wincing the night away

from the pain of high-heeled boots

I've been swaying to the lyrical sounds of The Shins at the Orpheum Theatre in Downtown LA.

You know, somebody missed a trick with Downtown LA. It's full of old NY-style high-rises (at least it looks NY-like to somebody who watched Law and Order; for all I know, it's filmed in LA). The pavements are wide. The districts are all within walking distance of each other. So why doesn't anybody hang out there at night? Oh yes. It's because you can't get a coffee for love or money, and the only bar is next to the theatre and does not look particularly enticing. I hear from non-scientists about the fancy and affordable Downtown lofts. But without the amenities and social scene to support it, all you'll be left with is something like Koreatown, where there are people aplenty, but all driving from restaurant to home because it's not safe to walk outside. Missed opportunity, you greedy developers. (Then again, it could be happening. I wouldn't know. It's not safe to walk around Downtown at night...)

Anyhoo. Those were just some thoughts I was ruminating on while idling like a cow in a field on the street outside the theatre waiting for my tickets to turn up. An hour late. Ach. What's an hour to hear one of my current favourite bands? Disappoint me, they did not. Apart from my usual complaints about acoustics (too loud, overly strong base), bottled piss (beer), and the fact that our entire party was split all over the auditorium, I really enjoyed it. (Unlike the last "youngish" concert we went to: the Clap Your Hands Say Yeah gig, where the supporting act, Architecture in Helsinki, was great but the main act was too stoned to impress.)

Tonight, The Shins put on a darn fine show. Not much chit-chatting or horsing around. They just winced my pain away.

And here I present my awful shots of the Orpheum, taken with my hand-me-down Nokia 3230:

Wagnerian Love Story

Let me state first that I'm not one of opera's biggest fans. I don't dislike it, I'm just too impatient to sit through the innumerate variations of "Oh I am lost". When one compares the "high-art" of opera with the more populist musicals, one sometimes has to wonder how opera has survived in our modern pop culture.

But sometimes, when the mood is just right, the setting suitable, it hits you. Opera, whether you understand the wailed out German or French, is very emotive. There is no mistaking a devoted servant lamenting his master's imminent death, as we witnessed Kurwenal efforts to keep Tristan's hopes up that his love, Isolde, would arrive to spend one last hour with him. Ah. And here we run into another problem with opera. The complexity of the plot is not aided by the German words nor a lack of Wagnerian education in schools. I have no doubt that in the very best schools, girls and boys are drilled in the arts and educated on the finer complexities of the misunderstandings and plot twists of Tristan and Isolde, just as Shakespeare's works were drilled into my skull. Unfortunately, by mistake of birth, I did not attend such a school. Instead, I struggled with my vague memory of the last time I saw it on telly, supplanted by a quick read on wikipedia earlier in the day, and a scan of the synopsis helpfully provided by the LA Phil. A cheat-sheet, if you like, for the unwashed and uneducated (same thing). Suffice to say, the plot has everything from near-death experiences, unrequited love (which happens to be requited but unknown or undisclosed), fights to the death or near-death, arranged marriage, unarranged marriage, love potions, poison (same thing), midnight trysts and more. You know, the usual... Throw in Simon Cowell and you get a sanitised version of American Idol.

For all its plot complexities, melodrama, bad acting and over-exaggerated emotion, good opera can grip you if you're in the mood for it. If you're feeling a wee bit menopausal, for example, or just a little down, the death and destruction of Act III* of Tristan and Isolde will co-oscillate and transform your low mood into the very trough of despair. And yet, the evidence of Tristan's love for Isolde, and hers for him, transcends this pit of despondency. And while the lovers will never spend their final hour together, in death, their love will be consummated.

What was my point again? I get side-tracked by the tawdriness of Tristan and Isolde's love affair. Oh yes. The point of this post was to put up my wonky blurry shots of the Walt Disney Concert Hall's garden. There's a complex mini story behind our eventual discovery of the garden. How best to tell it? I'll settle for chronologically for now: Find out friend's birthday is on day of opera. Offer our season tickets to cheer him up (he thinks he's old; needs cheering up a lot). Realise I really want to listen to T+I too. Buy cheap seats so P and I can go get totally depressed as well. Chastised by P for not telling friend; might be awkward if he brings a date. Tell friend. Told by friend his date does not wish to be seen in public with him. Promise and cross heart not to spy. Get to concert hall and realise it will be hard to avoid friend because new seats are close to usual seats. Decide not to loiter in case of awkwardness. Spy garden door. Exit through garden door. Take lots of blurry shots of garden until kick-off. Studiously avoid looking in direction of seats. Until the lights go out and I cannot resist. Damn. Forgot binoculars. Console myself with photographs of WDCH garden and decide to give up being devious:

*This must be a universal truth: in Act III, everybody dies. Always.

Osanpo in our neighbourhood-Take II

Osanpo in our neighbourhood

The major advantage of having a dog is the need to constantly entertain it. Unfortunately for our dog, we're at work for 10+ hours a day. This makes weekends very precious, and we are often loathe to commit to other daytime activities with friends because the dog does need to get out and play with us.

Our favourite activity is just simply walking. Fast, slow, in urban areas, woods, hills, mountains. We just like getting out and having a stroll. But Kirin is still skitty around other animals. We even have a Defcon-style rating for her level of unease and proximity to all-out nuclear war. This pretty much rules out "hiking" on local trails in the Santa Monica mountains where the entire population of LA descends to at the weekends. There are only so many trails where dogs are allowed, and as such, they tend to be quite packed with four-legged furballs, from which our pooch feels a strong need to protect us. And while we enjoyed Griffith Park last weekend, the drive home in ridiculously slow hot weekend midday traffic could not be justified on a weekly basis.

As such, we are continuing the program of long walks around our neighbourhood, hoping it will provide some gradual socialisation and that it will enable her to feel more comfortable being in public with us. It's like having a teenager who is embarrassed to be seen in public with you, fused with an overly protective mother who will punch out everybody on the off-chance that they could be muggers and kidnappers.

Fortunately, we live in the not-so-affluent part of Santa Monica, surrounded by light industry and quiet residential streets. This gives us a huge area in which to roam on quiet weekends, and time to appreciate some of the nicer things around us: