Concert Etiquette (Or the Appalling Lack of)

I have always enjoyed attending concerts, ever since first seeing the Young Rascals (yes, they were young then and so was I) as a sixth grader at what was then called Westbury Music Fair. Seeing Springsteen on back-to-back nights at Nassau Coliseum and Madison Square Garden in 1978 during the “Darkness on the Edge of Town” tour may have been the highlight.

Anyway, as the years have gone on, I have gotten more selective about who I see. Ticket prices have soared, Ticketmaster is a rip-off monopoly (“convenience fee,” my arse), shows at casinos charge top dollar for 90-minutes-including-the-encore shows and, frankly, the behavior of the fans has declined.

OK, so even though I’ve never been caught in a mosh pit, what exactly is the proper etiquette for a concert attendee?

I ask because last week I went to a fundraiser concert featuring Christopher Cross. (Yes, so some of my musical taste is still stuck in retro mode.) The music wasn’t exactly of rock-you-out-of-your-seat variety (yes, that Christopher Cross… “Sailin’,” “Think of Laura” and the theme from the movie “Arthur”), but all of a sudden the woman (make that, female) in front of me jumps up and starts gyrating and clapping (offbeat) to the music. She is blocking my view, but I let it go, channeling the zen-infused Californian in my New Yorker mindset, at least until a couple of choruses had gone by.

Then I tapped the back of her seat with my right foot. Her husband (boyfriend, parole officer, date of the night, whatever) then turns a glance toward me and I motion with my hand for her to sit down. He then says to Dancing Queen, “Hey, he kicked your chair, he kicked your chair!” Next thing I know Macho Boy says, “My wife makes more money than you do!” Huh? And how does he know this, and why? And he’s sure it’s true? (Well, at least I learned they are married. Certainly must make more money than him, maybe that’s the rub.)

Then DQ stops dancing long enough to rotate 180 degrees and be completely in my face. She launches a series of F-bombs that would make Andrew Dice Clay envious. And to finish, she insults my wife too, calling her a princess for some unknown reason. Hey, I’m just trying to enjoy a concert that’s a fundraiser for a homeless shelter! (And my wife is not a princess.)

DQ is obviously drunk, but I’m sure her lack of suitable adjectives is still limited during the few hours of each day when she’s sober (and probably making all that money). The two blondes next to the boisterous couple, who we initially thought were their friends, turned around to send apologetic glances. The people to our left immediately offered the open seats between us and them, a welcomed demilitarized zone. So we quickly shifted over, where our views were better and quieter.

By the end of the concert the couple had rushed the stage and she was busy doing a whirling Stevie Nicks imitation while the husband exaggeratedly laughed and gesticulated as if he was enjoying his wife’s slovenly behavior. (He probably will later, but I digress.)

So back to my initial premise: what is acceptable behavior? No one else we could see in the audience was on their feet at the time DQ started her stand-up routine. Should I have just grinned and endured it?

It reminded us of the Sheryl Crow concert we attended late in the summer at Humphreys. We had awesome seats, something like the fifth row stage right. At Humphreys, lots of people buy tickets and forsake their seats for sitting along a rock wall to our immediate left. While this is acceptable, others with poor seats try to jam upfront and squish in with friends (or make new friends, if you are an attractive and most likely semi-tipsy female who’s at least a 5 on a scale of 10).

This is what happened to us. We ended up with about five women in three seats in front of us, and of course, they needed to stand up from the second song on. I blame Humphreys because while the venue has a force of burly guys in red Elite Security shirts, they do very little and certainly are sheriffs without badges.

The familiar cry of “Hey, I paid my money and I can do whatever I want!” doesn’t work for me here. Hey, I have a driver’s license and that doesn’t mean I can break traffic laws. Perhaps, that’s it; there are no laws here. Consideration for your fellow concertgoer doesn’t buy you a thing. People could be singing the third chorus of “Get Together” and they still would be willing to block your view, talk during the entire concert or keep leaving and returning to their seats throughout the show.

I guess the solution is to only frequent venues that offer a soothing concert experience. That’s part of why we love Acoustic Music San Diego shows in an old church in North Park as well as those in Poway and Escondido. The patrons are polite and respectful, the acoustics are outstanding.

As for the Dancing Queen and her husband, there are times people like this make me want Charles Bronson to show up out of nowhere (would be tough since he died in 2003) and pull a “Death Wish” maneuver on her. It wouldn’t make any difference how much money she made then.

My 9/11 story

Twenty years ago on this day I walked into a new job as editor-in-chief of Insurance & Technology magazine. My office was on the 92nd floor if 2 World Trade Center. I remember being immediately impressed with my view of the Verrazano Bridge. And later I was equally amazed as the windows popped in and out with the weather and the rain literally appeared to be going up. ‘Nuff said there.

While I only worked in 2 WTC for seven months before I met an ignominious demise thanks to the most evil boss I’ve ever had (and I’ve had a few), the memories of that time have stayed with me—only to be amplified and elongated by what happened 20 years and one day later, on Sept. 11, 2001. I can’t stop thinking “What if I had worked there then?” I think I know the answer.

I had one harbinger moment while working in the twin towers. One afternoon there was a power outage at the substation at nearby Fulton Street Fish Market. We didn’t know that was what it was at the time, but all of a sudden the lights in our offices went out. My aforementioned devil of a boss went around the office telling us all to keep working—even though the temperature inside went from its usual comfort to sweltering in a matter of 30 minutes.

Eventually we left for the day, but that was easier said than done. No power meant no elevators. So we started our 92-floor trek down. I recall the masses of humanity in the stairwells being orderly and moderately paced with little pushing or talk. It was a long march, taking almost an hour to feel the cool air of the lobby and then the refreshing breezes that blew through the open area between the twin towers. I never imagined what it would be like to make that trip under serious duress or panic.

I had lived in California less than a year when the bomb exploded in the underground garage at the World Trade Center on Feb. 26, 1993. I recall a co-worker asking, “How could that happen?” Easy was my answer. There were many levels of parking under the building—with no security checks—and someone had driven in a rental truck with 1,500 pounds of explosives inside. The intention was to knock the north tower (1 WTC) into the south tower (2 WTC) and kill 250,000 people. Luckily, only six died but 1,042 were injured. But I don’t think anyone thought this could happen again.

Knock over one of the World Trade Center towers! How could that happen? Still, I was horrified on that fateful day when I watched on TV as not only did the towers come tumbling down but were literally pulverized. And the memory of 9/11/01 will remain one of the most memorable days of my life.

'Julie & Julia' & Peter

I must admit I was really looking forward to seeing the movie “Julie & Julia.” I always enjoyed Julia Child, and in my previous incarnation as a reporter covering television, I actually had the pleasure of meeting her.

Julia Child truly was bigger than life. She was taller than me, six-foot-two, an undeniable reality that was portrayed very well by Meryl Streep in the movie. Oh, the magic of movies, as the five-foot-six Streep was filmed cleverly to always give viewers the understanding of Child’s towering presence.

I met Julia in the early 1980s when she was readying a TV series, for PBS (if I recall correctly). I met her at a hotel, again relying on fault memory I believe it was a suite at the Algonquin. Her husband Paul (portrayed brilliantly by Stanley Tucci in the movie) was there too. I recall her greeting me loudly with a two-handed handshake. Her voice is unmistakable, her energy amazing. She sounds just like Julia Child (as stupid as that sounds). After going through my obligatory list of questions regarding her new show, I could not resist asking about Dan Aykroyd’s imitation of her on “Saturday Night Live.” For those not old enough to recall (check You Tube), it was delightfully included in “Julie & Julia.” I just loved how he blurted “I cut the Dickens out of my fingers,” as blood starts to shoot all over.

While Paul Child had remained silent on the nearby couch for the entire interview as Julia and I sat and spoke at a table, suddenly I hear the slightest giggle from his corner of the room. Julia, still bigger than life, was joyous in telling me how much she enjoyed Aykroyd’s performance. It showed me what a good sport she was. She loved to laugh almost as much as she loved to cook.

I remember her autographing a cookbook for me. I gave it to my mom. With the incredible resurgence in interest in her books since the debut of the movie, I better make a note to ask my mom if I can have that book now.

I loved the movie. Streep is one of my favorite actresses, so that certainly helped. (I needed to get over “Mama Mia!”) And Amy Adams is always adorable, even if they certainly played that down in this movie.

My son Ethan thinks I “could earn a million bucks” if I did my own spin on what Julie Powell did. He thinks I should cook Giada De Laurentiis’ entire cookbook. (She’s our mutual favorite from the Food Network.) Instead, in a nod to Julia, I think we will attempt to make Julia’s classic beef bourguignon.

Ciao—make that chow—Julia, you were one of a kind.

Remembering Woodstock

Forty years ago last weekend I was like thousands of other teenagers: I was packed tightly into a station wagon full of people and we were headed north to the Catskills. I still remember that weekend vividly, even after all these decades. We were in a caravan of thousands, many vehicles brimming over with occupants (remember, this was the era of no seatbelts and metal dashboards, so Lord knows how we all survived). We were on our way to Woodstock.

Well, most of the people on the New York Thruway seemed to be. Me, I was with my sister, mother, grandmother, two dogs and my father driving, and we were going past Yasgur’s Farm (or Bethel, if you prefer, as Woodstock was not held in Woodstock, per se, but many miles away) to continue on Route 28 to our family’s weekend house in tiny Kelly Corners. (Don’t look for it on the map; look for Margaretville, the next town over.)

While I spent that weekend most likely running through the uncrowded open spaces, little did I know my life was going to be changing so thanks to that weekend. I recall reading about the event in the paper. I remember my dad guffawing at “all those hippies” waving merrily and flashing the peace sign as we cruised by them on the road.

I also recall the next year when my dear friend Betty Joe took me to see the movie “Woodstock.” Honestly, while I was captivated by the reality of seeing (and hearing) Country Joe McDonald singing “Fixin’-to-Die Rag” (with its jubilantly defiant F-word chorus), the flashes of bare breasts from the frolicking female attendees (I had yet to meet any girls like that) and the silliness of the interview with the Port-O-San guy (who, if I recall correctly, later sued the moviemakers feeling he has been humiliated for doing his job), But the lasting image from Woodstock is Jimi Hendrix playing the “Star Spangled Banner.” He was amazing, and today I am still mesmerized by his artistry.

Almost 25 years later, I had the pleasure of attending the Telluride Bluegrass Festival in Colorado. It’s the closest I’ve come to a Woodstock-like epiphany-like experience. And I’m good with that. Watching the movie “Woodstock” got me close enough to that action, even though I must admit I have enjoyed reading all the recent articles featuring the reminiscences of those who attended.

Someday I hope to make it to Woodstock, or really Bethel, to see the museum on the site of the event. Meanwhile, I plan on buying the DVD (have had the CD for years) and watching it—without 350,000 of my closest “friends” nearby.

Be My Guest (That'll be $17.50!)

Be My Guest (That’ll be $17.50!)

In our oh-so-politically correct world, I’m fascinated how some common words take on new meanings.

For example, recently we were shopping at Nordstrom’s Rack, the discount arm of the major retailer. As we queued to reach the next available cashier, we were subjected to about three minutes of the check-out people yelling “Next guest!” as they were free to attend to the customer at the front of the line.

Guest??? I’m sorry, but I’m not a guest here. I’m a shopper. Can you imagine having guests in your home and charging them for things? “Like that T-bone, Uncle Charlie? Have some. That’ll be $17.50!” I am a customer, and to hear a cashier tell me my time has come to pay by saying “next customer, please” does not offend me. I certainly do not feel better about the entire process if I’m called a guest as you know Nordstrom’s demands their employees say.

Perhaps I’m splitting hairs here because if I am “a guest in a hotel,” I’m certainly paying. I prefer to think I am “staying” at a hotel. Again, no matter how plush the towels are (or how much soap and shampoo I leave with), I’ve never charged a guest in my house to stay overnight or demand $3.00 for a bottle of water that I leave sitting on a counter. In fact, all the munchies and water you want are free when you’re a guest at my house! (No doubt I’d never become the next Conrad Hilton—and I typically don’t leave a light on either as that’s energy wasteful.)

As I do many times when in doubt about verbiage, I consult the dictionary. Yes, I still keep a big, heavy paper-paged one on my bookshelf instead of relying on the online version. According to Webster’s, the “a” definition for guest is “a person entertained in one’s house.” Hoteliers come in next with “a person to whom hospitality is extended” or “a patron of a commercial establishment (as a hotel or restaurant).”

So sorry Nordy’s, Webster’s doesn’t see me as a guest when frequenting the Rack. Frankly, when I saw the bill for my last “stay,” I could have been a guest at a Hilton for the night and walked away with enough to buy a couple of bottles of $3 water.

The Elementary Power of PowerPoint

I have a vague recollection of second grade. I recall my teacher was a young, energetic woman who got married during the school year and the entire class was invited to the ceremony. It was otherworldly in some ways for an eight-year-old, i.e., this person who teaches me everyday has a life outside our classroom and she kissed a guy in front of all of us!

I don’t recall anything in particular that I learned that year. I am certain of one thing, however, among them was not how to use PowerPoint. Perhaps it was because as brilliant as Bill Gates is, he too at the time was a second grader.

Yet my second-grader son Ethan has mastered PowerPoint as part of his second grade curriculum. Imagine my surprise a few weeks back when he announced that he was working on a PowerPoint presentation for the upcoming Open House at his school. Huh, what? Yes, everyone in the class was putting together a presentation on different elements of the rain forest. (I don’t think I even knew the rain forest existed when I was in second grade.)

As it turned out, Ethan became so good at PowerPoint he was among the first to finish his presentation, so he ended up helping some of his classmates finish theirs. In second grade terms, in other words, he completed their work for them. And the results were amazing. His class has a row of six computers with flat screen monitors and all simultaneously were showing the presentations when we entered the rain forest-themed classroom the evening of Open House.

It was another reminder for me of how far the world has come since I was a second grader in the ‘60s. At least once a week I am amazed at what Ethan is being taught and has learned. I was always a voracious reader, but he’s reading books (most recently, Black Beauty) that I didn’t read until I was years older. I guess some of this is because so much more has happened in our world, it seems the occurrence of events, breakthroughs and advancements are occurring at an accelerated pace.

Still, I remained impressed, albeit perhaps a little skeptical about his PowerPoint skills. That was until yesterday morning when he asked me if he could put together a PowerPoint presentation for his mother’s birthday. I said sure, but offered no help. So he fired up his laptop and the next thing I knew he was grabbing pictures from Google Images and inserting photos I’d taken. I was impressed, so I put a few more photos on a thumb drive, plugged it in, and son of a gun, he was downloading them and adding them to new slides!

While I was content using my crayons to construct thank you and birthday cards, here he is prepping his PowerPoint slide show for the occasion. We sure have come a long way. I can’t imagine what the teenage years will bring other than I better be prepared or highly sedated by then.

What Would You Endorse?

Having just consumed a can of Campbell’s Chunky Healthy Request soup—the official soup sponsor of the National Football League, according to the lid—I got to thinking: What products would I endorse?

It’s all around us, celebrities endorse everything these days. You can’t find a race car that isn’t covered with logos from its sponsors. The shirts of tennis players are adorned with the same. A while back I saw an article in the New York Times about a woman who had shaved her head in preparation for using her noggin as a billboard to advertise Air New Zealand with a temporary tattoo. For two weeks’ work she picked up $1,200. Heck, my head is naturally ready.

So toe to head, here I go:

Footwear: Tony Lama boots, Cole-Haan shoes, Mizuno sneakers;
Pants: Levis, no Wranglers for me;
Socks: Acorn Polarfleece (so toasty);
Shirts: Ralph Loren dress shirts (the best cotton around);
Sunglasses: Serengeti (especially awesome for driving);
And of course, Rogaine, which I wish had been around when I was in my 20s.

My official car would have to be a Porsche. Make all the jokes you want about its drivers suffering from some inadequate body parts, the brand has been a lifelong fascination. But make room for a Mercedes G-Wagen for those trips to Home Depot.

Gadgets: Apple iPod and iPhone, Nikon digital SLRs (after years as a Minolta maniac).

Despite my addiction to Italian and Mexican foods, my food sponsors would have to include Souplantation. I love that place because we constantly battle over what kind of dinner we should have tonight. Burgers? Always a possibility. At Souplantation, you can have almost anything, plus yummy chocolate chip cookies (I’ll continue that thought later). And the soups, as one might expect, are delicious.

I’d proudly wear a Tabasco label on my polo shirt (and probably have a few inadvertent dabs across the front). I’ll put some hot red sauce on almost anything. And Dannon yogurts are the best.

Beverages: Arizona Tea’s Arnold Palmer lemonade/iced tea mix. I buy that stuff by the dozen when it’s on sale. Mountain Dew, my former nectar of the Gods, just has too many calories and sugar.

Liquor: It’s tequila, baby. And I’m open for endorsement. Let’s start with anejos.

But meanwhile, back to chocolate chips. I would ask every supplier in the world to send me a sample or three before I make my decision. It’s really all a ploy, however, as my sister would win the prize. She knows exactly how I like ‘em; soft and not crunchy.

Of course, this rant is built on the misconception that celebrities and athletes only endorse products that they truly love and use—and don’t do it for the money. Ha! How many athletes have stepped in do-do by being seen wearing footwear of some other outfitter than the one that is paying them bundles to wear theirs? Me, I’m dedicated to what I like.