Long time ago I went to a few piano recitals for an embarrassingly non-musical reason. One of my musician friends had the idea that if the pianist is a young and handsome guy, the concert hall will be packed with “hot babes” ready to be picked up during the intermission. I thought the idea was worth a try, so we went to hear the perpetually sulking (and still young) Ivo Pogorelich at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion in Downtown Los Angeles.
If any hot babes had plans to attend that concert, they all must have gotten stuck in traffic somewhere on LA freeways. We did, however, get into a conversation with two girls who were pretty but not too bright (and neither were we, for that matter). Not suprisingly the conversation quickly devolved to the stereotypical Californian subjects of meditation, spirituality, and (finally) reincarnation. At which point I blurted out that I wanted to come back as Ofra Harnoy’s cello. I don’t know how far the girls had digested the nature of my spiritual longing, but they just kept staring at me in stony silence as if I were Chester the Molester himself. And that was the end of my dating prospects for that evening.
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