Moose in the Kitchen

Last week, I took a vacation. Not a real vacation, one where scantily clad cabana boys bring drinks with little umbrellas and compliment me on my pedicure, or even an “I didn’t go to work this week” vacation. It was more a pronounced episode of laziness. As in, I Am Officially Abdicating All Responsibility For The Duration And If You Don’t Like It Please Feel Free to Register Your Complaints Here.* I went to work because they pay me and that was it. I didn’t return email, I didn’t go to dance class, I didn’t pay bills, I’m not sure I was even fully conscious. I sure as hell didn’t clean anything.

It was wonderful. I would explain to you the full nature of my relaxation, but that would be annoying, especially if you’re a conscientious citizen who spent last week paying taxes or wrangling toddlers, and I don’t want you to hate me. Suffice to say, it was needed and I fully appreciate my ability to lie on the couch like a beached walrus.

One of the few things I did last week involved bass clarinets. Did you know such a thing exists? I didn’t. Turns out, the bass clarinet is a strange hybrid of clarinet and didgeridoo, a fine blend of extra dorky and completely awesome. Especially when played by Jesus and his gang of hipsters, a group whose musical influences clearly include Philip Glass, Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite and the yoga class I take on Valencia Street where they chant loudly as I try to sneak unobtrusively out the back door.

Picture Jesus. And I mean the typical European depiction of Jesus as a white guy with flowing brown curls, not the scandalous representation as Jesus as a black man, you know, the kind of man might actually have inhabited a desert in that part of the world. Now picture white Jesus in a velveteen leisure suit. Now give him a bass clarinet. Good. Add a few typical concert types in tidy black, one with the shiniest hair I’ve seen this side of a Pantene commercial. Toss in a boy with trendy sneakers and a white linen blazer. You are now very close to a fully realized image of Jesus and The Hipsters.**

Now, picture a bouncer. The kind of bouncer you really don’t want to encounter while throwing drunken punches at what will turn out to be a standing ficus. This man probably isn’t a bouncer, unless he’s a bouncer when he’s not a Tuvan throat singer, but he stands like a bouncer with both feet planted and his arms clasped in front of his crotch. Our Tuvan Bouncer has no hair on his head except for the small circle sprouting out of his chin and growing in a wiry tuft to the third button on his shirt. Yes, I counted the buttons. It was that impressive. Now picture him, feet planted and arms clasped, singing in a very deep and melodious vibratto, “Beeeep…beeeeeepp…Beep!” I swear to god, the man was beeping. It was a glorious moment.

When I made some of these trenchant observations at the time, it was noted that my acerbic meter was creeping toward red, the nice rich scarlet that also signals snarky. But I would like to state here that nothing delights me so much as the decidedly quirky. This, my friends, was decidedly quirky. The music was very Philip Glass-y and the… let’s call them performance oddities exponentially increased my enjoyment. Especially when Jesus pulled out a long wooden flute and started making sounds last performed by a member of the Anasazi tribe, a man whose name probably contained the words “antelope” and “squats”.

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* The dog accepts all complaints as pertain to me (must be in writing) and then she pees on them.

** Not their real name. I didn’t save the program.

Related posts:

1. Slow News Day
2. I Don’t Remember His Name, But I Remember His Bling
3. The Chickens Were Wearing Yellow Polka Dot Bikinis