Tis the season...
The following is an article I wrote in 1998 (before I stopped cursing like a sailor). I was following a friend who was a studio musician to an "event" she and her friends did every year. Without apologies, here is what I gleaned from the experience....
Thanks TC for emailing it to me, I didn't have a copy! MEEEEeeeeeeerry Christmas!
.....Yes, virginia, there is an insanity claus....
by Jeanna Crawford
December 24, 1998. Deep in the city, the upper class meets the less fortunate. With sneers on their faces and songs in their hearts, they trudge onward to the Los Angeles Mission. They are the golden people of Los Angeles, the movers and the shakers -- film industry execs, actors, singers, record producers -- they've all made it in good ol' brutal L.A., and now they want to give back some of their holiday joy to the hungry and hopeless at the Los Angeles Mission annual Christmas dinner for the homeless.
I, being an industry professional myself, am part of this group. It sounded like a nice idea, and I volunteered readily.
My friend and I walk towards the mission looking for the rest of the group. She's chatting on her cell phone as we arrive at our prescribed destination. Dressed in jeans and a nice shirt, I notice that I am the most underdressed of the entertainers. Women, bedecked in furs and velvet, arrive one after another in their SUV's, ready to cleanse their souls and purge the guilt that's built up over the last 364 days. They look forward to this event every year, dressing up for the homeless on this otherwise joyous occasion known as Christmas.
With a fluff of furs and a toss of hip hairstyles, we begin. We stand in the street caroling to the drab line of societal outcasts as they file in for their holiday meal. There's something surreal, not to mention disturbing, about singing, "Bring us some figgie pudding; we won't go until we get some," to people who don't even have, in the words of my grandmother, "a pot to piss in."
I stand next to the only other woman who dressed to not catch a mugger's attention. A middle-aged toothless man walks up to her and says, "Whachuuwit?"
The woman shrieks in terror. "I don't know what you're saying!" Her lip curls; her nostrils flare. She looks like a teacup monkey in the midst of shock therapy.
"Whachuuwit?" He repeats.
I try to explain to the paralyzed joy-bringer that the man is simply asking what church we're associated with. She maintains her panicked expression as I grab her by the arm and pull her back from the thin barrier that separates her reality from mine.
We return to our singing. In the middle of a chorus of "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer," the woman standing behind me taps me on the shoulder.
"Where did you get that jacket? My daughter is an aspiring country singer; she absolutely must have a jacket like that! It's so Indian."
The urge to bitch-slap this woman is overwhelming. I think better of pummeling this glorified stage mother into the urine-soaked asphalt, though in retrospect, I realize I should've taken her down.
Soon after this I notice that many of the choral's family members, brought along, I had reasoned, for moral support, were videotaping the event. First they would pan across the choir to capture our holiday cheer, then turn the cameras to the poor, wretched, lost souls, making sure to get close-ups on the lesser of the less fortunate. I'm sure this is going to be included in the family holiday update letters to those back in the tight-jawed states. I feel ill.
A round of "The Hanukkah Song" was greeted with the thought, yeah, they're sparking up those menorahs all over skid row tonight. We sing it anyway.
After singing on the makeshift outdoor stage, we're off to cheer the volunteer mission workers with our gift of song -- whether they want it or not. Nothing like a captive audience. Our bundle-o'-fun choir files into the cafeteria. The room, mostly unoccupied by now, contains rows of fiberglass tables. Waiting for more of an audience (the twenty kitchen workers, attempting to enjoy their break, just didn't seem adequate enough), most of the carolers decided to make themselves comfortable. The closest thing to the choir member's asses are the tabletops; so that's naturally where they choose to park their perky, recently liposuctioned butts. The wheel is spinning, but the hamster is dead, I think. I'm ecstatic when an employee of the L.A. Mission asks the revelers, "Please don't sit where we eat." It feels like a personal triumph.
Eventually, we're all relaxed enough to sing again. I'm tickled pink when we finally perform the most-requested song of the day -- the barnyard version of "Carol of the Bells." We sing this with a four-part harmony consisting of chickens, cats, dogs, and cows, much to the choir's disdain. It's degrading to this group of professionals, and it sends my heart soaring. The lower class knows what this group is about, and they know how to save face. "You may sing to us about a partridges in pear trees, but we'll make you cluck like a cornish game hen in heat."
As we are leaving, it's hard to tell whether the crowd is applauding our performance or our departure. Somehow, my guess is the latter.
Thanks TC for emailing it to me, I didn't have a copy! MEEEEeeeeeeerry Christmas!
.....Yes, virginia, there is an insanity claus....
by Jeanna Crawford
December 24, 1998. Deep in the city, the upper class meets the less fortunate. With sneers on their faces and songs in their hearts, they trudge onward to the Los Angeles Mission. They are the golden people of Los Angeles, the movers and the shakers -- film industry execs, actors, singers, record producers -- they've all made it in good ol' brutal L.A., and now they want to give back some of their holiday joy to the hungry and hopeless at the Los Angeles Mission annual Christmas dinner for the homeless.
I, being an industry professional myself, am part of this group. It sounded like a nice idea, and I volunteered readily.
My friend and I walk towards the mission looking for the rest of the group. She's chatting on her cell phone as we arrive at our prescribed destination. Dressed in jeans and a nice shirt, I notice that I am the most underdressed of the entertainers. Women, bedecked in furs and velvet, arrive one after another in their SUV's, ready to cleanse their souls and purge the guilt that's built up over the last 364 days. They look forward to this event every year, dressing up for the homeless on this otherwise joyous occasion known as Christmas.
With a fluff of furs and a toss of hip hairstyles, we begin. We stand in the street caroling to the drab line of societal outcasts as they file in for their holiday meal. There's something surreal, not to mention disturbing, about singing, "Bring us some figgie pudding; we won't go until we get some," to people who don't even have, in the words of my grandmother, "a pot to piss in."
I stand next to the only other woman who dressed to not catch a mugger's attention. A middle-aged toothless man walks up to her and says, "Whachuuwit?"
The woman shrieks in terror. "I don't know what you're saying!" Her lip curls; her nostrils flare. She looks like a teacup monkey in the midst of shock therapy.
"Whachuuwit?" He repeats.
I try to explain to the paralyzed joy-bringer that the man is simply asking what church we're associated with. She maintains her panicked expression as I grab her by the arm and pull her back from the thin barrier that separates her reality from mine.
We return to our singing. In the middle of a chorus of "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer," the woman standing behind me taps me on the shoulder.
"Where did you get that jacket? My daughter is an aspiring country singer; she absolutely must have a jacket like that! It's so Indian."
The urge to bitch-slap this woman is overwhelming. I think better of pummeling this glorified stage mother into the urine-soaked asphalt, though in retrospect, I realize I should've taken her down.
Soon after this I notice that many of the choral's family members, brought along, I had reasoned, for moral support, were videotaping the event. First they would pan across the choir to capture our holiday cheer, then turn the cameras to the poor, wretched, lost souls, making sure to get close-ups on the lesser of the less fortunate. I'm sure this is going to be included in the family holiday update letters to those back in the tight-jawed states. I feel ill.
A round of "The Hanukkah Song" was greeted with the thought, yeah, they're sparking up those menorahs all over skid row tonight. We sing it anyway.
After singing on the makeshift outdoor stage, we're off to cheer the volunteer mission workers with our gift of song -- whether they want it or not. Nothing like a captive audience. Our bundle-o'-fun choir files into the cafeteria. The room, mostly unoccupied by now, contains rows of fiberglass tables. Waiting for more of an audience (the twenty kitchen workers, attempting to enjoy their break, just didn't seem adequate enough), most of the carolers decided to make themselves comfortable. The closest thing to the choir member's asses are the tabletops; so that's naturally where they choose to park their perky, recently liposuctioned butts. The wheel is spinning, but the hamster is dead, I think. I'm ecstatic when an employee of the L.A. Mission asks the revelers, "Please don't sit where we eat." It feels like a personal triumph.
Eventually, we're all relaxed enough to sing again. I'm tickled pink when we finally perform the most-requested song of the day -- the barnyard version of "Carol of the Bells." We sing this with a four-part harmony consisting of chickens, cats, dogs, and cows, much to the choir's disdain. It's degrading to this group of professionals, and it sends my heart soaring. The lower class knows what this group is about, and they know how to save face. "You may sing to us about a partridges in pear trees, but we'll make you cluck like a cornish game hen in heat."
As we are leaving, it's hard to tell whether the crowd is applauding our performance or our departure. Somehow, my guess is the latter.
posted by Earl at 12:38 PM
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