Lent

2/21/1997

What are you giving up for Lent?”

It was a strange question.  One I hadn’t heard since my childhood.  Stranger still was from whence it came.

Her name was Lola…she was a dancer.

Okay.  Her name wasn’t Lola.  And although she worked at an exotic dance club called the Pink Pussycat, she insisted that she wasn’t a dancer.  In her own description, she was a teller of tales…a spinner of sagas…a filler of fantasies.

Whatever.

I have seen her work and you can trust me on this one:  She is a storyteller of epic proportions.

I woke up rough that morning.  My mouth felt as if it had been stuffed with dusty cotton…lips pasted together with that white glue that mysteriously appears in the middle of the night…a swollen tongue that tasted like the bottom of an ashtray in a Peterbilt cab after a coast-to-coast run.

Ashtray…how apropos.  It was the day after Fat Tuesday.  Ash Wednesday.

Now, Fat Tuesday had merely been the strawberry on the sundae of a month of total and complete debauchery.  The 30 days of celebration, culminating with Mardi Gras, that directly precedes Lent can only be fully understood by a good Catholic, preferably from the South.  Although what a good Catholic gives up for Lent is what it’s all about, somewhere along the way, the degree to which one parties preceding the loss of a particularly evil sinful act makes the season of Lent all the more important.

I had, however, one problem.  I was neither good nor Catholic.  But I am a true son of the South and I certainly know how to party.  The fact that this particular party happened to coincide with the period just before Lent was strictly coincidental.

But I was game.  Besides, she had asked.  It was, indeed, the only thing she had asked of me since we had met.  And I felt I owed her an answer.  Particularly since I had asked a good bit more from her.  And she had given.  Happily.  Without hesitation.  With vigor.

“Have you ever been to New Orleans?”  I answered her question with one of my own.

“What has that got to do with Lent?”

Hmm.  She was not going to be easily put off.

“They’re real good about giving things up down there,” I said, finally giving her an answer.  Kind of.

“Tell me about it.”

“There’s a Gavin Convention going on,” I said, trying to sound excited.  “A bunch of radio and record people will be running through the French Quarter at all hours of the night.”

She popped her gum loudly.  “And?”

“And there will be a bunch of panels.”

She leaned back and blew the hair out of her eyes. “Panels?”

“Yeah,” I nodded.  “Different people will sit and discuss different topics for what seems like hours.  The audience will nod off…those who don’t leave…and after each is over, everyone will tell everyone else how boring everything is.”

She closed her eyes.  “I hate this Gavin Convention.”

“There will be some bands playing,” I tried weakly.

I thought I heard a snore.

“Of course,” I stammered, “we could drive to Palm Springs.”

She was in the car before I could find my toothbrush.

Ordinarily, Palm Springs is rather ordinary.  This weekend would prove way different.  Ordinarily, it takes between two and two-and-a-half hours to drive to Palm Springs.  This day we made it in 90 minutes.  Ordinarily, there isn’t a lot to do.  However, this weekend, Palm Springs was the home of the Urban Network Convention.  Ordinarily, Palm Springs is a sleepy little town filled with a lot of old Cadillacs driven by people with blue hair.  This weekend, the place rocked.

From the opening invocation to the Old School party that closed down the house, the Urban Network Convention was the place to be.

For those of you who don’t know, Urban Network is a sister publication of Network 40 and their annual convention rocks the party that rocks the party.

Here was a gathering of radio and record people who were truly happy to be sharing time, space and information with each other…where kinder garden and Old School combined curriculum…where programmers listened intently while record executives outlined their problems…where record executives listened to the problems outlined by programmers…where retailers explained the truth of sales vs. programming.

And the music…only one word describes it…WOW!

From Spearhead, Mozaic, K-Ball, Teddy with Immature, Rahsaan Patterson, Tasha Holiday and Eric Benet to Tisha Campbell and Tichina Arnold, it was nothing short of fantastic.  But the best was saved for last.  For those who believe Elektra’s Sylvia Rhone has the best ears in the business, let me give you just one more example:  Ray J. This 16-year-old younger brother of Brandy is going to be a star.  With his sister singing backup, Ray J brought down the house Saturday night.

Sunday morning, the question was still unanswered.

“Well,” she asked while balancing an ankle on my hip, “have you decided what you’re giving up for Lent?”

I studied the perfect leg through half-closed eyes.  It certainly wasn’t going to be her.  “Absolutely.”

She sat up quickly.  “What?”

“The Gavin Convention.”

She threw her arms around me and squealed, “I’m so glad you see it my way.”

It was an easy call.