House of Blues fantasy, if just for a moment

For well over a decade, I have wanted to go to the House of Blues in West Hollywood. A week ago, I went. My friend Tom got passes from a publicist friend of his, and we went to see her client perform.

For the life of me, I can't recall the name of the band--if I ever knew it. I really dislike hearing music in clubs as it's way too loud and I can never make out the vocals. This was also true of Rose Rossi's band. (I'm pretty sure that was name of the singer.)

I dutifully listened to the music, which would have been much improved at one-third the volume.

What most impressed me, however, about the House of Blues were the walls. They were covered in the kind of fabric you'd expect to see in some high-end hippie store in Berkeley--raw silk with mirrored bangles and crazy-quilt stitching. All the walls were so adorned--even those in the elevator. I wondered about their maintenance. Did a seamstress repair the walls every so often? How were spilled drinks cleaned from the surface, and what if the liquid soaked deep into the fabric? Did the seamstress ever have to add patches in places where some knife-wielding drunk had fallen? Fascinating.

Also fascinating were the alcoves where one could escape from the high decibels. These small, private rooms were outfitted like a sultan's bed chamber with sumptuous pillows, lavendar lighting, and statues of strange gods. And, of course, the walls were tapestried.

For the occasion, I was dressed in a sleek black silk shift given to me by my Canadian friend Helene, whose relative is a buyer for high-end shops and got this as a sample. As I stood and listened to the band, a young man handed me a rose. He was one of those guys who goes from venue to venue foisting his roses on unsuspecting men who then feel obligated to buy the flowers for their dates. As I did not have a date, I wondered why he was giving me a bloom. It was hard to hear his answer above the din, but eventually the man next to me shouted, "A rose from Rose." I didn't get it because, as previously stated, I did not know the name of the band or of the lead singer, at least until much later.

I figured he had had too much to drink and had meant to say, "A rose for a rose." That is, that I was so stunning in my black shift that some unknown man had graced me with a rose. That was a beautiful thought--as long as it lasted.

A few minutes later, the same young man who had handed me the rose laid a half dozen at the singer's feet. She then proceeded to throw them to the crowd, saying, "A rose from Rose."