Over the Hill, and Far Away to Grandmother's House We Go

I write to you all now from the other side of that mysterious number that makes a boy into a man and a woman into a candidate for collagen enhancement: 30. Suprisingly, but with characteristic perversity, I feel scads better at thirty than I was feeling at twenty nine! Go figure.
I had a wonderful vacation in LA, replete with beach lounging, nostalgic car trip with Dad and Ariel through the valley homes of Dad's youth, cuban food eating and Canter's waitress appreciation; FRAN; our waitress weighed in at about three hun and may have been working at Canters since its opening in the fifties. She hilariously reprimanded my Sister for telling me to have the tomatoes instead of the toast and then ordering the Fresser special which is an entire corned beef, sliced, on rye with coleslaw and potato salad, I love her.
I also did lots of friends and family hairdressing. I operated on Mom's partially absorbed twin, staved off the ever encroaching mullet from my dads spokane chop shop, cut my Aunt Joycie's beautiful siver thicket of hair into a modern version of her signature short do, gave my darling cousin's blonde bob some layers and volume and gave Court a half head of highlights and a long layer cut. In point of fact, within an hour and a half of landing we were in the beauty supply store (where I purchased a styling cape of many colors and realized that my tolerance for slow customer service has done some SERIOUS waning in the last seven months, HURRY UP YOU LACKSIDASICAL CALI BITCHES! I have traffic to get stuck in!!) Post foiling we watched "Brokeback Mountain," which was absolutely not good. I wasnt suprised, since Tommy Lee Jones won best actor for the fugitive over Leonardo DiCaprio's performance in What's Eating Gilbert Grape, that it was up for an Oscar. However, I was suprised that, given the tremendous emotional response on the part of SO many people, that I didnt give a rats ass whether either one of them lived or died. There was no character development, the name Jack Twist is completely rediculous, and any romance that might have been building with the fireside whiskey bonding was dissipated by watching Heath Ledger almost sock then spontaneously give it to Jake Gyllenhaal up the rear end with expectorated lubricant. Plus, it was a total mistake to bring their relationship into the seventies since it is nearly impossible to feel compassion or empathy for anyone with mutton chop sideburns. As usual, the legitimacy of my review is called into question by the fact that I fell asleep two thirds of the way through. Jet lag is a bitch.
On my actual birthday, Ariel, Joanna and I got up early and took the Joey's dog charlie on a walk through beverly hills. I actually ran him, since theyre walkers and I thought he'd appreciate the burst of speed. That turned out to be pretty discouraging as I realized that I was running fairly hard and charlie had sort of sped up his walk but hadnt even broken a run and was dusting me. I sprinted as fast as possible and he galloped a little bit but I could only keep it up for a block. Pathetic. Note to self: Come back as a four-legged next time around. Then I went and had a mani pedi with Jo, which was both lovely and much needed. I then had a birthday party of sorts at a great little restaurant in West Hollywood where I saw my entire family all around one table for the first time since my parents untied the knot. That was a lovely sight to behold. Afterwards thanks to a hot tip from a friend we went to see Khaley Ngewel, a group of Sabar drummers who have several times come to seattle to play for our spectaculars. They were playing in Santa Monica at a small bar. They went on first and were amazing, which was great for me and too bad for all those who had to follow them on stage. Its like having Aretha Franklin open for Nelly Furtado. She's a lukewarm cup of diner coffee to begin with but she looks a shit ton worse after watching a couple of sets of the queen of soul. I once said to my sister that Senegalese music, or west african music in general, is like a giant pitcher of inspiration, energy, soul and rhythm and anything else you listen to is poured out from this huge pitcher into a little shot glass, just a tiny fraction of the energy at the source. In any case, the watered down Ghanaian Emcee who went on after Oumar, Aziz and Maguette looked like pure hippie crap after their Sabar fire. We blew the hippie popsicle stand and, loathed to give up our parking space and call it a night at eleven o clock, the the old ho I am, we three went to a tiny karaoke bar down the street. It was an intense place, lots of classic rock, young LA hipsters combined with the urban white trash older LA generation who show signs of some serious hard living and quite a bit of sun exposure. I had a couple marriage offers, eat your heart out. Someone there, recognizing the familial cheekbone resemblance between the three of us congratulated us on hanging out with family. He said he didnt see family out having fun together like that very often and that we should be proud. I thought that was a pretty cool thing to say. I really did. The other highlight, besides the apple tart at the brasilian place Asa took me to, was my Nana's birthday party. She turned ninety on the thirtieth of May and everyone from salt lake to seattle came to celebrate. There was great entertainment in the form of my uncle bob loudly, publically and drunkenly outing his grandson's drug problem and consequent need to leave in order to maintain his rehab curfew and, in more planned entertainment, a fabulous Latin Jazz band. I danced a swing number with my dad which was really fun and a real moment to remember. Dad's a great lead. I think everyone else enjoyed watching us dance together too. You dont see that everyday. Plus, no one who wasnt somehow related to my mom's side of the family even got out of their seat. What can I say, salt lake. That mormon energy is just infectious. Anyhoo, it was a great trip, very relaxing. I got to lay on the beach and get a tan which was my main goal. Ariel and I did a LOT of laughing; Mom got what we've dubbed "Will Voice," on the way to the airport. The tremulous and serious tone, usually reserved for airplane trips, that she gets when she is about to remind ariel and i where the will is kept before she meets her airborne death. We were finally able to craft the mythology, soon to become commonlaw fact, of our greek ancestry. It started when the bartender at the italian spot in the valley where ariel was singing read her name off of her card and, with great etymological pride said " It probably used to be Lapadopoulous and they changed it when they came from greece." Familiar with the satisfaction that strangers get from assesing our greek heritage Ariel replied that it actually used to be Acidophilus and they changed it to Lapadapoulous then to Lapidus. This led to the hysterical creation of one Costas Acidophilus Bifidus Bulgaricus who arrived at ellis island from the shores of crete. When told by the gruff immigration officers that his name was "too ethnic" and "too hard" he looked down at the gold and lapis ring, the soft blue stone, blue like the aegean sea and worn round with the kind of wear only miles of rough squid net rope can effect, that his grandfather had slipped off of his own hand and onto his pinky as the great ship pulled away from the shore, and replied "Lapidus, Costas Lapidus." And that you budding gemological linguist, is where we got the name Lapidus. I thought i was going to wet my pants as that story revealed itself. It might sound a little overblown, but hardly a day passes where we dont hear the lapis or the greek guess and find ourselves saddled with the chore of dissapointing the person with our depressing but unadulterated Jewish lineage.
So, Ill stop here, but Im feeling stronger, so expect more regularity of submissions.