Chapter 47: I'll never have that recipe again

Last night, Spooney and I ventured out of the house long enough to take in Everest at The Echo, a club in LA’s Echo Park neighborhood. Every time I drive by Echo Park, that MacArthur Park song pops in my head, because, well, I don’t know why. The parks kinda look similar to me.

It’s a terrible song to have in your head. Especially when it’s the Richard Harris version.

The Richard Harris version of MacArthur Park. Was there ever a bigger WTF? in the history of recorded music, like, ever?

I can’t believe the internets are letting me down by not giving me a video of Harris performing this song. And no, YouTube, Donna Summer is NOT going to suffice.

Here’s some dude lip synching to Harris’s version, followed by some of worst dancing ever committed in go-go boots:

You’re welcome.

Anyway, so…Jesus, where the fuck was I going with this?

Ah yes, Everest. Fronted by Russ Pollard, husband of Watson Twin Chandra. The band recently played Sundance, where they were pronounced “the real deal” by Neil Young, who has signed them to his label, Vapor Records.

They’re fantastic. You can definitely hear some vintage influences, and yet their music sounds totally modern and surprising.

I predict they’re going to be huge. And I’m not the only one.

Plus, on the way into the club, this sexy big black bouncer dude with a total Barry White voice asked me for my ID. He took it, looked at the picture, looked at me, and ran it through his hand-held scanner. When my age popped up on his screen, he looked back at me with a look of mild astonishment. Then, he smiled at me and said “Superb.”

It was a well-timed compliment. Because. Aw, Christ.

Today’s my birthday, okay? And I’m forty fucking seven, which seems like a hair’s breath from 50, and 50 is my total fucking freakout age, okay?

Okay.

But for now, as long as I can still compare favorably to a llama…

I’m cool, right?