A Beneficial Day

This little vignette isn't so much a kvetch as just kind of an amusing episode from my weekend. I guess I could try and shape it as some sort of complaint, but it didn't build up frustration inside me like other postings have. Oh well. It's my blog, right? Excuse the fuck outta me if I color outside the lines a little.

My friend Jonas, who lives in my building, asked if I wanted to go to a benefit concert of some sort today featuring a world music singer he apparently met one time. He said she comped him two tickets, which were ordinarily $30. I didn't have anything better to do, so off we went.

When we were in the car, Jonas told me the concert was being held at a house in Beverly Hills. This struck me as a little odd, but not unfathomable given some of the mansions in BH. "What's this a benefit concert for?" I asked. "I don't know, probably Haiti," he said.

But when we got to the address, it was a fairly normal sized house. The front door was closed, and there was no sign of any people anywhere. I thought we must have been at the wrong place...how could this be the venue for a concert?

A moment later an elderly couple walked up. Jonas asked them if they were going to the benefit concert. They said they were, and we let them ring the doorbell, then trailed them inside when another elderly woman opened the door. She introduced herself to us, which I quickly discovered would happen a lot over the next hour. We were then shown inside what I determined to be the Most Jewish House I Had Ever Seen.

Now, I've been in a lot of Jewish homes. Between my grandparents and all of their friends, I know what to expect when I walk into a Hebrew Home. This one took the cake. It was like a synagogue on steroids. Menorahs, statues of rabbis, framed torah portions on the wall...I mean, this place had mezuzahs hanging in every door of the house! I noted that had I not been a Jew myself, I would be about a hundred times more weirded out.

We were introduced to the owner of the house: a Jewish man in his 80's named Maurice, who at one point gripped me firmly by the elbow and ordered Jonas to take his hand out of his pocket. Then we were shown into a room where there was tea and a table with a buffet spread of fruit and pastries. There were probably about five other people in the house besides me and Jonas. I couldn't help but wonder: where the fuck was I?

Over the course of the next hour, people started trickling in. Most of them were over 60, and just about every single one of them introduced him- or herself to me. Apparently they were all related to the girl who was performing. It started to dawn on me that I had basically been duped into attending a glorified family function. Jonas was just as confused as I was; neither of us had anticipated this kind of a scene.

After an hour of mingling with geriatric Jews, drinking complimentary Diet Coke, and studying the labels of the bar mitzvah VHS home movies on the bookshelf, the 35 or so people at the "concert" were summoned into the living room, where folding chairs had been set up. The performer was introduced, and a pretty girl about my age came in and performed about 45 minutes of world music. In case you don't know, world music is basically Spanish vocal exercises set to classical guitar and hand drums. It was fine, but not really my cup of scotch, especially when she kept imploring everybody to get up and dance. It was an inappropriate demand, given both the venue and median age of her audience.

When she was done, this snotty gay guy got up to "say a few words" about the cause the show was put on for. He whined about independent artists not getting enough support from record companies (or something), then patted himself on the back for devoting his life to doing just that. Then he told everyone he understood that we had all paid $30 to see the show (except for Jonas and I), but any more money we could spare would greatly benefit this performer's burgeoning career. That was it.

"So wait," I said, turning to Jonas. "The benefit concert is just to benefit the artist?"

"I guess so," he said.

"Normally that's just called a concert," I said. We tried to slip out quickly, but ran into the performer herself on the way to the front door. I had to stand around awkwardly while Jonas exchanged tedious small talk with her. Then we made our getaway, following a girl out the front door, which I closed behind me.

"Oh great," the girl muttered. "You locked me out!" We turned around. Apparently, she had designs on going back inside. "Uh, I'm...sorry," I stammered. "We'll wait and make sure you get back in," Jonas offered.

"It's okay. I'll be fine," she sighed, ringing the doorbell.

"Are you sure?" I asked. Never before have I asked that question having been so positive that the person would be fine, as well caring so little if she actually would be.

"Yeah," she said. Jonas and I stared at her for a couple seconds longer, then shrugged, turned and walked off. It was a fitting end to a supremely awkward experience.