Gosh, I love potato chips.
I decided that I turned 23 last Friday. 25 is overrated. The only benefit to being 25 is that you can rent cars without extra fees, and I never got charged anyway. Hence, 23.
One of the numerous highlights to this weekend was seeing Bebel Gilberto and Pink Martini at the Hollywood Bowl with Jen. Funny, I've been to the Bowl on numerous previous occassions, but this was the first time that I realised that you could see the Hollywood sign from within the amphitheatre. I guess I was always too focused on my picnic dinners before.
Speaking of picnic dinners! Ooh, check out the tons of food we got from Doughboys, all prettily packaged in this picnic basket.
Okay, I didn't take pictures of the food, really. Sorry. It was dark, and besides, there was a concert to be had. You can use your imagination to picture the salad (warm portobello mushroom and pancetta), sandwich (proscuitto, camembert, and melon), and dessert (red velvet cake, obviously - third year in a row I've had this on my birthday) we had, along with the baguette with scrumptious dipping sauces, such as pesto, chèvre, olive tapenade, and my personal favourite, a lot of garlic in a lot of olive oil.
While the opening act was spectacular, what was even more interesting were the little dramas unfolding around us. Two rows back, not only did a cell phone ring, but the owner actually had the gall to answer and conduct an entire conversation. Estamos mirando Bebel Gilberto ahora. No shit. The rest of us are too. Or at least attempting to.
If that wasn't enough, it turns out that the group that rude cell phone guy was part of, they were sitting in the wrong seats. The people they displaced sat next to them, and all would have been fine if that second displaced group hadn't come in late and heaven forbid, actually want to sit in their own seat. The cell phone guy's group didn't want to move, even though they were clearly in the wrong. Tickets were waved, the poor pimply-faced 17-year-old ushers were forced into being firm, tactful, and quiet all at the same time as they tried to sort matters out. Meanwhile - oh yes, there was still a performance going on. Eventually the cell phone guy's group left, and tried as we did during intermission to find out where they went, we didn't see them. All the better, perhaps, as they got to bother a whole different section of the audience.
I'm not even going to get into the guy in front of us, who was positively fondling the other guy's head. But they did bring Baileys in a flask, and for that I commend them.
(Oh Jen. Apparently Bebel Gilberto is the daughter of João Gilberto and Miúcha. Astrud Gilberto was João Gilberto's first wife. And I calculated, and we walked a whopping 1.6 miles each way to and from the Bowl. That's like enough exercise for the whole week.)
Pink Martini was as good as always, although they really need to work on their sound mixing or whatever it is they do with sound boards and stuff like that. I thought it was a problem with the venue in Boston at which I last saw them, but no. The instruments completely drown out the singer's voice to the point that you know she's singing because you see her mouth moving, but you can barely hear a word. This time 'round they played songs mainly off their second CD, which I have not yet bought. This was fun, but I do like "Sympathique" tons and wish they had sung that.
But as an encore, they performed Brazil, and brought out Carnival dancers! What fun!
You'll take the high road, and I'll take the low road...
And you know you're in LA when you get into a traffic jam on foot. What fun. No exclamation point this time.
And I received tons of great presents, but perhaps the one closest to my heart is this.
Oh, that's right. That's a little mechanical white dog, as I can't have a real dog in my apartment. While it doesn't do back flips, it does yip, come when you call it, does like being petted, and can be set in guard mode. It is awesome. AWESOME. Best part is, I can turn it off when I'm done with it and it doesn't have to be fed. It also comes with a hairbrush so that I can brush its hair.
Instead of turning 23 (heehee), perhaps I'm turning only 3. Sad, but entirely possible.