When you meet The Buddha in Malibu. . .
First off, props to Shawn Carson for bringin’ the yang over the past couple of days. Love your comments and insight Shawn. Keep it comin’.
I’m in LA getting ready to head out to Vegas in an hour or so, to partake in the great American ritual of excess known as “Super Bowl Sunday.”
I started the journey off in the late but capable hands of Jane “Boobs McGee” Piper, who piloted her topless Miata to the edge of Santa Monica where we hung out with Richard Horowitz and Sussan Deyhim, two of my favorite people on the planet. When it comes to football, Richard doesn’t know pass interference from offsides, but it didn’t deter Oliver Stone from choosing him to score “On Any Given Sunday” which happened to be my pal Jane’s favorite sports movie of all time. He recounted the story of when he met Stone for the first time to discuss the gig and Oliver had just gottten popped for smoking hash oil in his car, down in the valley. Wihout much fanfare, Stone handed the duties over to Richard.
I have previously written about the two of them here in my interview with them back in 1998. But the readers digest version for those that are not aware of them is that they have one of the most respected and honored careers in the world music community. Sussan studied with The Beijart Acadamy as a teen, learning dance and music from some of the finest practitioners in the world at the height of Persian cultural renaissance during the reign of The Shah, when he spent millions of oil dollars on music and art festivals, like the legendary Persepolis festivals of the seventies. She’s since gone onto international acclaim as one of the finest vocalists on the planet.
Richard has an exquisite feel for the music of Turkey, Morroco, India and Iran and deftly employs those sounds and others in films he scores. Hanging out with them usually becomes a six-degrees of synchronicity parlor game as people from our collective past surface and wrap around our increasingly intertwining stories.
We spent the afternoon having lunch at Moonshadow in Malibu, where a foursome of frisky Persian women sprawled out on one of the beds they have on the deck, overlooking the deeply blue Pacific, were drinking wine and playing footsie with increasing affection as the afternoon wore on.
I promise to get back to The Super Bowl when I hit Vegas this afternoon and look at Big Ben Roethlisberger’s chart.