better than fiction

Time for a little revamping... I know it's been a while. But that's usually how I am, takes a little bit before something sticks. (I mean, I'd started like five journals before I actually kept one going, writing everyday.) But this one's gonna stick. I promise. So I was thinking about what makes me happy. What are my passions. I love to eat... I go out to eat all the time... love trying new things and learning new things from tabblehopper or chowhound or gayot.... Food! I love food. And I'm always listening to my ipod, checking out track50 for the next show or pitchfork for the next big thing.... Music! I love music. And there you have it.

So last Friday, the 23rd, me and my friends had an impromptu concert outing. It was my last night in LA and, somehow, I still hadn't seen one of my best friends. Well, her mom had arranged tickets for us to see a group by the name of Fiction Plane. Yeah, I'd never heard of them either. But, they were discribed to me as this UK rock band, more specifically-- an up-and-coming group led by Sting's son. Yeah, Sting! Now I'm not this super Sting fanatic, but still, he is a major cultural icon in the music scene and I can appreciate his music and that voice. His son definitely follows in his father's footsteps with the same fluid, powerful voice. He even sort of looks like him. But at the same time, he held his own.

After somewhat of a scene outside the Viper Room (you know LA, velvet ropes and guest lists) we get inside to what is a packed house. We inch our way through, little by little, until we find some room to breathe. I'm standing there, finally have some space to move my arms, turn my head from side to side to look around-- check out the crowd. I look to my right and I see all the well-dressed 20-somethings squeezing in through the doors, making their way to the bar.... I look forward and I see a foggy, dimly lit stage at the end of a pretty eclectic sea of people ranging from 20s to 60s, converse to support shoes.... I look to my left, and I see... oh... Hi, Sting.

I'm literally rubbing elbows with Sting. (I mean, there was no where else for my elbows to go). Huh, he's pretty tall. Where's the wife? Cool jacket. I wonder if he helped the band during rehearsals and if-- the crowd starts to cheer and my attention is quickly diverted to the front as the three skinny guys walk on stage for their big show. They pick up their guitars, get themselves situated. I observe Sting, as he morphs into a regular, proud papa, standing on his toes, waving his arms about to make sure his son can see that he is there. Aw, how sweet. Then, Fiction Plane starts their opening number and I forget that I'm standing next to one of the most famous musician in the world. Admittedly, I wasn't that into the band at first. The song didn't grab me. But by their second number, I was jamming. I was into it. And Sting's son (I'm sure he has a name) was working the crowd. Guitar solos. A trucker hat that said Fuck. Hands clapping. Eventually, I made my way closer to the stage (Good bye, Sting) and rocked out to Fiction Plane on this random Friday night.

When the show was over, there was a mad rush to leave. Maybe there was some hot afterparty that I didn't know about. So it took a while to inch our way to the exit, too. In fact, at first I couldn't move and was stuck by this non-descript door, when out came the bassist of the band. I told him the band was really great and I enjoyed the show. He insincerely (maybe he was tired) thanked me and moved on. Finally, we reach the door and oh, what do you know... look who's next to me again. Only this time, it was him, his wife, and a hundred lights flashing from the paparazzi and some guy with a video camera all up in our faces. Two seconds later we're spit out on the sidewalk of Sunset Blvd. And that was that.