True story! Last night Betty Buckley sang "Meadowlark" for me. Which was kind of a big deal, for me, because it's yet another one of those songs—sung by this very artist—that has deep personal meaning in a deeply personal way that for once I will not share with you. I gotta keep some of this shit up my sleeves to sell at later dates. But rest assured that my reputation as a public crier is solid as a rock.
Anyway, I have to think on the rest for a while, because I ended the night with champagne at 2:00 this morning, so just give this a listen and practice the ancient art of being patient while I go have brunch.
Brunch was actually lunch, and I ate it well. Four stars! But here's the rest of what I like to call The Story of Last Night:
1 dinner at Bistro Chat Noir, 1 SarahB, 2 handsome men, 2 bottles of pinot noir, 2 orders of escargot, 3 steaks, 1 scallops, 1 brussels sprouts, dessert dessert dessert, COFFEE! (I might be lying about the coffee, but sometimes the lie makes the story. Have you noticed that? Here we'll just consider it the grace note at the end of the line.)
Then we hustled five blocks south to the Regency, where the hostess at Feinstein's confirmed all my awful notions of the Upper East Side as a cold and not particularly inviting landscape for plebeians like us who don't seat people for a living. But the waiter mostly made up for it, and so did Seth Rudetsky, who stopped by our Official Michael Feinstein Banquette to pick up our song request forms and even suggested a song for Sarah to request, which was "Love Song" from "Pippin." And so later, when Betty Buckley picked that card and called out Sarah's name, Sarah was only telling the truth when she told Betty Buckley that Seth made her request that song from "Pippin." (Apology #2 is for that terrible sentence.) So Betty Buckley asked Sarah if she'd rather hear something else, and Sarah said, No, we're cool. And then Betty Buckley and Seth Rudetsky sang "Love Song" for Sarah.
And shortly after that is when Betty Buckley reached back into that same stack of cards and pulled out mine, on which I had written "Kari" from "Wisconsin!" and "Meadowlark!" with exactly those extraneous exclamation points. And then Betty Buckley sang "Meadowlark" for me. And it was only natural that sooner or later the part of me that was so happy on the inside would have to come spilling out, because that kind of joy—the joy that exists in that space between the voice and the ear and whatever that tuning fork is that's pitched when a piece of music speaks to you personally and specifically, in some weird and unknowable way—if you can't feel that, and express it while you're feeling it, and just let yourself be happy, then what is the point? "He to whom this emotion is a stranger," says Albert Einstein, "who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead: his eyes are closed." Readers! My eyes were open. And I WAS SO HAPPY.