Christmas Concert

I spent a very enjoyable evening with one Ms. Melissa Don't-Call-Me-Missy Ng tonight. She called me a couple of weeks ago and invited me to accompany her to her work’s Christmas party, which she (rightly) feared would render her hopelessly bored, unless she were inclined to drink enough alcohol to induce an inebriation sufficient to erase all awareness of space, time, and the idle prattle that passes for conversation among her coworkers. Not given to drunkenness, Melissa’s only options were to decline the invitation (bad form for her first holiday party at the new law firm), or to bring a guest; misery loves company.

Actually, I had (without the assistance of liquor) a very good time. JT and Melissa's Day-of-Fun began with a drive to the Grace Community Church Christmas concert. That traffic was abysmal (which, early on a Saturday afternoon, was surprising even in L.A.) turned out to be a blessing, as it allowed Melissa and me a chance to acquaint one another with our lives since last we talked. Although I attended Grace Church for the better part of six years, this was the first Christmas concert of theirs I witnessed; after its conclusion, I quite regretted never having partaken of it before.

The aforementioned traffic rendered us about 30 minutes late, so despite Melissa's having procured tickets, we were relegated to seats against the back wall of a sanctuary that seats about 5,000 people (i.e. we were far from the stage.) Fortunately, the Christmas concert excels at glorifying and celebrating the birth of Christ aurally rather than visually, so it was no prodigious loss to behold the choir and soloists from so great a distance. In addition to Kory Welsh, the church's superstar larynx on legs, there was new male vocalist this year, Chris Ebner.

When singing his solo, Chris Ebner had a barely detectable audio resemblance to Rascal Flatts; I think it's a very faint nasal nudge he gives to certain words beginning with "H" or the short "O" sound. Whatever it was, Melissa and I were mutually astounded by his performance. His singing would have engendered a deep envy among the angels themselves, were the angelic host capable of that sin. Rich and full, his voice could one moment charge the room with energy, and lull the audience toward a placid slumber the next. His was not simply the gift of a beautiful voice; the vocal dexterity and complex modulations that slid past five, six, then seven notes declared that he was trained in his art. After the song, Melissa and I turned to one another and smiled--a silent comment affirming a simple message: "He can sing."

As there were a few hours between the end of one engagement and the beginning of the next, we drove to Beverly Hills to walk around and look at the shops. The city had dressed itself in a manner befitting its zip code; lights (neither too gawdy, nor too cheap) decked the streets to celebrate Christmas in a most ironic way. The lowly Christ child was born in a manger, among cattle and sheep, then wrapped in swaddling clothes, and lo: here was Rodeo Drive adorned in electric lights, her curbs lined with Jaguars (the cars, not the cats).

Then on to the Christmas party. Melissa went to the welcome table and picked up our nametags. She exchanged a few words with the hostess (a secretary, upon whose shoulders the arrangment of the annual event fell), and returned to me with my tag. I asked her what the hostess had told her. "She said we're free to eat and drink as much as we like, until we fall down drunk. This sounds like our kind of party," Melissa said as she rolled her eyes. She suggested that we stay 15 minutes, which was about all she felt capable of tolerating, but just long enough to say that she had, in fact, attended the party.

I ran into my old professor, Professor Johnson-Haddad, whom I had for "The poems and early plays of Shakespeare". She was a marvelous professor who did all she could to incorporate movie versions of the plays into our curriculum; she subscribes (as do I) to the notion that the plays were meant to be appreciated visually and aurally. Reading them is often as good as reading a screenplay; sure it might be entertaining, but it was designed to be viewed in a theater, not on a page. I told her I am applying to gradaute schools in English literature, and confessed my apprehension about the job market for professors. She confided that she (by choice) was not teaching currently, and assured me that the best and brightest professors are always able to find work. It turns out Professor Johnson-Haddad is married to one of the associates at Melissa's law firm.

That was the highlight of the Christmas party, as far as I was concerned. We spoke briefly to a lively and engaging attorney with whom Melissa works, and he mentioned something about "non G-rated letters" that he exchanged with his wife before they were married. Other than lots of San Pellegrino, delicious mushroom cups and steak skewers, not much else was very memorable.

We ended our date at BJs Restaurant, where we each had chili served in a hollowed out sour dough bowl. A very good evening. :)