The Greatest Concert That Never Was

Something very, very good came out of something very, very bad.

The very, very bad thing? That would be the movie "Couples Retreat." BMNB and I don't always agree on which movies to see. I wanted to see "This Is It," but he wanted comedy on the same plane as "The Hangover." Despite the bad movie reviews, he wanted to see "Couples Retreat." I agreed.

It is the only time I have ever not only walked out on a movie, but demanded my money back. It is the first time BMNB and I did this as a couple.

The movie is produced, co-written and starring Vince Vaughn. It starts with a scene in which one of Vaughn's buddies, an overweight brother who has just gone through a painful divorce and has taken up with a twenty-something year-old, is in a motorcycle dealership trying to convince Vaughn's character over the phone to co-sign a loan for him to buy a motorcycle to please his girlfriend since his divorce has wrecked his credit. To persuade Vaughn's character to co-sign, the brother proclaims the purchase of the motorcycle to be "a black thing" that Vaughn's character "wouldn't understand." Vaughn's character chides him: "Don't go playing the race card with me."

Ugh.

By the time the four couples involved get to the couples retreat on a tropical island, the brother and his girlfriend (how they could afford a couples retreat when the brother couldn't afford a motorcycle because of bad credit is beyond me) are the racial foils in a poorly written script. The girlfriend, a stereotypical ignorant hood rat, doesn't know that "wahoo" is a fish and, when informed, refuses to order it and starts spouting off about the "Mexicans" in the back cooking, only to be corrected about her racism by one of the white wives who is "1/12 Latina."

Ugh.

"Why we gotta be the ignorant ones?" BMNB asked. I suggested, for the second time, that we not only leave, but that we ask for our money back and go see "This Is It." He agreed. And we got our money back.

Maybe Vince Vaughn doesn't know how to write comedies in which black people are funny without being the stereotypical butt of the jokes. It can be done, Vince Vaughn. Maybe you need to see some funny black films like Boomerang, Brown Sugar, and the like.

Anyway, we left. And I am so grateful, because "This Is It" was a treat. It is, without a doubt, the greatest concert that never was.

"This Is It" is not just footage of rehearsals for Michael Jackson's last tour -- it includes behind-the-scenes footage of how the concert tour was going to be put together -- all the special effects, the costume design, the stage design, the choreography, everything. With every glimpse into these facets involving people who are the best of their respective crafts from around the world, I kept saying, "WOW. That is COOL!" You see how Michael Jackson wanted to give his best performance ever and leave his fans mesmerized. I was mesmerized by the film itself.

I was amazed by Jackson, not because the rehearsals represented his best performances ever -- they didn't, and they weren't intended to. What amazed me was that Jackson, presumably because he was trying to preserve his voice, sang at what can be best called "half-throttle" -- and even then he was better than most singers, rarely missing a note. And the moves. At age 50, Michael still had the moves. They were in his freakin' DNA. He didn't have to rehearse all the choreography from his videos. It was in his DNA, and he could tap into it at any moment. And he did. Spontaneously, at times. Despite being surrounded by dancers half his age, even as good as those dancers were -- and they were -- you could still tell that Michael was the master and they were still the students. Brilliant students, but students nonetheless.

The singers and the musicians brought it, too. And in one scene, a woman guitarist doing a solo is encouraged by Michael to shine. "I want to hear your highest note. I want you to shine. And we'll all be right here with you." How many stars of his caliber are that generous to want those around them to shine as much as he did?

To a person, each and every artist involved in this production was a die-hard fan determined to give his or her all to this effort. The costume designers talked about working with other designers and even the folks at Swarovski to create one-of-a-kind electrical costumes that had never been created before for a concert tour. The special effects folks re-filmed parts of Michael's videos (I won't tell which) in 3-D, catapulted dancers from below the stage floor, and even had Michael on a cherry-picker high above the audience. The musicians appreciated that Michael knew what he wanted, knew his music, just knew, with one begging Michael to do his own sound checks because, in his words, "Only you can see it, Michael." One aspiring dancer took the next available flight from Australia upon hearing of auditions just two days before. Another who was chosen from the audition chorus line to be part of the tour dropped to her knees and cried when she was chosen. The dancers chosen for the tour, many of them fans of Michael since their childhoods, were determined to be, as director Kenny Ortega dictated, "extensions of Michael Jackson himself."

One thing you'll notice is that Michael was a benevolent perfectionist. He knew exactly what he wanted things to sound and look like and would give direction with clarity and an overabundance of love, often saying, "with love," after giving instructions. The closest he ever comes to being a divo is when a musician assures him that, with respect to a particular song, that "they'll get there," and Michael responds quietly but firmly, "Make sure that we get there." No tantrums, no yelling. More often than not, what you'll hear when someone messes up is Michael saying reassuringly and calmly, "That is why we rehearse," with the patience of a father teaching a child. More than the exceptional talent of Michael and those around him, what shines in this film is Michael's kindness and childlike joy in what he was doing. At times, when he's busting a move, a wry, child-like smile emerges, like he can't help but take joy in what he's doing and can't contain himself. At one point he even starts singing at full throttle, only to reign himself in. His musical director tells him, "That's okay. You were feeling it, Michael." Because he was. And you will, too. Sometimes his own dancers and staff would break out into applause just watching Michael. They couldn't help it. You, too, might find yourself waving your arms from side to side when Michael sings "I'll Be There," for what probably was the last time.

But for the fact that I was sitting in one of the middle rows, I would have gotten out of my seat and danced, too. I applauded loudly as if I were at a concert. And I appreciated Michael's environmental message, which was unexpected, and, most of all, his message of love for all.

If you're a Michael Jackson fan, you need to see this movie to appreciate all that would have been. You should also see it as a tribute to those excellent musicians, singers, dancers, choreographers, special effects artists, aerialists, costume designers, stage designers, makeup artists, and the like who, as Michael asked of them, "gave their all" to put on a show that would have been second to none, that would have pushed the boundaries of what a concert could be, just like Michael pushed the boundaries of dance, music, videos. And kindness.

Because that was how Michael Jackson rolled.

Not of God

The shooting at Fort Hood is sad, puzzling, and disconcerting. What's also sad is that leaders of Muslim communities around the United States had to immediately speak out and distance themselves from the acts of the alleged shooter, Major Nidal Malik Hasan, and clarify that his alleged acts did not represent the Muslim community or the Muslim faith.

Was there ever any doubt?

Why is it that when someone of a "marginalized" group goes batshit crazy and does something tragic and fatal, Americans tend to go all Pearl Harbor on the group the crazy person is part of -- whether it's race (Japanese) or religion (in this case, Islam). Don't we know better by now? Don't we know that - or at least I believe that -- there is no faith that would call for or condone the mass slaughter of innocent people? It pains me to know that Muslim places of worship received threatening phone calls within hours of the Fort Hood massacre. Don't we know better by now?

What Major Hasan did, or is alleged to have done, was not of God. Plain and simple. Acts like that are not of God, no matter how many times man or Satan wants to pin evil on God with shouts of "Allah Akbar" (God is Great) or its equivalent. Not of God. Plain and simple.

I would have thought that a so-called "Christian nation" would know that by now.

Witnesses and Accomplices

I haven't written about the gang rape of the young girl at a high school in Richmond, California that was not only witnessed by many, but was recorded on cell phones but not reported. Words fail me. In my mind, these "witnesses" are also "accomplices." Words fail me. What kind of animals could watch someone be brutalized and not hit even three buttons on a cell phone -- "911" --that might have stopped it?

My friend and protege, The Outraged Citizen, has provided some extremely thoughtful and well-written commentary on this tragedy. You should read it.

Say a prayer for the girl, her family, and for the souls of those who watched, recorded, and failed to act. Their souls are in need of healing.

Reminds me of that Stevie Wonder song, "Love's In Need of Love Today" . . . .

Ain't No "Yum-O" In This GD Cookbook!

As infrequently as I make guest appearances in my own kitchen, there ought to be klieg lights, a makeup artist, a director and a dialogue coach when I show up. Cooking on a regular, sustained basis requires planning and creativity I just don't care to develop. But I know I need to. When I think of what BMNB and I spend eating out -- mind you, we spend a lot less than we did before the furlough -- I could easily feed us for a lot less on $ .99 per lb chickens from Safeway and the like. Again, planning and creativity. Mind you, my mom used to put a meal for eight on the table seven days a week when I was a child. I have no excuse.

I was reading an article on Slate.com about using coupons to get free groceries and after trolling forums I found out about this cookbook entitled -- get this -- "Get In The Kitchen, Bit@hes!". This cookbook is described as "not your Grandma's cookbook." If you visit the author's website, and click on "The Book" tab, you'll be greeted thusly:

Tired of all the cookbooks written by wholesome and sweet chefs that make you want to smack them in the face with a frying pan?

Well… you’re in luck! I’m not gonna coddle you, hold your hand or even tell you that you look hot in an apron. I’m not your momma, sweetheart. I’m your daddy!

Stop wasting money eating out and ordering in. Don’t have the time to cook? Don’t like cooking? Quit your damn whining and Get in the Kitchen!

Just the prompt I needed. There's a free recipe page with entrees the likes of "Love You Long Time Pork Ribs," "Poke Me Pork," and "Trailer Park Chicken Marsala." I haven't tried any yet -- I'm going to try the "Love You Long Time Pork Ribs" -- but just the idea of the book, along with its recipe difficulty rating system -- "Dumb Ass" (easiest), "The Little Chef That Could" (more difficult), and "Are You Fu#@ing Kidding Me?" (hardest) -- had me almost falling off my chair laughing. If someone could go to this trouble to make cooking this easy AND this funny, I need to make the effort to get in the kitchen. If I like the ribs, I'm definitely buying the book.

Ain't no "Yum-O" in this cookbook, no sirree. I guess this lazy bit@h betta get in the kitchen. Between the furloughs, car repairs, vet bills and the holiday season coming up, I need to make a dollar out of 15 cents, starting in the kitchen.

Letterman Used Power For Sex -- Surprised?

Okay, so let me first admit my bias. I've always thought David Letterman was funnier than Jay Leno. His humor had less reliance on sight gags and was more nuanced and intelligent than Leno's and, to an extent, Carson's, who is one of the greatest in my books.

That said, I'm not so biased as to give Letterman a pass on his past "indiscretions" with female staffers. But surprised? You'd have to have lived in a yert to have been surprised by his actions.

Powerful men use or trade power (and wealth) all the time to get sex, especially if they're, well, unsightly. I'm no beauty queen, but let's face it -- David Letterman is far from gorgeous. I'm talking light years from handsome. But for his height, Middle Earth would have called CBS and asked them to return their missing hobbit. I'd hazard to guess that but for the power of his celebrity and position of authority as a boss, for years he'd have been taking matters into his right hand with a jar of Vaseline beside him, if you know what I mean.

So am I surprised that he used his power as a boss and a celebrity to get laid? Not at all. Happens every day, in workplaces large and small. Power gets traded for sex so much, in the workplace and outside of it, that there ought to be a formal exchange for it, like the Chicago Mercantile Exchange or NASDAQ.

Do you think Monica Lewinsky would have even bothered with Bill Clinton if he had been a middle-aged, mid-level manager at IBM with a scratchy, twanged voice? Would Donna Rice have bothered with Gary Hart but for his political power? Would any woman in her right mind put up with the pomposity of Donald Trump if he were just a working-class construction foreman with a bad combover? I don't think so. I doubt that Jesse Jackson, John Edwards (cute as he is), Eliot Spitzer, Newt Gingrich and the like would have had half the success they've had getting women, sometimes in addition to their wives, but for the power they possess or possessed. C'mon -- if you had seen Eliot Spitzer walking down the street before he was powerful, would you have said to yourself, "There goes my dream boat!" ? I don't think so. More like, "That dude so needs a tan."

What's surprising is that, in this age of so-called women's liberation and empowerment, we women are willing to trade ourselves so easily for something that can slip from a man's hands in the blink of an eye. It takes two to do the horizontal mambo, at least willingly. Given all the legal protections in place against sexual harassment in the workplace, are the women who bumped uglies with Letterman powerless victims or willing participants who were attempting to advance their own careers? Unless somebody sues him, we'll probably never know. It all just has such an ick factor to me.

I never really watched Letterman on a consistent basis after he went to CBS. Now, I just don't want to.

Don't Opt In

The public option is back on the table, in a new form. As proposed by Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid, the new public option allows states to decide whether to opt in or opt out. I think this is a fair compromise.

For those states whose senators opposed the public option and will probably continue to oppose it in any form, my message to you is this: If Senator Reid's proposal passes and becomes law, don't opt in. At least have the integrity to stand behind the vote of your chosen representatives. Don't opt in.

If you went to one of those town hall meetings and warned of socialism, Barack O'Communism and the like, then own your words and your deeds. Don't opt in. If you love federalism that much and hate so-called "big government" that much that you're willing to stick it to yourselves, well, then, party on. Don't opt in.

Seems to me that the states that most vehemently opposed the public option are also those states that have traditionally had the highest rates of obesity and obesity-related diseases. You know the states I'm talking about. Most of them are in the south. They would only increase the risk in the public option pool, not spread it. Maybe they don't know what it's like not to have access to affordable health care. Maybe they don't care at all.

You see, I know what it's like to have free health care extended to me in a time of need. I was interviewing for jobs in San Francisco during my third year of law school and the only health care coverage I had was through the law school's clinic. I sprained my ankle running for a bus, and a cab driver was kind enough to drop me at a free clinic in San Francisco, for no charge even. There I was, suited and booted, sitting among the drug addicts, the homeless, and the soiled doves, one of whom told me, "Girl, you might as well get tested for AIDS while you're here -- it's free, you know" -- waiting to be seen by a doctor, not knowing how much it would cost. I was seen, bandaged, given a set of crutches and instructions for treating my sprain, and was sent on my way. When I inquired as to a bill (and held my breath), I was told, "It's no charge. This is San Francisco." I told them that I could pay them when I got back to school, even send them back the crutches, and I was told that there was still no charge and that it would cost me more to send the crutches back then what they were worth. Trust me, I wore those crutches out -- in the snow on the way to class, up two flights of stairs to my hovel of a student apartment, you name it.

I know what it's like to be thankful for and in need of health care. I'm sure California will opt in if given the chance. Quite frankly, if the healthy states like Colorado and Hawai'i opt in, California needs to be up in the mix, too. Those high-risk states can go it alone, though, as far as I'm concerned. Maybe their states' rights will give them solace from the pain of not having access to affordable health care.

As my dad would say, sometimes people have too much sense for their own good.

Michael Jordan Didn't Talk Trash (?)

One of the perils of being an attorney is having to work with other attorneys. My work often involves debating my colleagues on finer points of law, down to the meaning of individual words. It's amazing how different attorneys can read a case and draw different meanings from it. Because my work involves drafting decisions that reflect the legal and factual conclusions of my employer, only when my view of the law and facts prevails does my work ever see the light of day, and never with my name on it.

It can become very tiresome to be in constant debate mode.

I was sharing this sentiment with Black Man Not Blogging (BMNB) on our way to work today, one of the days when we actually shared a ride in together. As usual, he used a sports metaphor to give me advice:

"Jordan didn't talk trash."

What?

BMNB proceeded to explain to me that I need to stop debating folks and let my written legal work do all the talking. Just stop talking, for goodness' sake. "Michael Jordan didn't talk trash. He let his work on the court speak for him. He didn't have to talk trash because his worked backed him up. You need to stop talking and let your work speak for you."

I told him that, in my case, I'm not like guys. When someone attacks my work, I take it personally and feel obliged to defend it. Then I had an epiphany: I needed to leave it on the court, so to speak. Do my work, do my best, and leave my feelings about my work at work. Don't take them with me.

It was only later in the day when I Googled the phrase "Michael Jordan talking trash" did I find out that, yes, indeed, Jordan did talk trash. But he talked trash with a purpose: To get in his opponent's head, distract them, and defeat them.

But I won't let the truth get in the way of a good sports metaphor.