliant! Saturday morning we’re off to Ipswich to see a friend I haven’t seen in almost six years! Emily was a close friend when I lived on the kibbutz; she’s an English woman who married a kibbutznik. Anyway, they’re back in the U.K. and they have a new son, so I can’t wait to see her after all these years. Saturday night is dinner and a show with my immediate family (necessary to distinguish as 99 percent of my extended family on my mother’s side will be at this wedding, including all those British relatives I’ve never met) and then Sunday is the wedding. Happily, it’s an afternoon wedding, so Sunday is also good for sight seeing. Then, back Monday night. That’s our planned itinerary. A large anti-war protest is scheduled for Hyde Park on Saturday, but we’ll miss it with our excursion, and I have to say, given the terrorist threats, I’m not at all upset to be missing it.

So, till my return, I’ll drink a pint to you!

Green-Eyed Jenny

I really hate Eugene right now, and since I can’t figure out how to link to an individual entry of his, just read February 10 to understand why my sheer plain-old-jealous-with-every-last-bone-of-my-body has forced me to hate a boy I’ve been friends with for over four years. What can I say.

Have You Missed Them?

You haven’t heard about the CWITs for a while. That’s because there really hasn’t been much going on. But in two weeks, we’ll all be going to a Celtics/Pacers basketball game, and I’d make some really snide remark about how the women are going only because their husbands want to go, except that that would make me a CWIT, because really, who cares about basketball? If it ain’t football, it doesn’t count. This is the most packed event of the season. They had 80 tickets and had to buy more to accommodate 160 folks, and even then people have been shut out. But if I could tell you how many of these people don’t understand Evite or the reply vs. reply all function on e-mail, I will scream. I have gotten no fewer than 21 e-mails of various sorts about this event, and the friggin’ game is more than two weeks away. Insanity. So check in at the end of February for some more hip-hop CWIT action. I bet you can’t wait.

Never Coming Out of the Closet

The reason I shouldn’t bother buying adorable vintage outfits is I never wear them. That darling coat I bought at Canal Jeans? Still sitting in the closet. Every morning I grab my coat for work, and I think, “Oh, I really should wear my new coat! Well, I don’t know if it goes with my outfit today. I’ll wear it tomorrow.” That coat hasn’t budged. Sigh. Maybe I’ll wear it next week.

Time Is Relative

My father wonders, “How is it I looked at your site this morning and there was no entry, but when I looked at noon, there was an entry at 8:45 a.m.? How did I miss that?” Ahem. Blogger Pro and it’s ability to set the time on a post is a beautiful thing. Because as I’ve stated many, many times, I would never blog at work. No, never. ‘Nuff said.

Pillowcases and Actresses

I wish I could one of those bloggers who just writes little tidbits all throughout the day/week, getting the thoughts down as they come. But I can't. For me, it's generally spew out a ton of thoughts at once or clam up. I'm like that in real life, too. Well, except for the clam up part.

The more there is to blog about, generally the less time I have to blog. It's been a busy few days. Of course, often the stuff that is most interesting, I don't blog about. In case folks are wondering how I can go on and on about the inconsequential tidbits of my life and ignore the big picture stuff, it's because some things I like to keep private. I admire folks who can pour out their hearts about things such as the Columbia tragedy or go on in great detail about their personal life, but I'm not comfortable spilling those kinds of things out. So instead, you get to hear inanities such as:

Why I'm Annoyed at a Certain Prime-Time Actress
There's a certain actress, who I shall not name, who is on a certain NBC sitcom, which I shall not name, whom I was assigned to write a story about. After a first PR person wouldn't call me back, I randomly chose another name off the NBC menu, and voila! She was pleasant and nice and hooked me up with said actress's personal publicist. We arrange for an interview at 6 p.m. my time on Tuesday. I'm a little stressed about being late for my 6:30 sewing class because that is the night we were making our first project. Pillowcases! Very excited about the pillowcases. Especially because my parents gave us those super comfy Tempur-Pedic pillows and none of our pillowcases fit on them properly. I picked out this lovely ivory fabric with tiny white flowers on it, so I could finally make pillow cases that fit! Am I digressing? I think perhaps I am. But, I figure, 6 p.m., interview for about 15 minutes, I can get to class no more than five minutes late. So the office is empty. And I mean empty. I'm sitting at my desk. Waiting for the phone to ring. Waiting for the phone to ring. Waiting more for the phone to ring. I'm doing a little Web surfing, looking for information on her shows. Waiting. I'm IMing Adam my intense frustration that the phone isn't ringing, because I don't want to call out, as our phone system shoots a caller straight to voicemail if you're on another call (wasn't I supposed to stop having problems like the phone not ringing once I got married?). Finally, at 6:20, I call the publicist. "Oh, let me get X on the line for you." So now I'm sweating, thinking, "Oh my gosh, was I supposed to call her?" But no, I'm 99 percent sure the publicist said she'd call me. Anyway, Publicist gets back on the phone after a few minutes and says, "I'm sorry, can X call you back? She's still in production." Not wanting to miss pillowcases, I ask, "How long?" Publicist says, "Oh about ten minutes. If you like, she can call you on your cell," which doesn't work for me because a) I can't talk and drive. Hell, I can't do anything and drive; b) I can't hook up my tape recorder to my cell phone, and c) I want to make friggin' pillowcases, not sit in the hall whispering a phone interview. So I wait. And wait. And wait. La la la. I'm starting to look up all the negative reviews about the show. It's making me feel a little better. Finally at 6:52, the phone rings. I answer in my perky voice, because that's what I'm paid to do, only I don’t hear Ms. X’s voice but Publicist. "Jenny, I am so, so sorry. Would it be possible to reschedule this for tomorrow?" I grit my teeth and work on cheerful as I agree, jotting the time in my calendar and running--I mean running--to class. I made it 45 minutes late with a lot of huffing and puffing, but the teacher was cool about it, which brings me to...

My Pillowcase
It is beautiful. I mean beautiful. Okay, the hem isn't that straight and don't look too closely at the interior zig zag stitches 'cause I don't want you to notice that there are two sets, because I messed up the first one, but it's a beautiful pillowcase. It's on my pillow right now as we speak. It would have been on Adam's pillow, because I can be nice like that, but he was at a sports bar watching basketball with friends and when I called at 9, he said he'd be home soon, but he didn't get home until close to 11, which is so not soon, so I kept the pillowcase for myself, because I can be vindictive like that. But I had a good night's sleep, which is a fine thing, because I had to interview Ms. X the next day, which brings me to...

Why I'm No Longer Annoyed with a Certain Prime-Time Actress
She called right on time on Wednesday morning and she was as nice as nice could be. God forbid, she was the kind of gal that I think I'd actually want to hang out with if I knew her in person. Terribly goofy. Said things every now and then that made me want to say to her, "Um, you do know I'm a writer? That I'm going to be writing this stuff down?" but I found that all the more endearing. And it's not like I write for the Globe or anything. I'm not exactly looking to dig up dirt. I wish I could name her, so you could all watch her show, but since I don’t write about work, I can’t do it. Although maybe one of these days I’ll post the link to her interview on my work writing page and you’ll be able to figure out who she is.

(Not so interesting fact I learned while writing this blog. Pillowcase is actually one word! I didn't realize that!)

More inanities to come as they happen....

Blah, Blah, Blah

Does blogging about a highly unproductive day make it any more productive? My unproductivity thereby giving me something to say? Hmmm, perhaps not. After a lovely brunch at Johnny D's with Shannon (where else can you get your cheese grits while listening to a bass/guitar duet playing?) and an interesting conversation with the next table about a Dungeons and Dragons event (or something) in Seattle (he had a very elaborate spell book with him that I was somewhat intrigued by), it was off to the fabric store in the mud and snow and mush (white snow on top of black snow doesn't even make gray snow. It goes straight to gross), where I was instantly overwhelmed by how much fabric there is to choose from and I spent a while picking the pieces for my class projects. And then? Why straight to nap time for me. Because apparently fabric shopping and brunch are incredibly taxing chores. Does anyone else make really detailed to-do lists for their weekends? And then end up using them for scraps of paper because they never get done? Sigh. So now that I've recorded it, has my day had worth? Purpose? Yeah, that's what I thought.

We're with the Band

Through a convoluted means that I won't bother explaining here, my father is friendly with Michael, the piano player for the Neville Brothers. So, when the Brothers were playing Boston, Michael told my father that I should come to the show. No one had to tell me twice. After a dinner at Legal Seafoods (I decided that I deserved lobster tonight. No reason why, I just did), we met up with Michael at the Marriott Copley. I asked how I'd find him, and he said, "I'm huge, I'm bald, and I look like George Forman." We recognized him instantly. Up we went to the ballroom, where the place was set up with row after row of chairs. "Where are people going to dance?" I asked. "I don't think it's that kind of event," he said. Oh, didn't I mention where they were playing? It was a private party for the Massachusetts Dental Society. (Adam said, "Should we go out and find the one in five who doesn't like Trident?") Sponsored by Oral B. Huge banners proclaimed "Oral B." Clean teeth and the Neville Brothers. It's like they were made for one another. Anyway, Michael takes us to the back, and we're hanging, you know, with the band. Aaron is sitting around, going over his schedule with his tour manager. Charles's son is playing Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets on his laptop. It's chill. Michael's totally cool and introducing us to everyone. Not that my life is filled with meeting bands, but this has got to be the nicest band ever. Everyone is so friendly. The tour manager is telling them how they're going to be requiring in the contract riders healthier food, which I found vaguely amusing. After a short while, we went to watch the opening act, which to our surprise was... Dennis Miller. Dennis Miller playin' for the dentists. (You can imagine our disappointment when Michael had told us that because this was a private party, we'd have to watch the show from backstage. Aw gee, what a tough break). Dennis Miller was in good form, although I have to admit, I'm not his biggest fan. When he was done, they leapt right into the Neville Brothers. Let me tell you, a roomful of middle-aged dentists is not exactly what I would call the Neville Brothers' ideal audience. I think they all had toothbrushes up their butts, because these people just sat there. During the Neville Brothers! I'm bopping away on the sidelines (they played, among others, "Yellow Moon," "Tipitina's," and "Iko"), getting into the music, and these stiffs in suits are just sitting in their chairs. One woman--a Tipper Gore look-alike--bounced in her chair a little bit, but really that was the only sign of life. These two kids in the front row obviously wanted no part of the whole evening and were dying to get out of there. Toward the end the dentists loosened up a little, especially as Earl, the back-up singer, began his act, with a lot of ass shaking, and then the whole place was clapping along and wiggling in their seats. After the show (with a beautiful encore song of "Amazing Grace/One Love"), we met Charles and Cyrille (Art was already on his way out), and then we said our good-byes and made our way home, because as anyone who knows us even a little bit knows, we are not late-night folk. But this, well, this was definitely worth staying up past bedtime for.