3.1 phillip lim, 631 N. Robertson, W.H. CA 90069

As much as anyone else, I like to think I am a good sport when it comes to after-dinner parlor games; I tend to throw myself into almost anything, from the athletic Pop Art gymnastics of Twister to the more intellectually challenging dexterity of Mah Jong -- a favorite back in my University of Chicago days.  And although I admit a partiality to board games in general, as in Monopoly or Clue or Go To The Head of the Class, I recognize there's nothing wrong with the occasional hand of cards.  My grandmother taught me Canasta to keep her company when I was quite small, and eventually my siblings included me in their more cutthroat evenings of Hearts.  I have, in other words, run the gamut of fun.  

And so, although I had never played Celebrity before, given my deeply felt need to please, a generally good nature and healthy if unacknowledged competitive streak, I decided to cast aside any trepidation and jump right in.    

At face value, Celebrity is simplicity itself: names of famous individuals, written on slips of paper and put in a bowl, are drawn at random, the point being to encourage one's teammates with various hints to guess the identity of your selection, with increasingly limited ways in which one can do so, until the final round when one is reduced to the (by definition) wordless and dramatic art of Mime.

Of course in L.A. one's circle of friends is especially diverse.  We've all come here from somewhere else, from everywhere in fact and for all sorts of reasons, with all manner of hopes and dreams and ambitions and yet, curiously it seems, we are frequently the sort of people who normally would not mix.  And so, irony of ironies, here we are, drawn together by fate or destiny or the good weather, or by virtue of some common project or endeavor or hobby or predilection or taste, forced to mingle and be nice.  In just this way does a local pub or bar or watering hole host a nightly impromptu democracy in which every man sets aside class and background and drinks himself into the arms (if not bed) of new-found comrades; in like fashion does a film set temporarily unite a colorful cross-section of society, from lofty financier to lowly grip, from Harvard Lampoon contributor turned producer to Midwestern trailer-park beauty turned waitress turned agent's girlfriend turned series regular with a house in the hills turned former cast member of a cancelled series turned waitress again.  You get the picture.  In short, we are a motley crew of many tastes and leanings with wildly divergent viewing and reading and listening habits.

"No names of obscure fashion designers," our host announces somewhat needlessly I think, as we write out our contributions on little slips of paper, and then I notice how he tips his head in the direction of his boyfriend.  I surmise he is referencing a previous game gone horribly awry.

"Hello, Phillip is totally famous," says the object of his affection in a tone of petulant defense, and several other guests nod in agreement.

"Okay, but if someone, like, challenges the name?" the host replies.  "And there are not at least three people who know who it is?  Then the name is disqualified. "

He gives us all a warning look.  "And you can't do 'sounds like' either," he adds.

A chorus of objections, to which he quickly corrects himself.  "I mean, no 'short for.'  Like, 'short for William' or 'short for Margaret.'"

A scattering of "No fair" and "Not how we played at Raymond's" but he stands firm and ends further objections or potential mutiny by threatening to withhold the red velvet cupcakes from Milk.  Abrupt obedience ensues.

The first name I draw is E.F. Benson.  An easy one, I think with a sigh of relief.

"He wrote the Mapp and Lucia books," I tell my team, who stare at me blankly. 

"He lived in Lamb House," I add.  "But it's not Henry James or Rumer Godden," I continue with a chuckle. 

Nothing.

"I move to disqualify," a team member announces.  To my surprise, everyone in the room agrees.  I object.   The host demands the offending slip of paper.

"Who knows who this Benson person is?" the host inquires of his other guests  I raise my hand.  So does a timid fellow in the corner, the friend of a friend of a friend who shrinks visibly as eyes are turned on him.  Presumably he is the individual who put the name in the bowl.  We are outnumbered.  I notice he leaves shortly thereafter, pleading a headache. 

"Oh but for heaven's sake," I say in a final desperate plea, "Benson wrote The Challoners in 1904," as though this final clue should jog their collective memories.  In reply, a sudden chill in the air; an uncomfortable silence. 

"Draw again," the host commands.  Reluctantly I obey.  The name on the slip of paper is "Flo Rida."  My team looks at me expectantly, their optimism slowly turning ugly as I stumble.  I have no idea if this is a real person or a joke.  Consequently, if not inevitably, I let them down.  Several rounds later I learn that Flo Rida is a famous rapper.  Really.

At a later stage in the game and in a fashion akin to that proverbial straw on the humped back of one discouraged and beaten old dromedary I draw a name so alien, so foreign I don't know where to even begin.  By this point I have lost all objectivity and patience.  I can't go on.  I feel stupid and uninformed, old and out of it, un-hip, un-savvy, un-with-it.  I have failed miserably at teen pop stars, television actors of the 70s and 80s, rappers and Vegas performers and Telemundo news anchors.  "It's not fair," I complain in a pathetic whine, turning to my host.  "You said no obscure designers," I protest, handing him the offending slip of paper.  He reads the name and asks for a show of hands of those who know who it is.

Seven out of ten hands rise up to accuse me.  My humiliation is complete.

"The new musical director of the L.A. Philharmonic," a team-mate leans over and whispers.  "From Venezuela.  26 years old."  

Gustavo Dudamel.