Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Hurry up and wait

It was 11:30 in the morning when about forty of us, dressed in black, converged on the entrance to the Moscone Center.

We were the Glide Ensemble, and we were there to perform for the First Lady.

"I can't tell you who you're singing for on Monday," said Cecil at our last choir rehearsal. "But we need your social security numbers for the Secret Service check."

About twelve seconds later it was confirmed via whispers that Michelle Obama was coming to town for the National Conference on Volunteering and Service, which was being held at the same venue and time that were were scheduled to perform. Ho ho!

Our sound check, which was originally scheduled for 7:15 AM, had been pushed back to 10:30, and then pushed back again to 11:30. These changes in plans were not unusual for Secret Service gigs. Last year when the Ensemble performed at a Hillary Clinton event, the Secret Service made us go through hell and high water just to get into the venue. They pawed through all our belongings, refused to permit our unopened case of bottled water and confiscated my umbrella. (Although I eventually got it back, after explaining patiently to three separate guards: "It's raining.")

So this time I'd emptied my bag of anything that might be impounded. The only thing I'd chanced to bring was my camera. I'd run the risk of getting it confiscated for the opportunity to take a picture of the First Lady.

We stood on the corner for a good long while, looking a bit like Secret Service ourselves in our all-black attire. About fifteen minutes into our wait, I had to use the restroom. I poked my head into the venue.

The Moscone Center is huge. The entryway alone is as large as a dance hall. I headed for the restroom sign and realized as I approached that it was behind security lines. "Can I use this bathroom?" I inquired of a security guard. He informed me that I'd have to go up two flights and use the restroom up there. I decided to wait; the last thing I wanted to do was get separated from my group and denied entrance if they went through security without me. I went back outside.

Thirty minutes later we were still standing on the corner. We'd been heckled by a driver-by who screamed insults at us through his car window. ("What does he have against volunteering?" somebody wondered aloud.) We'd witnessed a showdown between the driver and a street vendor, who shrieked at each other for a frightening moment before the driver pealed away. And I had been standing with my legs crossed for the last quarter of an hour. Just when I was thinking about darting to a nearby Starbucks to avail myself of their facilities, somebody shouted, "Line up! We're going in!"

"OK, change of plans!" announced Dave, one of our sound guys, as we filed into line. "I know we were told that after sound check we could leave the building and come back for our two o'clock performance call. But now they're saying that once we're inside, there is no re-entry. OK guys? Once you're in, you're in."

"But what about those folks who aren't coming until two o'clock?" somebody asked. Not everybody could make the sound check, so there was a second wave of choir members coming that afternoon.

"I'll be out here to escort them in," assured Dave. "They'll be all right."

We each received a Backstage badge with our name and group written on it. "The name on your badge must be your legal name!" said Dorian, one our choir leaders. "It has to match the information that we gave to the Secret Service." I rifled through my bag and pulled out my ID, ready to show it to security.

But security didn't ask for my ID. In fact, none of us had to prove that we were actually the people that our badges claimed us to be. But they did make a big deal out of our group arrival. "Stay with your group!" I was directed. Nobody was to be admitted on their own.

Once through security, my main order of business was to find a restroom. The arena was enormous:


and after canvassing the perimeter I couldn't find the bathroom. I approached a group of police officers and their (slightly scary) police dog. "Excuse me," I asked. "Where is the restroom?"

"Back outside," one of the officers said, pointing at the doors through which we'd just come.

"Oh, but isn't there one in here?" I asked with a hopeful smile. "You see, I've already been through security."

"No bathrooms in here," said the officer, turning away. The dog glared at me; I retreated.

I crossed the great space to the stage and approached a group of people in headsets. "Excuse me," I said, trying to sound authoritative. "Where is the restroom?"

"There are no restrooms in here," one of the women said to me. "You have to go back outside."

I bit back a frustrated sigh. "But they wouldn't let me use the bathroom outside," I explained. "And now that I've been through security, I can't get separated from my group." The woman turned her back on me, already involved in another conversation on her headset.

"This is ridiculous!" I exclaimed to nobody. "You've quarantined us all in here! We must have access to a bathroom!"

"Errin," somebody called, and I looked up to see Don K., our other choir leader, beckoning me. "There's a bathroom behind that curtain there," he said furtively. He pointed me to the backstage area.

"God bless you, man," I said to him, and sprinted toward the curtain.

It may have been my high-speed approach that alerted the guard. He held his hand out to stop me.

"I'm just going to use the restroom," I said casually.

"There are no restrooms back here," he said. He tried to stare me down.

I thought: This man is lying to me.

"Are you telling me," I said, trying to control my temper, "that there are absolutely no restrooms in this entire facility?"

"Restrooms are outside, ma'am."

"But that's beyond the security checkpoint!" I protested. "I can't get back in here once I'm separated from my group!"

He shrugged. "That's not my problem."

It suddenly occurred to me why the Secret Service had confiscated my umbrella at our last gig. It would have made a handy weapon indeed.

Left with no alternative, I made for the exit door. A pleasant looking security guard was standing beside it.

"Excuse me," I said. "I desperately need to use the restroom, and I've been told that the only one available is out here. Will I be allowed back inside if I exit?"

"Sure thing," he said cheerily. "You're still inside the security rope. It's not a problem."

"Really?" I cried, and he gave me a sunny smile. I wanted to kiss the man. But still I was uncertain. I couldn't quite trust him. I took a cautious step outside and approached a different security guard.

"Pardon me," I said, waving my backstage pass. "I was just in there." I pointed emphatically to the big room. "I was told that I could use the restroom and not have to go back through security. Is that true?" I stared at him intently, my eyes round with hope.

"Yeah," he said. "You're fine." My sigh of relief was so great it almost negated my need for the facilities.

Nothing could stop me now! I charged toward the restroom door with great purpose.

"Stop!" A new security guard held his hand out toward me. "You can't go back there."

"I'm going to the restroom!" I said with barely contained hysteria.

"No, no. Not back there," he said.

"But sir," I said, preparing to freak out, "this is the only one there is! Please."

He faltered. I could sense his weakness. I lapsed into a Dickensian dialect, imploring him with my orphan-like eyes. "Please sir," I begged him. "Oh, please."

He flagged. "All right," he said reluctantly, stepping aside to let me pass. I flew to the Ladies' on winged feet.

Here I must pause in my narrative to admit that I've had to use the bathroom three times while writing this. And I'll be impressed if you didn't have to go to the bathroom while reading it.

OK, back to the story. I sauntered casually back toward the great room, but nobody even attempted to stop me. Apparently all the security was tied up protecting the bathroom area.

The choir was congregating on the stage for a sound check. "Can I have your attention?" called a woman wearing a headset. Not, I noted, the same woman who'd been so unfeeling about my restroom situation. There was a whole flock of headsetted people.


"We're going to take you through your part in the program and then bring you to your holding area upstairs. Hey guys, could you please keep it down?" she said to the band, who were checking the levels on their instruments. The band looked a little bewildered, which was only fair, given that the purpose of a sound check is to check the sound.

I was on the end of the soprano section and a handler stood nearby. "Could she maybe use a microphone?" I asked him. Even without the band playing it was hard to hear the woman talking in the cavernous space. She was standing right beside the solo mic, but she wasn't using it. The handler darted forward and posed my inquiry to the woman. She shook her head sharply and he came back to me to report: "Uh, no."

OK.

So we all strained our ears to hear this woman issue her no-nonsense instructions. "You will be escorted from your holding area down to the backstage area. If you need to use the bathroom, you're SOL. Use the bathroom upstairs, cause once you're down here you'll just have to hold it."

Wait, was she the woman who wouldn't let me pee?

"You're going to sing three songs. Applause, applause, applause. Then the color guard will come out and do their thing. Tomiko will lead you in the National Anthem. When she is finished singing she'll leave the stage. Then the color guard will do their thing again and they'll leave the stage. When they are finished, and I mean not until the last foot has left the stage, John will start your final song and you'll march out. Do you hear that, John?" Our choir director nodded.

The woman continued. "We will escort you back upstairs to your holding area. You'll stay up there for the bulk of the conference, then we'll escort you back down here for your final song. Two ladies will join you on the stage. They'll thank the crowd, thus ending the conference and you'll march off again. Everybody got that? Good." She turned around to confer with another woman in a headset.

It was then that I noticed the TelePrompter:


I elbowed Claire, who was standing beside me. "Look! Jon Bon Jovi's going to be here!"

"Oh! That's so exciting!" she said. We wondered what other celebrities might be in attendance.

The band had seized the moment of relative quiet to launch into a tune. Leah stepped forward to try out the solo mic. Halfway through the song they were halted by the second headsetted woman.

"Guys? Hello? Can you stop? Thank you. OK, in the interest of time we're just going to cut straight to the National Anthem, all right? You don't need to rehearse the rest of your stuff anyway; I can tell you're pros." Her praise fell flat, as it was obviously less than sincere. "Where is Tomiko? Can we get Tomiko onstage please?"

The rest of us were wondering who Tomiko was. She wasn't part of the Glide Ensemble. I'm still not sure where she came from, but it seemed that she was going to be leading us in the National Anthem. Did she win some sort of contest? I wondered.

Tomiko seemed as surprised to see us as we were to see her. We had practiced the National Anthem at choir rehearsal, in response to the request that we sing it for this gig. We had not been told that we'd be backing up a soloist, and it seemed that the soloist had not been told that she'd be backed by a large choir. I realized that we were going to sing right over this poor girl. Particularly the sopranos, who had the melody.

Tomiko looked a little put out. I couldn't blame her. Here was her big chance to sing in front of the First Lady and she was going to be buried underneath the power of the choir. We started the song and immediately steamrolled her. You couldn't hear her voice at all.

After one run-through, it was suggested that the choir come in on Whose broad stripes and bright stars so that Tomiko could establish her voice. "Can you do that, John?" asked one of the headsetted women.

"Sure," said John. Tomiko still didn't look very happy.

"OK, great," said the headsetted lady. "Choir? Listen up, please. You're going to make your exit now. Please file backstage and wait for me there, and I will take you upstairs to the holding area."

We trooped backstage and a headsetted man met us behind the curtain. "Choir! This way please. I'm going to escort you upstairs." He gestured us to a side exit.

Just then we heard another voice. "Glide Ensemble! Follow me please! I'm going to take you upstairs." A brand new woman with a headset was beckoning us in the other direction. The choir was splitting in half, unsure of which way to go.

"Hold it!" shouted Dorian. She pointed out the headsetted woman to the headsetted man. "Who should we follow?"

"Very organized, aren't they?" quipped someone behind me.

There was a quick conference between headsets. It was determined that we should follow the woman, whose name was Lisa.

"I'm going to take you to your holding area," announced Lisa genially.

"They're really not making any effort to spruce up the phrase 'holding area', are they?" I muttered to Leah.

"She could have said 'cage'," she pointed out.

"True."

It took multiple trips in the service elevator to get us all upstairs. We were shown to our room, which was pleasantly spacious and stocked with water, although it lacked something in the way of food.

"We're working on getting some food delivered," announced Don K., before anyone could ask.

"Thank goodness," said Shirley, as we sunk into chairs around big round tables. "I was going to treat myself to a nice lunch, but I guess that's out the window now that we can't leave the building. I hope they feed us soon."

"Me too," I said. "I'm pretty hungry."

"How long are we here for?" asked Debbie.

Claire consulted her watch. "Well, it's one o'clock now. So...three hours?"

"Three hours?" exclaimed Debbie. "Well jeez, if I'd known that we'd be stuck here all afternoon I wouldn't have come until two o'clock."

We whiled away the time with chit-chat and fiddling. Linda Rose painted her nails. Cheryl fixed Sandra's broken shoe with a hair tie and a safety pin. I knitted absentmindedly, then realized that I'd messed up the pattern. Giving up, I shoved the knitting back in my bag.

"Where is that food?" Shirley asked after about an hour. "I am starving." There was a chorus of agreement around the table.

"You're starving? I'd pay $30 for a hamburger," complained Dan, one of our sound techs.

"They can't treat people like this," grumbled Shirley. "They can't lock us in a room all afternoon and not feed us. There's such a thing as common decency, you know."

"I'm not surprised," said Sandra. "It's the Secret Service. Remember that gig we did a year or so ago, that Hillary Clinton thing?"

"That's the one where they confiscated my umbrella," I said.

"Oh, they confiscated tons of stuff. Well, they shut us all up in this tiny room for hours, with no food, no water, nothing. People were getting sick from hunger, blood sugar dropping and all that. And finally they got us pizza, but it took hours."

"And the gig was over by then," I said, remembering.

"That's right," confirmed Sandra. "Half of us had already left."

I sighed. The more I thought about it, the less likely it seemed that they were going to feed us today. I was starting to get a hunger headache.

"I always bring food with me," said Shirley. "But today I thought, I'm going to take myself out to a nice lunch. Treat myself, you know? So I didn't bring anything."

"Same here," I said, remembering my breakfast apple with sadness. I rummaged through my bag, scouting for any morsel I may have overlooked.

"Honest to God, I'm ready to gnaw off my own fist," said Dan.

I unearthed a shattered candy from the bottom of my purse. "A mint!" I cried. Mistake. Dan zeroed in on me.

"You got any more of those?" he asked. I didn't. We eyed each other warily.

"I'll sell it to you," I said finally.

Dan snorted. "That's cold, man." He got up and left the room.

"Wasn't there a vending machine downstairs?" wondered Cheryl.

"There was, but they shut down the elevator," said Sandra.

"They shut down the elevator?" exclaimed Cheryl.

"Secret Service." Sandra gave a little shrug.

A few minutes later Dan reappeared. He sat down at the table and unwrapped a napkin-covered parcel. Nonchalantly, he made to take a bite of what appeared to be some kind of food.

Shirley swooped. "What's that you're eating?" she demanded.

He paused, the food halfway to his mouth. "It's, uh, a sandwich."

"Where did you get it?" I interrogated him.

"Someone gave it to me. I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?" Shirley's stare could have burned holes in an iron door. Dan stammered:

"I think it was leftover from a conference next door."

"Are there any more?" I wanted to know.

"I don't think so. Sorry."

"Dammit!"

Dan raised an eyebrow. "I'll sell it to you," he said.

"Oh, shut up Dan," I said crankily. He laughed and I turned my back on him. Shirley, on the other hand, gave him a death stare until he cut the sandwich into pieces and offered them around. It turned out to be a turkey sandwich, and I reluctantly declined.

Moments later I had my head buried deep in my bag, searching in vain for a second mint when a shadow fell over me. I emerged to find Jennifer standing above me. She looked so furtive that my first response was to ask, "What's wrong?"

"Take this," she said under her breath, and shoved a napkin-wrapped package into my hands.

"What is it?" I whispered, and Jennifer looked sideways in each direction before answering:

"It's a sandwich."

"But where?" I breathed. "Where did it come from?"

She was backing away from me. "Conference room," she mouthed.

The legends were true.

I peeled back the napkin to reveal a glimpse of a chicken salad sandwich. My vegetarian heart sank.

"Jennifer!" I hissed. She halted her retreat. "Are there more?" She nodded, then shook her head. Then she shrugged. Then she fled.

"Oh Dan," I called out. He looked up from his empty napkin. His eyes sharpened.

"What've you got there?" he asked.

"What, this? Oh, this is just a chicken salad sandwich. Nothing you'd be interested in."

"Are you kidding? I barely even got a bite of that last sandwich. Shirley carved it up into about twenty pieces!"

"That's too bad," I said with feigned sympathy.

"What are you going to do with that sandwich?" he asked me.

"Well, I don't know," I said. "I'm a vegetarian, so I can't actually eat it. But I think I'll just put it in my bag, carry it around for awhile. I'm sure all that mayonnaise will keep."

He shook his head at me. "You're a hard woman," he said. "God help the man that marries you."

I tossed him the sandwich. "Oh, take the damn thing." He gave me a broad smile before tucking in.

And then there was a sudden cry from the table nearest the doors: "Food!"

The second table took up the call: "Food?"

"FOOD!"

In sauntered Stacy with a platter of sandwiches held aloft. Behind him was Ramon, bearing a second tray. Dan abandoned his chicken salad with the speed of Mighty Mouse, fleeing the room in search of more such treasures. One after another they came with platter after platter of sandwiches, and then–

"Cake!" I shouted. "They've got cake!"

And fruit, and chips, and more sandwiches, more sandwiches than we could have ever dreamed.

"Is this the food that they ordered for us?" wondered Debbie.

"No," said Dan, returning with a tray for our table. "We rescued it from a conference down the hall. These are leftovers!"

"Is it okay if we eat it?" asked Claire.

My mouth was already full of eggplant sandwich. Frankly, I did not care if it was okay. I also did not care that the caramel-frosted brownies were obviously not vegan; I ate two and they were fabulous.

But somebody did care. About ten minutes into our food orgy, an angry looking server appeared in the room. He stood by the door, taking stock of the situation with his hands on his hips.

"Uh oh," said Debbie. "That guy looks mad."

My response was to eat faster.

Don K. went to speak to the man, and after a brief conversation the server left, looking disgruntled.

"He's coming back in twenty minutes to take the dishes," reported Don K. "So eat up, and pack anything that you might want to eat later, because I don't know if we're going to get fed again."

"Again?" snorted Shirley. "We didn't get fed the first time."

"Right?" said Cheryl. "Good thing they ordered so much food for the group next door."

I leaned back in my chair, sated. Dan was working diligently on a new sandwich. "How many sandwiches have you had now, Dan?" I asked.

He looked at it. "Four, maybe?" He grinned.

Don K. appeared at my elbow. "Who's got their badge?" he asked. "I need to borrow some so we can get people upstairs." The rest of the choir was waiting outside.

"We don't have enough badges for them?" I wondered.

Don K. shook his head. "No. So thank goodness they didn't check our IDs on the way in. They're going to have to pretend to be you." We all forked over our badges, and shortly thereafter the next group arrived. They were met with sandwiches and brownies, and stories of the brave ones who had scavenged to feed us.

"Jon Bon Jovi's in the hall!" somebody hissed.

"What?"

"Jon Bon Jovi! He's in the hallway!"

A stampede of people rushed the door. But Bon Jovi was nowhere to be seen.

"He went behind that black curtain," pointed Jennifer, and I believed her. She knew where the sandwiches had been, after all.

"That must be the VIP area," said Claire. We sauntered past it a few times, but he didn't emerge. Claire went back to her seat. Undaunted, I hung around the doorway.

And then I was rewarded with a Matthew McConaughey sighting. I gasped.

John T., our choir director, turned up at my elbow. "Is that Bon Jovi?" he asked me.

"No. That's Matthew McConaughey," I breathed. He walked by us, down the hallway. His chiseled good looks were marred only by the pregnant Brazilian supermodel on his arm. I was too surprised to get a picture. I just stood there as he walked past, giggling stupidly.

John shook his head in disgust. "Ain't you ashamed of yourself?" he asked me.

"No," I said.

John took one last look. "He's shorter than I thought."

"Um," I said, distractedly.

"He's no six-foot-two," humphed John, and went back inside.

Concerned as I was with the bathroom situation downstairs, I went twice over the next twenty minutes. We were getting close to performance time.

John T. called us to attention. We lined up in formation at the back of the room.

"Now y'all listen up," he said. "We're going to sing four songs. We're only supposed to sing three, but we're going to do four. So we're only going to take one verse of each song. I hate to do this," he continued, shaking his head, "but so nobody gets confused, I'm going to tell you what we're singing."

John keeps his cards close to his chest. Almost never does he tell us what we'll be singing on any given Sunday, or even at special events. He plays the opening chords and we've just got to recognize the song. As a soloist, it's more than enough to keep you on your toes. Or give you an ulcer.

"We're going to start with Leah's song, 'Full Time God'. Then we'll do 'Golden'." He pointed at Cheryl. "Then I'm going to go straight into Dennis' tune: Ba-da-da-da da!"

"'I've Come A Long Way'," translated Dennis, nodding.

"Right," said John. "We're just going to do the chorus once. Then we'll go right into Emma Jean's song. Um..." he snapped his fingers, searching for the title.

"Battle's Over?" Emma Jean supplied.

"Yeah. So, you all got that? One verse of each. We've only got fifteen minutes, and I want to make sure that everybody has a chance to sing."

"What about the last number? At the end?" questioned Cheryl.

"Oh, right. That's going to be Gisele's song. 'I'm Blessed'." Gisele nodded.

Dorian stepped out to face the group. "We've got maybe twenty minutes," she said. "So get your robes on, get ready. We're singing for the First Lady, people!" There was a whoop! from the group as we disbanded.

I pulled my robe over my head. "Are you disappointed that you don't get to solo in front of the First Lady?" Claire asked me.

"A little," I admitted. I had briefly indulged in a fantasy where Michelle Obama invited me to come sing at the White House. "But at least I'm not regretting that second brownie any more." Truth be told, I'd eaten a bit too much to comfortably belt out a solo.

Emma Jean wandered over, looking for her robe. "Are you excited that you get to sing for the Michelle Obama?" I asked her.

She waved the idea away. "Oh, I'm not even getting excited. You know how these things work. I'm the last one to sing. My song might even get cut. I don't want to get too worked up about it."

She had a point, but I think I would have been bouncing around the room if I were her.

We were herded out into the hall, where we stood as an amorphous group, practicing the hurry-up-and-wait principle. I shot the breeze with Joshua and John D.

"I caught a glimpse of Matthew McConaughey," I bragged.

"Really?" said John D., before dropping his bomb: "I went to the bathroom with Jon Bon Jovi."

"You did?" Joshua and I said in unison.

"Oh yeah," said John, warming to his tale. "I went into the bathroom, right, and there he was, you know, using the urinal. And I was kind of excited, but it's a private moment, you know, and I didn't want to intrude. So I put two urinals between us, as a mark of respect.

"He washed his hands," he added.

Joshua and I were deeply impressed.

"Did you talk to him?" Joshua asked.

"Oh no. I didn't want to confront the poor guy in the men's room. That's private time." Joshua nodded in approval.

"That'll be a story to tell your kids one day," I said.

"Oh yeah," said John. "'Girls, let me tell you about the day that I peed with Jon Bon Jovi.' That's a story for the ages."

"'And he was just a normal guy, just like me,'" put in Joshua.

"'We were just two dudes named John, using the john together.' It's beautiful, really," I said. We laughed.

"Hey, there goes Matthew McConaughey again," observed Joshua.

"What? Shit!" I fumbled with my camera.

"Did you get him?" asked John.

"Argh! No, I got the guy next to him. Stupid camera!"

"Put it on video," suggested Joshua.

"Ooh, good thinking," I said. "Then it won't take so much time to process. Hey, who's that coming out from behind the curtain?" There was a fuss at the head of the crowd.

"It's Nancy Pelosi."



"What did she say?"

"I don't know. Something heartwarming, I think."

"Oh, they're moving us." We shuffled to the service elevator.

"Sopranos up here!" came the call, and I bid goodbye to the guys and headed up front.

"We're going to try to move you in your sections," said a brand new headsetted woman. Honestly, there were dozens of them. "Please line up the way you did onstage, if you can."

"Groups of twenty!" instructed another headset lady. "That's all we can fit on the elevator."

"MatthewMcConaugheyMatthewMcConaugheyMatthewMcConaughey," came the buzz through the crowd. I craned my neck and realized that he was walking toward us. The women breathed as one as he sauntered past.

This time I had my camera ready.



"All right, now I need ten from that second group to come and join us," said the headset lady, throwing out her arm and catching me in the chest. "You stay here," she said to me. "You'll be in the next group."

Dammit!

So I missed riding in the elevator with Matthew McConaughey by one person.

It took about fifteen minutes to get us all downstairs. We lined up backstage and waited for our entrance cue.

"Choir! You're on!" commanded a man in a headset. We filed quietly onto the stage. The giant room was packed. There must have been three thousand people in attendance, and as we entered they were laughing hysterically. There was a comedian warming up the crowd. I didn't catch what he was saying, but whatever it was, the crowd was in an uproar. The dude must have been hilarious.

On closer inspection, I realized that he was the guy that I'd spoken to that morning, the one to whom I'd posed the question about the microphone. I guess he wasn't a handler after all. I suppose the lack of a headset should have clued me in.

The choir marched on in perfect formation and stood silently as the comedian introduced us. Then John launched into our first number, and Leah stepped confidently toward the mic.

"I am a child of God and I have no fear / He says, 'I love you child and I'll always be near,'" she began, and instantly the crowd was rocking. She sang the hell out of that tune, and killed with her signature ending. The comedian stepped forward and took the mic from her. John T., about to plunge into the next song, froze, his hands poised over the keys.

"Wasn't she fantastic?" the comedian asked the crowd. They roared in appreciation. "What's your name again?" he questioned, turning to Leah. She told him.

"That's Leah Tysse everyone! Let's give it up for Leah Tysse!"

John's fingers twitched.

"We're so lucky to have the Glide Ensemble here with us today, aren't we folks? Let's give them another hand!" We stood, poised and professional, though every one of us was probably thinking about the precious seconds in our fifteen minutes that were ticking away.

Then a voice boomed over the loudspeaker: "Please rise for our National Anthem."

John's face fell. My shoulders sagged. Like a deflating balloon the choir wilted as we realized that our time had been cut short. Three numbers axed.

Tomiko walked onto the stage. I was surprised to see that she was wearing a yellow jacket, khaki pants and worker boots. I think the jacket was printed with the logo of whatever organization she was with, but I thought: Really Tomiko? You couldn't have put on a dress?

She shot a wary glance at John. "Oh say can you see..." she began. The choir came in dutifully on the second verse.

When the song was over we stood still and silent as the color guard snapped their rifles and flags. When they had departed the stage, John cranked up our exiting music and we marched off.

We milled around backstage, waiting for directions. But for once, nobody in a headset was forthcoming. "Are we going back upstairs?" someone asked. Dave went looking for somebody to give us instructions.

I touched Emma Jean on the arm. "You were right," I said to her. "I'm so sorry."

She shrugged. "You see? This kind of thing always happens. It's no big deal." But it would have been a big deal for me. I was suddenly glad that I hadn't gotten my hopes up to sing. I would have been so disappointed.

Eventually a stage hand shooed us away. "Could you please go wait over there?" he asked. We shuffled slowly to the other side of the floor, like wayward cows. Meanwhile, the show was progressing on the other side of the curtain. We could see it broadcasting in mirror image, from the back sides of the giant screens.

Dave and Dan, our two sound guys, were conferring. I approached them. "Are we going back upstairs?" I asked them.

"We were supposed to," said Dave in a clipped voice.

"Supposed to?"

"The Secret Service," he said bitterly, "has decided that it's too much effort to bring us upstairs again. So we'll be staying down here for the remainder of the conference."

Down here? As in down here with no bathrooms?

"You're kidding me," I said.

"How long is this show?" asked Dan.

"Somewhere between two and three hours," said Dave.

"You're kidding me," I said again.

"And you know what else?" continued Dave. "The reason all our songs got cut is because they said it took us too long to get downstairs. So they took it out of our performance time."

I gaped at him.

Dan snorted. "Not mathematicians, are they? Eighty people divided by an elevator capacity of twenty...Uh, let's see..."

Dave snapped. "This [CENSORED] gig! This is the worst [CENSORED] [CENSORED] gig that we've ever done! These [CENSORED] people..." He let loose with a blue streak of curse words. I stared at him, fascinated. I'd never heard Dave speak that way.

"Sorry," he said when he was finished. "But I just get so [CENSORED] mad."

Word got out that we were trapped for the duration and the choir settled in for a long wait. We draped ourselves on equipment cases, or sat cross-legged on the floor. As long as we stayed well clear of the center aisle, which was the celebrity pathway, nobody bothered with us.

Until Michelle Obama made her appearance. "Everybody get back!" we were instructed. "Do not approach! No photography!" We clustered a safe distance away, standing on tiptoe, all anxious for a glimpse of the First Lady.

I couldn't see her at first. It was dark backstage and she was surrounded by Secret Service. They ferried her up the aisle. On the other side of the vast screen a young woman was making an impassioned introduction. The crowd listened with rapt attention, waiting on tenterhooks for the appearance of the one they'd come to see.

And then the Secret Service retreated. And Mrs. Obama was silhouetted by the bright light of the oversize screen. She stood, alone, at the entrance to the stage, awaiting her cue. Her head was bowed, as if in prayer.

No words can aptly describe the profile she cut: the innate grace in the root of her stance, the humbleness in the bow of her head. She was a tiny figure backdropped by that giant screen, and in her solitude I saw how small she was against the rest of the world. I thought she might be praying that her words, already chosen so carefully, would have the impact she sought.

Any photograph that could have captured what we saw would have won the Pulitzer Prize for Photography. Reminiscent in her pose were the shadows of a hundred great leaders. I was reminded in particular of John F. Kennedy.

The introduction ended and Michelle Obama stepped onto the stage.



I noticed that my camera was running out of space, and I was forced to stop filming just as her speech was picking up steam. I scrolled through my photos, deleting what I could to make more room.

There was wild applause after her speech, and as she left the stage the choir clustered as close as we could to the invisible line we'd been told to stand behind. I pulled out my camera again.

"They said no pictures," whispered Debbie.

"It's video," I said. Like that made a difference.

And there she was again, in person. From larger than life to a small silhouette.



Then the Secret Service swallowed her up and spirited her away.

"Wow," said somebody nearby. "That was Michelle Obama."

"Yeah," I said.

We stared after her, sharing a moment of reverential silence.

Well, they should have saved the First Lady for last. Because after her appearance the conference became substantially less interesting. Although there were several more celebrity sightings.

Matthew McConaughey kept wandering around backstage, to the point where I actually lost interest in him. Jon Bon Jovi gave a speech, which surprised me, because I thought he was going to sing. But then the camera pulled out and revealed his band. We were definitely only catching half the show from our limited vantage point.

He sang an original tune, which didn't impress me too much. John T. wandered over.

"Is this the kind of music he always does?" he asked me.

"Um, not really. He's usually more rock n' roll."

"Mmm hmm," said John T., non-commitally. "I prefer a bit more soul in my song, if you know what I mean." He wandered away.

But the next song they did was 'Living on a Prayer', and I was surprised to find this acoustic version beautiful and touching. The third tune was nice too, but I don't remember it very well.

"Jon Bon Jovi took up all our stage time," observed John D, coming up behind me.

"Yeah," I said. "Too bad we couldn't sing backup for him."

"That would've been awesome."

"Right?"

Riz joined us. "I got a picture with him, you know," he said, pulling out his camera to show us.

"Really?" I asked. I peered at his camera, and sure enough!

"Oh yeah, you didn't hear this story yet? Okay, I had to go the bathroom, right? So I push open the door and there's Jon Bon Jovi. And I was like 'Whoa, you look familiar!'" John D.'s brow furrowed.

"So I waited until he washed his hands - cause I wanted to give him his space, you know? - and I asked, 'Can I get a picture with you?' And he was really cool. He was like, 'Can we wait until we get out of the bathroom?' And then we took a picture in the hallway."

John D. crossed his arms. You could tell he took issue with Riz's policy about how much space a celebrity deserved in the restroom.

There was applause from the other side of the screen. "He's coming out!" I said.



"Cool," said Riz.

"Hey, here comes somebody else," John pointed.

"Who is that?"

"I think...I think it's Maria Shriver."

It was Maria Shriver, and she actually came right over to us and said hello.


"That was very nice," I said. "She didn't have to come over here and talk to us. That was cool."

Unfortunately, Maria Shriver stepped onstage and proceeded to conduct a half-hour interview with a dude none of us knew or really cared about. I knew we were in trouble when they settled into plushy armchairs. Backstage, I sank into a sitting position myself. Tripp was sitting beside me.

"Errin, I'm over it," he said. "I am over this day. What about you?"

"Well, I don't think I'll ever volunteer again," I said, and he laughed.

"Right? This conference has not inspired me in the manner they intended." I thought back to the heckler who'd screamed at us that morning. "What does he have against volunteering?" somebody had asked. Now I knew.

Maria Shriver, bless her heart, went on and on and on.

"How much longer is this damn show?" Tripp asked. "We've gotta be next, right?"

"No, Matthew McConaughey hasn't gone on yet," I said dully. He was still wandering around backstage.

"Well, are we after him?"

"Man, I hope so." I was hoping that he would introduce us. I expected everyone to make an appearance in the final number; I pictured us sharing the stage with Maria Shriver, Jon Bon Jovi and Michelle Obama herself. That would make up for the rest of the day with interest, I thought.

Tripp stood and yawned. "I'm going to stretch my legs a little," he said, and walked off. I let my eyes close for a few minutes, not sure if I was tired or just bored.

And then: "Choir! Line up! You're on soon."

They rounded us up and separated us into sections, so we could enter the stage the same as before, women from the left and men from the right. Matthew McConaughey walked up the center aisle and prepared to go onstage.

"It cracks me up how you can tell it's him just from the silhouette that his hair casts," I whispered to Debbie, and we giggled. We watched him from behind the screens. He paced as he talked, but I couldn't hear his speech because we'd moved out of the range of the speakers.

A few moments later he came back through the curtain, picked up his Brazilian supermodel, and exited the room.

"I guess he's not introducing us," I said to Debbie.

"Guess not."

As I looked around, I noted the conspicuous absence of all the other celebrities. Was no one going to join us for the grand finale?

Maybe they would come out while we were singing.

"Choir! You're on!"

We filed onstage to the opening strains of Gisele's number. Gisele must have already been out there, because she started singing while most of us were still behind the screen. We hurried to take our places behind her.

When I reached the stage I was shocked to see that almost the entire audience had gone. We were singing to nearly three thousand empty seats. There was no sign of Maria Shriver, or Jon Bon Jovi, and definitely not Michelle Obama. I had to face the fact that the First Lady was probably already flying back across the country. Matthew McConaughey sure didn't stick around to watch us sing, and I wondered if the crowd had dispersed before or after he gave his speech.

Gisele, ever professional, sang as though her audience numbered in the thousands. Cecil and Jan stood defiantly in the front row, rocking out like it was Sunday morning. There were a few people who'd stayed, most likely fans from Glide. But we were mainly singing to an empty house.

John cut the song off after a single verse. We marched glumly offstage and pooled behind the screen, waiting for a headsetted person to bark instructions at us. But even they had gone. Nobody hung around to tell us good job, or to thank us for coming, or to lead us to the elevator in groups of twenty. We made our own way upstairs.

"That. Sucked."

That was the general consensus. Nobody said much as we walked through the halls. When we arrived back at the holding area, the room was stale with the smell of left-out food. Good as his word, that angry-looking waiter had retrieved all the serving dishes. But he'd left the remains of our meal: lukewarm sandwiches dripping dubious cold-cuts, wilting fruit salad drooping in paper cups.

"We need to clean this room before we go!" announced Don K. "If everybody throws away one thing we can all get out of here much faster."

I am not normally a person who balks at cleaning up after herself. But this, after everything else that had happened that day, felt like the final insult. I shook my head in utter disdain.

Then I found another brownie and pounced on it.

We had one last celebrity sighting on the way out of the building: Clifford the Big Red Dog was taking pictures with kids in the lobby. I'm not sure what event he was there for. But he, at least, looked happy to see us. He waved enthusiastically as we exited the building.

"What a day," said Gisele, as we walked to the BART.

"What a day," I echoed. "You were such a pro. You sang your heart out, just as though you had a million people watching you."

"Thanks," she said. "These gigs, eh? They're never what they're cracked up to be."

"They sure aren't."

"All that build up for such a letdown."

"Tell me about it."

"They starve you all day."

"And they lock you inside."

"Then they ignore you."

"And they don't let you pee."

We walked in silence for a few minutes.

Then Gisele said: "Still, I had fun though."

I smiled at her. "Yeah, me too. I always do."

Monday, June 29, 2009

No wonder I'm so tired!

What a week! About a month's worth of events took place in the last 8 days. I'll catch you up briefly:

Last Sunday The Shirelles came to Glide and I got to solo in front of them! Then they came up onstage and sang a song, and when they turned around to thank us, one of them pointed at me and gave me a big thumbs up! After the service she gave me a big hug and told me I was wonderful!


So thank you to the Shirelle on the left! Despite all my internet research, I still don't know what her name is.

That afternoon I did a recording session for a surf band called The Del Mars. I sang background vocals for several tracks off their upcoming album.

And to top the day off, my good friend Becca gave birth to her second child, baby Mason. Welcome to the world, Mason!

On Monday the Glide Ensemble performed at the 2009 National Conference on Volunteering and Service. Michelle Obama was there! I will post a big blog post about that experience shortly, so stay tuned.

On Wednesday I went to the dentist.

On Thursday we lost Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson. Thursday was a very surreal day, as shock gave way to sadness.

On Friday we gained a new little light in this world!: baby Daisy, who couldn't be bothered with the hospital and made her entrance in the backseat of Mom and Dad's car.

On Saturday I had a recording session with Yung Mars, laying down background vocals for his upcoming second album.

And yesterday was the Gay Pride Parade! I had a blast marching down Market Street with the Glide contingent, singing and dancing and waving at the crowd. On our float was a giant wedding cake, topped with all different kinds of couples, and our real-life pastors who 'married' them as we traveled down the street. Our message:


But the message of the day, of the week, really, is summed up in this sign:

Ain't that the truth?

Happy Pride, Happy Birthday, Happy Monday!

Friday, June 26, 2009

Good thing they don't drive a Geo Metro

Well, my friend Arin had her baby girl this morning. In her car. And her husband, Byrne, delivered her.

On the way home they stopped at the farmers market for some fresh parsley and a hunk of Parmesan cheese, and Arin whipped up a delightful quiche for lunch.

OK, I'm lying about that second part, but still - can you believe this woman?

Congratulations Arin, Byrne & Harper! And welcome to the world, Baby Girl!

Thursday, June 25, 2009

Gone too soon

I don't know how to write this.

His music was a thread through my entire life. He was the soundtrack to my childhood. My whole family would gather to watch him. Before we divorced, before we grew up. He is entwined in my earliest memories, woven into a time when I felt young and safe. Losing him feels like losing a little part of myself.

I'm shocked at the depth of my sadness.




Be at peace, Michael Jackson.

Friday, June 19, 2009

I wish I'd taken a picture to show you

My friend Arin is elegantly domestic in a way I long to be. She has a garden. She cooks meals using food that she grows in her garden. Then she takes beautiful pictures of that food and posts them on her blog, along with recipes. She knits stuffed animals for her 3-year-old son. And any minute now she's going to have a baby daughter who will wear a hand-knitted, be-ribboned hat home from the hospital. A hat that Arin made. In short, I admire her home life.

I knit too. I make a lot of blankets, because they are square. I once made a poncho: it was 2 squares sewn together. I tend not to stray from my square formula.

Sometimes I cook. Not often. I lean heavily on spaghetti. If you're invited to my house for dinner, chances are good we'll have spaghetti. Chances are also good that we'll be sitting on the floor in my living room, eating off the coffee table.

But I love to watch the Food Network. I love to see people enjoying the preparation of meals. It is not a concept I'm familiar with. I want to dirty as few dishes as possible. I want to eat n-o-w, NOW.

Tonight I had one of those rare moments where I thought: I want to make a meal.

It was 7:30 when I walked to the grocery store. I was pulling a little wheelie cart, so you know I was serious.

The sun was low in the sky, lending a rosy glow to a beautiful summer evening. People were eating al fresco, spilling out of restaurants and onto the sidewalk, and I maneuvered my little cart around several outdoor tables. The air was fragrant with food.

I took my time at the store, picking out fruits and vegetables. I knew just what I wanted to make. When I rolled my cart home, it was well-stocked with fresh summer produce.

Monte had beaten me home. "Don't eat, I'm cooking," I said, as I trundled through the door with all my wares. "Dinner will be ready in half an hour."

"Kind of a late meal, huh?" he said. It was 8:30.

"Yeah," I agreed. "But it will be worth it."

And it was. I roasted 4 ears of corn in the oven, dousing the husks in water so they could cook in the steam. Then I sliced 2 firm peaches into quarters and set them in a baking pan with a little water at the bottom. I drizzled them with olive oil, balsamic vinegar and a little bit of lavender honey (from France!). Then I seasoned them with sea salt, fresh ground pepper and several sprigs of fresh rosemary, and popped them in the oven along with the corn.

Within minutes the kitchen was wonderfully fragrant with roasting rosemary and corn husk. I never knew roasted corn husk smelled so good!

While those were cooking I scooped the flesh out of an avocado and mashed it with the back of a spoon. I added the zest and juice of half a lime, a hearty shaking of chili powder and a good grinding of sea salt to make chili-lime guacamole. Then I prepared the salad: 2 bowls of mixed greens with sliced strawberries.

After half an hour I removed the corn and the peaches. The peaches were laid on the beds of greens and the salads were lightly dressed with a mixture of balsamic vinegar, olive oil, lime juice, salt and pepper. I stripped the husks to the cobs of the corn and twisted them into handles, then placed them on plates beside hearty dollops of guacamole.

It was a fantastic meal. "I can really taste the lime in this guacamole," said Monte, as he spread more on his corn.

"I can't believe the taste of these peaches!" I exclaimed, raving over my own food. "The rosemary is amazing! I think this is best salad I've ever had!"

"It's such summer food," agreed Monte. "So fresh. This is the kind of meal you want to eat outside."

"I know!" I said. "That's exactly what I was thinking during my walk home from the grocery store. I wanted to make a summer meal that was perfect for eating outside."

"You did it," he said. "It is the perfect outdoor summer meal."

I beamed.

Then he said, "It's too bad we're sitting on the floor of our living room, eating off the coffee table."

Ah, well.

Monday, June 15, 2009

One of these mornin's

My friend Mindy emailed me a link to this YouTube video. "You would be great doing this song," she wrote. I clicked on the video with interest.



I am impressed, first of all, by the sheer length of this song. And if you can make it through to the 3rd or 4th verse, you too might be impressed by the variety of foods that this couple has eaten for breakfast. But you may be disappointed in the last verse, which repeats a few items.

Thank you Mindy. I'm going to work on shortening this piece for radio play.

Monday, June 1, 2009

Reflections

I have a confession. Sometimes I squander time.

I did it today. I squandered time. I think I even killed some of it.

Now, I respect time. It wasn't long ago that I longed for more time. Stuck at my desk for 8 hours a day, I daydreamed about free time. I thought wistfully of all the things I could create with my spare hours.

And now that I have hours to spare, I do make use of them. Sometimes I write, churning out songs or ideas. Sometimes I brainstorm and plan. Sometimes I, ahem, run marathons.

And sometimes I sit in my jammies and watch movie trailers on the internet.

It depends on the day.

My life is a funny series of highs and lows right now. It is not uncommon for me to have an amazing day followed by a depressing one, or the other way around. I don't believe I'm a person who's generally prone to depression, but without the stability of a daily job, it's easy for me to lose my footing. Today, I'm a little bit wrong-footed.

It's okay though. Tomorrow will likely be better.

My mom once told me that the tough times in life are actually the growing times. It's when you're breathing easy that you're coasting. That made a lot of sense to me, and it helps now to remember it. Even on a low day, I can look back and be proud of my accomplishments this year.

I remember being on BART one evening, racing from my job to choir rehearsal, sweaty and rumpled and running late. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the darkened window: a young woman with her pants legs rolled up, pinned into a seat by her bicycle, knitting balanced on her knees. Scratches on her legs and helmet head, singing softly under the roar of the train.

I thought: She looks like an interesting person.

And then I felt pleased, pleased that she was me.

Sometimes looking ahead is daunting. Sometimes, just being in the moment is exhausting. I'm not sure where I'm headed or what I'm doing half the time.

But when I look in the mirror, there's an interesting person looking back at me.

She's still in her pajamas, but what the hell.