The Curtain Call Performing Arts Academy—or, as I think of it, Noah Darling’s Stairway to Stardom—is located in Corona, California, about 50 minutes from the office and about 25 minutes from home. This is Southern California, after all, where everything is an hour’s drive from everything else, and where no one you work with lives anywhere near you, and where no one you live by works anywhere near you either.
So I left work a little early on Monday in order to be at this Juilliard of the West in plenty of time for my first class, “Introduction to Singing, Ages 18 and Up.”
The teacher, “Miss Jessica,” was still finishing up her previous class (“Pop Idols, Ages Six to Nine,” I think) when I arrived, so I cooled my heels in the lobby and picked up a copy of Reader’s Digest.
I was a little nervous. No, not about Reader’s Digest—although honestly, when does anyone ever read that magazine except while waiting to have something poked, probed, examined or extracted? I was nervous about taking this class. But, I reasoned, how many people could I really be about to embarrass myself in front of? This was the academy’s first day in business! Yes, it appeared that all of the faculty seemed already to have students, perhaps from their prior careers as private teachers, but still—how big a class could this possibly be?
The Reader’s Digest no longer has its index on the back cover, and I was deep in contemplation of that when I heard a female voice aimed squarely in my direction, saying, “Hi, neighbor!”
I looked up, and who should be standing there but Donna E.—the vice president of our homeowners’ association. Yes, our homeowners’ association, for our housing development, which is not there in Corona but is 25 minutes away, in the Greater Unincorporated Riverside/Rubidoux/Pedley/Glen Avon Metroplex.
Our first duet was a chorus of “What Are You Doing Here?” It goes like this:
What are you doing here?
I’m taking a class.
Which old class?
The singing class.
How do you know Noah?
My daughter’s been his student for years.
How do you know Noah?
He sings karaoke at the bar for queers.
So, Donna was not just there to pick her daughter up from “Tapping for Toddlers, Ages Three to Five”—she was there to take the exact same class I had signed up for.
By this time, the other students had begun to assemble in the lobby. It was evident that they all knew one another, and we all knew Donna. It turns out that she is not only the vice president on the board of the Sunset Ridge Homeowners’ Association—she’s also the treasurer on the board of Noah Darling’s Stairway to Stardom. When it comes to winning elective office, Hillary Clinton could learn a thing or two from this woman.
Despite my tenuous connections to both Noah and Donna—I’ve met both of them maybe half a dozen times—I was starting to feel distinctly out of place. The whole place had a whiff of “Desperate Housewives” about it. And to think, now it could become a topic of casual conversation at the next homeowners’ association meeting.
Well, we all—six of us, three men, three women—shuffled into Miss Jessica’s classroom at that point, there to begin our first lesson. Miss Jessica had written a workbook for us, which she distributed, and then she sat at her Casio keyboard and read it aloud to us.
We started with breathing techniques. It turns out that when you breathe for singing, your ribcage is supposed to expand. You mean, you want me to look even fatter?
Soon, though, she had us on our feet to do bending and stretching exercises, which might burn some calories and compensate for the wider waistband, and not long after we were doing vocalises up and down the scale:
Ng-ahh, ng-ahh, ng-ahh, ng-ahh
Loo-loo-loo-loo-loo-loo-loo-loo-loo
Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrb!
“Desperate Housewives,” hell. This was more like “The Ding-Dong School.”
Actually, the hour flew by, and although I don’t think I really learned anything, I think I will, in coming weeks.
Back in the lobby, there was Donna’s husband, Angel, who was as surprised to see me as I had been to see his wife an hour earlier. He was there to pick up Madison, their daughter, who’d been in the monitored playroom while her mother was bending over going “Ng-ahh, ng-ahh, ng-ahh!”
And why wouldn’t Donna be taking Madison home herself? That became clear from the conversation going on behind me—the other students talking with Noah. It seems that Donna would be joining everyone for Karaoke Night
“Chip, are you going?” asked someone—Donna or Noah, who knows.
“Where?”
“To karaoke at the Menagerie? We’re all going!”
No, no, no, no, no!
I’ve always tried to lead a nice, compartmentalized life. I’ve got my work life, I’ve got my karaoke life, I’ve got my family life, all in neat and discrete little boxes. The first time this happened—when Jaime, the karaoke host at the time, introduced me to his new girlfriend, whom I knew from the human resources department at work—I thought my head would explode. How does this person I know from one context suddenly know all of my friends in this completely different context?
Now I won’t be able to go to a homeowners’ association meeting without the feeling that the neighbors now know how badly I sing. Now I won’t be able to go to karaoke without worrying that I’m going to be told to be sure to get my trash cans out by 6:00 on Tuesday morning.
When worlds collide—the sequel!
The gang from Noah Darling’s Stairway to Stardom didn’t show up for karaoke until about 9:30 that night. By that time I had been doing some vocalises that Miss Jessica hadn’t covered in class, mostly involving Michelob Ultra and shots of Jack Daniel’s.
When it was my turn to sing again, I thought, Why play coy? This is my bar, dammit; I’ve been singing in here on Monday nights for 15 years and I’m not about to start singing crap like “Desperado” and “Tequila” because I think it will increase my cool quotient. You’re on my turf, now, bitch! I’m the vice-president, treasurer and chairman of the board of this association!
So in honor of Monday being the first day of (at least temporarily) legal gay marriage in California, I belted out “I Am What I Am,” and I couldn’t tell you if my ribcage expanded or not and I don’t care! Take that!
And then I left.
Singing class is exhausting.
So I left work a little early on Monday in order to be at this Juilliard of the West in plenty of time for my first class, “Introduction to Singing, Ages 18 and Up.”
The teacher, “Miss Jessica,” was still finishing up her previous class (“Pop Idols, Ages Six to Nine,” I think) when I arrived, so I cooled my heels in the lobby and picked up a copy of Reader’s Digest.
I was a little nervous. No, not about Reader’s Digest—although honestly, when does anyone ever read that magazine except while waiting to have something poked, probed, examined or extracted? I was nervous about taking this class. But, I reasoned, how many people could I really be about to embarrass myself in front of? This was the academy’s first day in business! Yes, it appeared that all of the faculty seemed already to have students, perhaps from their prior careers as private teachers, but still—how big a class could this possibly be?
The Reader’s Digest no longer has its index on the back cover, and I was deep in contemplation of that when I heard a female voice aimed squarely in my direction, saying, “Hi, neighbor!”
I looked up, and who should be standing there but Donna E.—the vice president of our homeowners’ association. Yes, our homeowners’ association, for our housing development, which is not there in Corona but is 25 minutes away, in the Greater Unincorporated Riverside/Rubidoux/Pedley/Glen Avon Metroplex.
Our first duet was a chorus of “What Are You Doing Here?” It goes like this:
What are you doing here?
I’m taking a class.
Which old class?
The singing class.
How do you know Noah?
My daughter’s been his student for years.
How do you know Noah?
He sings karaoke at the bar for queers.
So, Donna was not just there to pick her daughter up from “Tapping for Toddlers, Ages Three to Five”—she was there to take the exact same class I had signed up for.
By this time, the other students had begun to assemble in the lobby. It was evident that they all knew one another, and we all knew Donna. It turns out that she is not only the vice president on the board of the Sunset Ridge Homeowners’ Association—she’s also the treasurer on the board of Noah Darling’s Stairway to Stardom. When it comes to winning elective office, Hillary Clinton could learn a thing or two from this woman.
Despite my tenuous connections to both Noah and Donna—I’ve met both of them maybe half a dozen times—I was starting to feel distinctly out of place. The whole place had a whiff of “Desperate Housewives” about it. And to think, now it could become a topic of casual conversation at the next homeowners’ association meeting.
Well, we all—six of us, three men, three women—shuffled into Miss Jessica’s classroom at that point, there to begin our first lesson. Miss Jessica had written a workbook for us, which she distributed, and then she sat at her Casio keyboard and read it aloud to us.
We started with breathing techniques. It turns out that when you breathe for singing, your ribcage is supposed to expand. You mean, you want me to look even fatter?
Soon, though, she had us on our feet to do bending and stretching exercises, which might burn some calories and compensate for the wider waistband, and not long after we were doing vocalises up and down the scale:
Ng-ahh, ng-ahh, ng-ahh, ng-ahh
Loo-loo-loo-loo-loo-loo-loo-loo-loo
Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrb!
“Desperate Housewives,” hell. This was more like “The Ding-Dong School.”
Actually, the hour flew by, and although I don’t think I really learned anything, I think I will, in coming weeks.
Back in the lobby, there was Donna’s husband, Angel, who was as surprised to see me as I had been to see his wife an hour earlier. He was there to pick up Madison, their daughter, who’d been in the monitored playroom while her mother was bending over going “Ng-ahh, ng-ahh, ng-ahh!”
And why wouldn’t Donna be taking Madison home herself? That became clear from the conversation going on behind me—the other students talking with Noah. It seems that Donna would be joining everyone for Karaoke Night
“Chip, are you going?” asked someone—Donna or Noah, who knows.
“Where?”
“To karaoke at the Menagerie? We’re all going!”
No, no, no, no, no!
I’ve always tried to lead a nice, compartmentalized life. I’ve got my work life, I’ve got my karaoke life, I’ve got my family life, all in neat and discrete little boxes. The first time this happened—when Jaime, the karaoke host at the time, introduced me to his new girlfriend, whom I knew from the human resources department at work—I thought my head would explode. How does this person I know from one context suddenly know all of my friends in this completely different context?
Now I won’t be able to go to a homeowners’ association meeting without the feeling that the neighbors now know how badly I sing. Now I won’t be able to go to karaoke without worrying that I’m going to be told to be sure to get my trash cans out by 6:00 on Tuesday morning.
When worlds collide—the sequel!
The gang from Noah Darling’s Stairway to Stardom didn’t show up for karaoke until about 9:30 that night. By that time I had been doing some vocalises that Miss Jessica hadn’t covered in class, mostly involving Michelob Ultra and shots of Jack Daniel’s.
When it was my turn to sing again, I thought, Why play coy? This is my bar, dammit; I’ve been singing in here on Monday nights for 15 years and I’m not about to start singing crap like “Desperado” and “Tequila” because I think it will increase my cool quotient. You’re on my turf, now, bitch! I’m the vice-president, treasurer and chairman of the board of this association!
So in honor of Monday being the first day of (at least temporarily) legal gay marriage in California, I belted out “I Am What I Am,” and I couldn’t tell you if my ribcage expanded or not and I don’t care! Take that!
And then I left.
Singing class is exhausting.
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