A golden event

My dad turned 50 yesterday. To celebrate the occasion, my mom, sister and I, took him to dinner at Le Cheval, a French/Vietnamese restaurant in downtown Oakland to get some braised quail, bad service and terrific coconut snapper. After dinner, the four of us had tickets for Mark Hummel's Blues Harmonica Blow Out at Yoshi's jazz club in Jack London Square.

Part of the blow out were John Mayall, the godfather of British blues and rock (Eric Clapton got his start in Mayall's band); Kenny Neal, a young kid (51) from Baton Rouge; Fingers Taylor, my favorite nickname of the night; and Lazy Lester, a tall old black guy with huge hands who must have been 70.

The venue is small, only about 120 seats, the music was great, and the drinks well made. The house band, the Blues Survivors, could jam with all the legends like they've known each other and been playing with each other for decades, which they probably have.

The late set started at 10 and went a half hour longer than the early show so that when we walked toward our car it was past midnight and the rain had stopped but left the deserted streets wet and shiny in the lights. There was no singing of "Happy Birthday," and no cake. The evening was far too classy for that.

Today I woke up to a call from the bounce-house guy, asking if we still wanted it if it started to rain. Of course we did, so he'd be by in the next few hours.

A few days ago I told my friend this weekend was my dad's birthday. She asked if we were having a party and I said no, he didn't want one. But we're still getting the bounce house, I told her. She didn't ask if I was serious, or what I meant by that. She knew. She just said, "The Dillons are a hoot."

When the bounce-house guy got here, we sent him around back and showed him where to set up. As the Monkey House was filling up with air, my mom ran in to call my dad out. At first, he thought it was ridiculous. He'd wanted to get one on Thanksgiving because it was my little cousin's birthday but didn't because she wasn't coming over until later in the day. Ever since then (apparently at least, I was in Europe so I don't really know further back than a month ago) he's been talking about it. "Saw another bounce house today. Looks like fun," he'd say randomly.

But as soon as the guy left and we got in it, he couldn't stop laughing.


We did choreographed flips, tried to not knock each other over, sweat a lot, laughed and bounced. It's how all 50th celebrations should be, and in two years, my mom's will no doubt be incredibly similar. In 25 years, I'll do some kind of futuristic version of today. Like rocket packs or moon boots that don't suck like those Moon Boots from the 70s.