Albuquerque, NM

Like most of our out-of-state travel, last week’s trip to New Mexico was work-related. I was asked to attend a library e-learning (i.e., online teaching) conference in Albuquerque. Tim decided to go, too, since he’d never been to New Mexico. We arrived on Wednesday afternoon and returned home on Sunday.

The conference was held at the Hyatt Regency in downtown Albuquerque, so that’s where we stayed. Based on our experience in other cities—like Portland, Chicago, NYC, San Francisco, and even Sacramento—we opted not to rent a car, thinking there would be plenty for Tim to do within walking distance of the hotel. Boy, were we wrong! Not only was there nothing to do, but the only other people out on the street were conference-goers (librarians usually walking in pairs) and the homeless. Poor Tim was, therefore, pretty much stuck in the room while I was downstairs learning about electronic teaching. I did manage to break away for lunch on Friday and join him at Drew’s Dang Good Dogs, a new hot dog stand that was having its grand opening that very day. Apparently I was the only person in Albuquerque who doesn’t eat hot dogs because Tim waited an hour before placing his order. Was it worth the wait? I think the picture says it all!





On the way back to the hotel, we noticed that the Kimo Theater was open. Recently renovated, the Kimo is a 1927 movie house and old vaudeville stage built in a fabulous “pueblo deco” architectural style. Happily, the public can visit for free on days when there are no rehearsals in progress, so we decided to take advantage even if it meant getting back to the conference a little late. The lobby was amazing—walls and stairways festooned in southwest murals and Native American artifacts. Every detail was just perfect. I could easily imagine how wonderful it must have been watching a movie or live stage show at the Kimo after driving for miles on old Route 66. This was truly the highlight of our trip.




The first thing we did when we arrived in town was walk over to the main library to check our email. Although free at most libraries we’ve visited, Albuquerque charges three dollars for a “smartcard,” which enables the user to log onto the Internet and other online software in perpetuity—or at least until the technology changes! Like all the other displaced people in town, we spent a lot of time in the library checking email and various favorite websites. So it was no surprise that we found ourselves outside the library, Saturday morning, waiting to get in and use the computers. There I talked to a nice homeless man, who told us how to get to Old Town by bus and which bathrooms to use when we got there (!) He also advised us to get transfer tickets when we first boarded the bus because they allow riders to travel anywhere for free for up to two hours. (We did and he was right!) I also met a friendly woman who claimed to have a lawsuit pending in Los Angeles, where her husband fell down some stairs in front of McCormick & Schmick’s. I wished her luck as I slipped into the library.

After checking email one last time, we hopped the #66 bus to Old Town, the area’s earliest known Hispanic settlement (ca. 1700s). Today, of course, it is a huge tourist destination, where one can buy everything from mass-market sand sculptures to finely crafted jewelry and artwork. I had read about a fresh bakery that sounded particularly intriguing, and so spent an hour-and-a-half following my nose until we finally found the place. By then, most of the pastries were gone, but I did buy some homemade Mexican wedding cakes, which we are still savoring.

At Old Town, we hopped on the bus going east in hopes of finding the New Mexico State Fair. We’ve ridden mass transit in many towns from LA to NYC, but this ride was, by far, the most interesting. Unlike other buses, which seem to serve riders from all economic strata, the #66 provides transportation to mostly homeless and low income people. At one point, a young couple boarded with their newborn baby and my heart just about broke. The mother, who couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old, looked completely exhausted and miserable. She stared into space as the father, a young man possibly in his early twenties, folded up the stroller and got the baby’s things organized. Later, after they left, a pair of drunken women sat behind us and loudly laughed and cursed in three languages: English, Spanish and Native American. The bus took us along Route 66 (now Central NW), through downtown Albuquerque and points east, past the University of New Mexico, Nob Hill, and finally to the fairgrounds. I knew we had arrived because I could see the big ferris wheel in the distance, but the bus driver and riders all had differing opinions on where we should exit. Anxious to be on our way, we got off and headed north.

Well before we got there we could see the fairgrounds’ most famous attraction: the Slingshot, a bungee-cord type of ride that shoots strapped-in couples up over 250 feet in the air. Whether you’re horrified (me) or fascinated (Tim), it’s impossible to look away, so everyone entered the grounds with head craned upward in amazement.

Although only a quarter the size of LA County’s fair, the New Mexico State Fair was pure kitschy fun. We laughed at all the crazy food (deep-fried Oreos and meatloaf on a stick) and strolled by countless vendors selling their wacky wares. I then insisted that we visit the Hispanic Arts pavilion, chockfull of Day of the Dead skeletons and religious icons. Who knew St. Michael could slay his dragon in so many different and colorful ways?!

After walking around for two hours, we headed back over to Route 66, where we caught the bus downtown. Luckily we had just missed a onboard scuffle, which the driver and his passengers gleefully deconstructed throughout the entire ride.

Finally, back at the hotel, we decided to see a movie and so walked three blocks to the new cineplex across the street from the train station. (The concierge warned us not to walk over there at night). The ticket-taker, who used to live in LA, recognized the radio logo on Tim’s t-shirt. “Are those guys still on the air?” he asked incredulously. “Yes,” Tim answered and then told him that he works at the station. The ticket-taker was suitably impressed.

After the movie, we tried to get into the trendy new Brazilian restaurant right next door; but it was too crowded, so we headed down Central instead. Amazingly, there were cars everywhere, looking like a scene out of "American Graffiti"! All cruising stopped at nightfall, however, when the police—who were in full force—put up road blocks to keep traffic off Central. By now I was starving, so we ducked into The Carom Club, a nonsmoking billiards hall with a dress code and small, but upscale, restaurant. The food was good, but was certainly no Ford’s Filling Station. I was more than ready to return home...

9/26/06

My "Katie Couric" Moment

I was diagnosed with high blood pressure a year ago during an especially stressful period. We had spent the summer remodeling the kitchen; plus I had accepted a new job just four months after starting another job that I was now going to quit. No surprise then that my blood pressure was off the charts when I went to the local Kaiser Medical Center for my annual checkup. The doctor took one look at the figures and quickly accompanied me to a darkened room, where I was given a sedative and directed to lie down. Apparently they expected me to stroke out right then and there. When you’re treated extra nicely at Kaiser then you know something is wrong!

My blood pressure is now under control; but while the doctor had me captive, she scheduled a sigmoidoscopy, which I had managed to escape when I turned fifty. Three months later, I watched in rapt fascination as a tiny camera made its way up my colon. All looked good, except for a small polyp that would have to be removed. The technician put me on the waiting list for a colonoscopy. I decided that if “Today Show” host Katie Couric could undergo a colonoscopy on TV in front of millions of viewers, then I certainly could have one, too.

Kaiser being Kaiser, I didn’t get a call until the following August to schedule the procedure. I selected Tuesday, September 5, a week after summer school ended and three days after our big party. I was then sent a letter, advising me to eat a low-fiber diet the week before the procedure. Also included were prescriptions for the laxatives I was supposed to take the day before. The pharmacist repeated the instructions, emphasizing the importance of refrigerating the liquid laxative. As I was leaving, a woman, who looked strangely like Whoopi Goldberg, grabbed my arm and said, “Honey, when they tell you to chill that stuff, you better get it good and cold, because that stuff is NAAASTY...!”

Since I wasn’t allowed to eat up to 24 hours beforehand, I decided to have a big breakfast on Monday. My last meal: Dinah’s famous apple pancake with cottage fries and bacon. In fact, if I ever find myself on death row, I would definitely order this as my last breakfast as no one makes a better morning meal than Dinah’s!

At noon, I took four laxatives and then shut myself inside the house while Tim went to the movies. Six hours later, I started to drink the liquid, which came with five flavor packs: cherry, lemon, lime, orange, and pineapple. I picked pineapple, which masked the nasty taste well. But it would be difficult to drink three liters of even the most delicious elixir on earth—especially over just three hours!—and so I ended up slugging down only two liters. I’ll save you the gory details on how effective they were...

My appointment was at 9:15 the next morning. Although I was awake for the sigmoidoscopy, I knew I’d be anesthetized during the colonoscopy. Tim, therefore, took the day off from work so he could take me to and from the hospital. We arrived early, as instructed, and then waited while other victims disappeared behind a door. Eventually, my name was called and Tim was told to come back an hour-and-a-half later. I was directed to change into an old hospital gown and put my clothes into a large plastic bag, which was then tucked under my gurney. A nurse named Rick proceeded with preparing the needle for my i.v. Looking at both arms, he tsked and said, “Oh dear, what tiny veins you have!” He then frowned at me like I was a bad girl for not having bulging arteries. After a couple of attempts, another nurse was called in and I was finally prepped. A third nurse, who sat in the corner busily crocheting something yellow, quickly stood up when the doctor walked in. He explained what was going to happen and then asked me to lie on my side. I kept waiting for them to start the anesthetic...when suddenly I was being wheeled out of the room into a long hallway divided by curtains.

“Is it over?” I groggily asked Rick. “Yes, all done,” he answered and then asked if I wanted some fruit juice. I waved him away and fell back to sleep. He returned a few minutes later and said I needed to start waking up. Oddly enough, they allowed me to wear my glasses the entire time, so I could see lots of other colonoscopy patients in various stages of sleep. We looked like stacked-up airplanes waiting to take off at LAX.

Rick fetched my clothes and told me to get dressed. Apparently they were desperate for space and wanted people to leave as soon as possible. He then took me out to a small waiting room, where I sat with Tim until the doctor came. Now I get woozy on aspirins, so you can imagine how I felt. The doctor said we’d have the results of the polyp biopsy within ten days and then said he’d see me again in five years. (“Not if I can help it!” I thought to myself). We then got up to leave.

I could barely make it to the elevator, so Tim went in search of a wheelchair, which he borrowed from somewhere. “Where did you get this chair?” I yelled in my stupor. “SHHHH!” was all he said.

At home, I went immediately to bed, where I passed out fully clothed. I woke-up an hour later madly craving a club sandwich, but settled for toast instead. Two hours later, I was back to normal, answering the slue of emails that had accumulated over the day. After being deprived of roughage for an entire week, I drove over to CPK for my favorite smoked bacon and gorgonzola salad and savored every morsel. My “Katie Couric moment” was now officially over.

9/07/06

The Big Party

Our 20th wedding anniversary was August 16. Because we had eloped to Las Vegas, where we got married in a ceremony that was witnessed by only our most immediate family, I thought now might be a good time to renew our vows. But I changed my mind when I realized I’d probably cry through the whole thing, making a fool of myself. Instead, we decided to go in another direction after attending a fabulous dance party hosted by our friends Mary and Roger.

We held our own party this past weekend and, although we didn’t dance as much as I wanted, we and our guests had a good time. The real story, however, was in the weeks of planning that always go into pulling off an event like this. And so here is a recreation of our journey as we counted down the days till our big anniversary party...

Three months to go:

I started to seriously think about potential party venues. Our house is too small to comfortably entertain more than twenty people, plus there’s no room to dance; so we needed to rent a space that didn’t reek of a Radisson ballroom or VFW hall. The historic Culver Hotel has a long corner room, but it, too, was too small. Mary then suggested the Rita Hayworth Room at Sony Studios, where they had thrown their party. We had attended at least one other event there, so were very familiar with the layout. But who knew non-Sony employees could rent it? I was thrilled, but decided to email Karen to see if she thought people would come to a party at the studio. “Are you kidding? EVERYONE will come!” she replied and so I made the call.

As it turned out, Wolfgang Puck had just assumed management of the Rita Hayworth Room and was not quite ready to whip up a quote. We did tentatively reserve a date, however: Saturday, September 2, which would allow folks to fly in and spend the Labor Day weekend in LA. We emailed a “save the date” message to several friends and family members and then waited for Puck’s quote. I insisted that we were “simple people” (i.e., poor) and so requested the least complicated menu (e.g., their famous chinois chicken salad and pizza). Still, it took several days for our contact to get back to me.

In the meantime, I made an appointment to check out the Culver Events Center, which the ever-resourceful Mary also recommended. The building, tucked behind the bright green Leaf restaurant on Washington Blvd., was a speak-easy in the 1920s and has lots of charm and character. Plus the owner, Alex, was very nice and accommodating. But I had my heart set on Sony Studio and so made no commitment. I did make sure, however, that the Center was available September 2 and promised to get back to Alex as quickly as possible.

Two months to go:

Still no word from Puck despite my, by now, daily emails and phone messages. I was starting to really worry about distant friends and family having enough time to make airline reservations, etc. Finally, on July 10, I received a lengthy email detailing the catering and rental costs for the Rita Hayworth Room. It was almost twice what Mary and Roger had paid and three times the cost of the Culver Events Center! Puck had apparently boosted the fee beyond reason—and obviously well outside our checkbook!—and so I called Alex to have him hold the date. My dreams of dancing again where movie stars used to dine were dashed.

We now needed to find a caterer, since the Center strictly rents space. Alex recommended a couple of places he’s used in the past. Tim then suggested Santa Maria Barbecue, one of our favorite downtown Culver City restaurants. So we made a little field trip to eat (of course!) and check out their prices and were pleasantly surprised by their very affordable menu. With a minimum party of fifty people, they would even cook the meat on site, plus provide all side-dishes, like salad, beans, potato salad, and (my favorite) garlic bread. We reserved September 2 on the spot and then waited for RSVPs to arrive.

One month to go:

Only 10 people had responded and, of those, several said they could not come because of other obligations. It was starting to look like throwing a party on a holiday weekend was not such a good idea after all! We called Santa Maria Barbecue and canceled the onsite cooking.

Although we each secretly doubted that anyone but us would dance, we spent hours going through our CD collection, looking for ideal rock, swing and salsa tunes that would (hopefully!) get people’s feet atappin’. This part was the most fun!

Three weeks to go:

I met with Alex to pick out linen colors and lay out the floor plan. The Center has a nice patio as well as two reception areas and a dance floor. Tables would be setup outside and in, since it was bound to be a beautiful night. He had lots of ideas how to jazz-up the place with lights, etc., but I wanted things to be as simple as possible. Besides, at this point, it was looking like it would be just us and a handful of guests.

Two weeks to go:

RSVPs start to pour in! We called Santa Maria and rescheduled the onsite barbecue. When the receptionist asked for details about the Center’s physical layout, I explained we’d like the barbecue to be setup in the patio. After describing the fence and three short steps to get into the patio, she proclaimed that the barbecue owner would have to visit the site before they could commit. I called Alex in a panic. He said not to worry. And indeed, a few days later, Mr. Santa Maria chatted with Alex and both agreed that the barbecue could be setup in the parking lot next to the patio. Phew!

I noticed an ad in the newspaper for personalized M&Ms and, though I can’t eat chocolate, proceeded to order five eight-ounce bags of M&Ms that say: “Tim and Cindy” and “20 years XOXOXOXO.” There was no guarantee they’d arrive on time, but I was willing to take the risk because they were just so darn cute...

One week to go:

Even though Santa Maria provides plates and utensils, I wanted something more exciting than boring old institutional white, and so headed over to Party Time on Sepulveda Blvd. There I spied some colorful paper plates on sale and went hog-wild picking out platters, napkins, etc., to match. By now it was looking like fifty people would be joining us at the party and so I bought mass quantities of everything. I could see the cashier trying to be tactful as I kept adding more and more stuff to my check-out pile. Restraining himself no longer, he asked, “Having a big party, are we?” I told him that it’s so big we had to rent a hall. He was impressed.

I then headed over to the nightmare that’s known as “Big Lots.” Alex convinced me to decorate with candles and so I was on a quest to find the cheapest, yet safest, candles possible. I also decided to create scrapbooks filled with pictures of Tim and me, since some of our guests would be relatively new friends. I bought six scrapbooks, thinking I’d put one on each table, forcing the partygoers to mingle if they wanted to see all the photos. When I got home, I asked Tim to help me pour over hundreds of pictures that I keep in an oversized wicker chest in our den. It was fun, but exhausting work. Ultimately, it was worth it, though, because the scrapbooks were the biggest hit at the party, getting people to reminisce and laugh.

Three days to go:

Tim tested the stereo system at the Center and was unhappy with the sound. I insisted that it was just his overly sensitive radio engineer ears; but he used some special electrical plugs on party day and all was well. We told Alex we’d bring beverages by at 1PM on Saturday and then headed over to the market to buy an assortment of soft drinks and beer.

One day to go:

The M&Ms arrived. I almost kissed the UPS guy when he knocked on the front door. I was now ready to party!

PARTY DAY:

I went to Trader Joe’s to buy flowers and desserts as soon as it opened. Unlike weekday mornings, when no one but retired couples and stay-at-home workers, like me, go to TJ’s, the place was filled with puffy-eyed yuppies filling their carts with food for the long weekend. The vibe was definitely low-key even though the lines were starting to snake toward the door by the time I left.

As promised, we showed-up at the Center at 1PM with drinks and paper goods in hand. Alex was already busy setting up tables, etc. The party was to start at 6PM and so Santa Maria promised to start cooking by 4:30PM. We agreed to return between 4:00 and 5:00 to help with any finishing touches.

We arrived at 4:15PM to the smell of barbecued meat. It smelled so good that Alex predicted no one would get beyond the parking lot! I began decorating the tables with sparkly confetti and scrapbooks, but forgot the M&Ms (after all that!), and so Tim ran home (five minutes away) to get them.

Everything was ready by 5:45PM and looked just beautiful. The weather was perfect and the meat was almost ready to serve, when our first guests arrived. The moment we’d been waiting for these past three months was finally here.

Tim turned up the dance music and the party began...

9/6/06

Hollywood Bowl

Although I used to go to the Hollywood Bowl occasionally when I was much younger, I didn’t become a real fan until we moved back to LA twelve years ago. Every time the summer schedule arrived in our mailbox there would be a flurry of phone calls and emails back and forth to Karen while we decided which concerts to attend. We even stood on line for three hours one year to make sure we got good seats for the most coveted concerts. In those days, we were happy to sit with the masses on the Bowl’s notoriously uncomfortable wooden benches. The trick was to arrive early enough to snag a vinyl seat cushion, which the ushers gladly rented for fifty cents. Not only could you use the cushion to claim your seat—which tends to shift when you’re sitting with twenty people on a wooden bench!—but your rear end was also a tad more grateful for the extra padding.

Then something dramatic happened. About five years ago, the Bowl installed individual, stadium-style “super seats” in the section directly above the exclusive box seats. They are more expensive to reserve, but a lot more comfortable. We bought super-seat tickets for one concert and that was it. The next year Tim and I decided to subscribe to mini-season super-seat tickets and have never looked back!

My musical tastes lean more towards the popular (e.g., Jerry Goldsmith, Pink Martini, and last year’s fabulous staging of “Camelot”), while Tim prefers traditional jazz. We both love pop standard vocalists, however, and so over the years have seen Tony Bennett (several times), Diana Krull (terrific), Mel Torme (his last Bowl performance), Peggy Lee (her last Bowl performance), Rosemary Clooney (her last Bowl performance, too), Van Morrison (singing jazz), Al Jarreau (not so good), John Pizzarelli (a fave), and others too many to remember. This week was big band music, featuring the Gerald Wilson Orchestra, the Stan Kenton Orchestra 2006, and the Dizzy Gillespie All-Star Big Band. It was our last concert of the season.

A big part of the Hollywood Bowl experience is getting there. We learned a long time ago that the best way to travel to the Bowl is by bus. Indeed, several shuttles transport concertgoers from around the county. Our own Culver City bus leaves 90 minutes before the show and often takes an hour to arrive. Needless to say, traffic around the Bowl is always a nightmare.

Culver City is such a wonderfully diverse community that the bus ride presents an interesting microcosm of humanity: racially-mixed couples, people of all ages and lifestyles, and everyone excited to be going to the Bowl. On the weekend, riders may pass around a bottle of wine or champagne to get into the mood. But even without libation, there’s always lots of laughter and good cheer on our way north. I like the bus ride because it gives me a chance to catch-up on changes to the mid-Wilshire/La Brea district where we lived when we first returned to LA. The pasta restaurant where we used to eat is now a sushi bar, and, oh, look at that tiny pizza parlor tucked between those two vintage clothing stores!

Food is another big part of the Hollywood Bowl’s culture. Most people arrive early enough to eat in their seats or create an impromptu picnic on the surrounding park grounds. We’ve seen some elaborate displays of three-course meals accompanied by candelabras and fine china. We, on the other hand, are more simple folk and usually just bring sandwiches from Pavilions or a rice bowl from El Pollo Loco. I’ll never forget the time Tim snagged last minute free tickets from someone at work, prompting me to quickly throw together a salad before running out the door. When we got there we discovered we were sitting with rich folks in the box seats. There I was scooping homemade salad out of a recycled butter tub while the people next to us sipped from crystal goblets! I was mortified.

Wednesday’s concert was the perfect way to end this year’s season. The Gerald Wilson Orchestra got the ball rolling with a rousing opening number. Turns out Tim had met Mr. Wilson many years ago when he sat in on his “history of jazz” class at Cal State Northridge. Tim, of course, was trying to impress a girl who wasn’t worth the effort and so stayed for only one class session. Still, the moment was memorable enough to share with me thirty years later on the bus ride home.

Wilson’s orchestra was followed by Stan Kenton’s group, which really got our feet tappin’. “That bongo guy is insane!” Tim whispered. Sure enough, his hands were flying a hundred miles a minute! I was thrilled to learn later that it was Alex Acuña, former percussionist for the Weather Report, a fusion-jazz band I had listened to in my pre-Tim days.

For all its enormity (18,000 seats), the Bowl can be stunningly quiet when everyone sits in polite silence. Over the years, I’ve heard the frets on John Pizzarelli’s guitar and the rattle of music stands before the band begins to play. The natural bowl-shaped contour of the amphitheater certainly heightens the acoustical effect.

The concert ended 10 minutes before the 11PM curfew, so we gathered our belongings and headed downhill past the pitiful ventriloquist singer, who covers his mouth with one hand while moving the lips of a raggedy old dog puppet with the other, and the solo saxophonist, who uses the acoustics of the pedestrian’s tunnel to enhance his own sound. Someone had lit vanilla-scented incense in the tunnel, so it smelled more pleasant than usual. We emerged on the other end to bus fumes and burnt diesel. The evening was rapidly drawing to a close.

As festive as the bus ride is heading toward the Bowl, the complete opposite is always true going home. Sometimes a passenger or two might hum a ditty from that night’s concert; but usually we’re all too tired to even talk. Plus, it can be an excruciatingly long wait before we even move, especially if we’re at the back of an immobile line of buses. Rarely do we get home before midnight.

But Wednesday was a happy exception—by some miracle, we left the parking lot by 11:15PM and were soon barreling down Cahuenga Blvd. I had visions of actually being in bed before 12 o’clock, when the bus suddenly stopped at Wilshire and La Brea. It seems one of the riders had gotten on the wrong bus and was negotiating with the driver. “PLUH-EEZE don’t go back to the Bowl!” I silently pleaded as the other passengers began to stir. Instead, Mr. Lost quickly exited our bus and dashed across traffic (don’t look!) to catch the bus on the opposite side of the street. Apparently he needed to get to Chatsworth, another two hours (by bus) heading north.

Twenty-five minutes later, we were safely in bed when Tim drowsily mumbled, “I guess the summer is now officially over.” But I’m not ready to give up on it yet...

8/25/06

The Trip We Didn't Take to San Francisco

We are supposed to be vacationing in San Francisco with friends this weekend. But after spending three days in Sacramento earlier in the week, plus the ridiculous new regulations limiting what can be carried onto airplanes, we decided to just stay home. Instead, we’re doing “LA” things, like attending a fundraiser for the Culver City Democratic Club (last night) and going to an Angels game (tomorrow). Heaven forbid we should waste an entire weekend just sitting at home relaxing like normal people.

Tim and I love Los Angeles. We especially love the history and architecture of the city. When the two intersect, we are in our glory. No surprise, then, that we found ourselves heading east at nine in the morning to attend a tribute to the Brown Derby restaurants, which have all been either demolished or transformed into other businesses. The event, sponsored by the Southern California Restaurant Historical Society, was held at Louise’s Trattoria in the Los Feliz district. Louise’s is the last Brown Derby to remain relatively in tact despite recent efforts to raze it in order to make way for “much needed” condos (boo! hiss!). We had hooked up with the restaurant group at the huge Wilshire Blvd. centennial celebration last year and attended their first meeting a few months ago at the Hollywood Heritage Museum on Highland Ave. We had a great time and so were glad to be able to participate in today’s Brown Derby event, which we discovered after canceling our trip to SF.

The Brown Derby was perhaps one of the most recognizable of Los Angeles’s many icons in the early twentieth century. In particular, the Wilshire Blvd. Derby, shaped like a man’s hat, was the most famous and was featured in many movies and TV shows (see the 1947 photo above). Sadly, it was all but destroyed in the 1970s when a developer bought the corner where it sat to build yet another ubiquitous strip mall. After much negotiation, he perched the round part of the “hat” at the back of the shops, where it pathetically sits today, but the restaurant is no more.

An even worse fate awaited the Hollywood Brown Derby, located on Vine and Selma. After many years of neglect, it finally burned down in the late 1970s and was eventually demolished to create a parking lot. The Hollywood Derby is probably best known as the setting for Lucy Ricardo’s infamous encounter with William Holden in one of the most memorable episodes of “I Love Lucy.” The hallmark of the Vine Street Derby was its black-and-white caricatures of Hollywood’s most notable celebrities. Luckily, as we learned today, they survive as part of someone’s private collection.

There was also a Brown Derby in Beverly Hills; but the only one that still exists as a restaurant is The Derby nightclub, adjacent to Louise’s Trattoria on Franklin and Los Feliz. The Derby has become a favorite of young swing dancers and was featured prominently at the end of the 1996 cult hit movie “Swingers.”

Today’s festivities began at 10AM. We arrived a little early so we could snag a couple of seats. We even found an excellent parking spot behind the restaurant, but were taken quite by surprise when a parking attendant suddenly appeared, demanding four dollars. “It’s not even 10 o’clock!” Tim exclaimed. The attendant just shrugged his shoulders and pocketed the cash. Ah, life in LA.

The Derby is located at the back of Louise’s, atop a short flight of stairs. While Tim signed us in, I moseyed onto the dance floor under the rounded part of the “hat.” Interestingly, the Los Feliz Brown Derby originally started out as something else altogether before becoming The Car Cafe, the only drive-up Derby, in 1941. The exposed beams holding up the domed part of the hat remain in good shape, possibly because little light gets into the room even during the day. The other half of the club is the old banquet room, which was added to the Brown Derby in the 1950s. Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz hosted a party there the night the William Holden episode of “I Love Lucy” aired in 1955. Apparently, the banquet room was quite the celebrity hangout back in the day.

The place was almost completely full by the time we made our way inside. Tim recognized the creators of a couple of LA-based blogs he reads every day. We also spotted pop historians Charles Phoenix and Kevin Roderick. Chris Nichols, the organizer of the restaurant group and past-president of the Modern Committee of the Los Angeles Conservancy, was there, too. Chris always dresses in period clothing and today was no exception, wearing a bow-tie and red jacket, topped off (of course!) by a brown derby.

The speakers included: Mark Willems, author of the book “The Brown Derby: A Hollywood Legend,” which is now out-of-print and apparently worth a small fortune (we own it!); Rebecca Goodman, organizer of the Save the Derby Coalition, who described her group’s efforts to save the Los Feliz site; and Jack Lane, author and artist who drew the caricatures that once decorated the walls of the Hollywood Derby. Radio personality Gary Owens, whom Tim noticed immediately, was also there and said a few words about being a longtime Derby customer. We then watched a string of short clips shot inside the various Derbies. Everyone cheered loudly during the “I Love Lucy” segment, although we’ve probably all seen it a million times. Chris Nichols promised to distribute pieces of the famous Brown Derby grapefruit cake that someone had baked—and that I had begun to eye hungrily—but at that point Gary Owens took control of the microphone and began yet another story about his former celebrity friends. Owens may have been funny in the old “Laugh-In” days, but his anecdotes are now peppered with too many “I” and “me” statements and so we slunk out the side door.

We stopped at Dawson’s Bookstore—possibly the best source in the region for used books on LA—but couldn’t find anything we wanted that we didn’t already own and so headed home. Tim wanted to eat lunch at one of Culver City’s new trendy restaurants; but I insisted on our own culinary icon, Dinah’s Diner, located on Sepulveda two miles north of LAX. Although not as distinctive as the Brown Derby, Dinah’s is famous in its own right, unexpectedly showing up in all kinds of commercials and TV shows. Her fried chicken—arguably the best in west LA—was even featured in the new movie “Little Miss Sunshine,” which is supposed to be set in New Mexico—but we knew better!

8/19/06

CSNY

I’ve been a fan of Crosby, Stills & Nash since 1969 when I heard a trio of classmates sing a couple of their songs at a school talent show. I immediately bought two copies of the group’s first album, “Crosby, Stills & Nash”—one for me and one for my best friend, who played acoustic guitar and loved rich harmonic music. While the other high school girls doodled pictures of their favorite football or basketball players on their notebooks, I carried around the lyrics of “Helplessly Hoping” on the outside of my peechee. To me, Crosby, Stills & Nash represented a whole new mature brand of music: intimate lyrics captured by the most beautiful male voices I had ever heard.

Neil Young joined the band the next year for the “Deja Vu” album, but I didn’t really take much notice of him until the late ‘70s when he released his two-disc “best of” compilation, “Decade,” which included songs from his Buffalo Springfield as well as Crazy Horse days. I have loved him ever since.

Tim and I saw Neil Young in concert in 1993, but had never seen Crosby, Stills & Nash play together because the group broke-up shortly after “Deja Vu.” This was one of those legendary rock-and-roll moments that had regretfully passed us by: neither of us saw the Beatles in concert nor had we seen Crosby, Stills & Nash perform.

Then something amazing happened. In 2000, the band—including Neil Young!—announced that they were getting back together and would be playing in Los Angeles as part of the CSNY2K tour! Tim quickly got us tickets through the radio station and we finally, after all those years, got to see our heroes in person. We cried at the end of the concert because we thought we’d never see them again. But then two nights later, Tim wrangled two tickets for a special VH-1 “unplugged” taping somewhere in Hollywood and we got to see them all over again, only this time they were no more than six feet away from us. That night was truly one of the highlights of my adult life.

No wonder, then, that I bugged Tim about getting tickets when I heard that CSNY was coming to the Hollywood Bowl, July 31. The tour, called “Freedom of Speech,” promised to mix their old songs in with cuts from Young’s latest CD “Living With War”—what I affectionately call the “Impeach the President” album, after its most notorious song. Miraculously, Tim was able to use his radio connections to get us a pair of highly coveted box seats, but we couldn’t pick them up until the night of the concert.

The show was supposed to start at 7:30PM, so we left the house three hours early. Normally we would take the bus to the Bowl, but our usual shuttle wasn’t running that night, so we drove instead. With traffic, I figured it would take us an hour to drive to Hollywood. We’d then have an hour to eat and another hour to board and ride the shuttle up the hill to the Bowl.

We arrived at Hollywood-and-Highland right on time—5:30PM—and made our way up to The Grill, an expensive but tasty restaurant in the mall. The hostess eyed my oversized bag stuffed with jackets, blanket, etc. and offered us a “price fixe” boxed-dinners-to-go menu. The cheapest meal was $38 each (yikes!), so we opted to dine in. No sooner were we seated then other concertgoers started to flood into the restaurant—our timing was impeccable.

As predicted, it took us an hour to eat (good food, but very slow service). We got down to the shuttle just as the bus was leaving, so we had to wait for the next one. I began to worry that we were going to miss the first song of the concert. Finally, at 6:50PM, we boarded and started the long crawl up Highland Blvd. The man standing next to us on the bus noted that it would have taken less time to walk and I nervously agreed. By now, I was very concerned about getting to our seats on time.

The Bowl was a mob scene as thousands of baby-boomers tried to file past the ticket-takers. Amidst the madness were tables setup promoting liberal causes, like Amnesty International, Progressive Democrats of America, Planned Parenthood, etc.—all groups that I support and would usually stop to acknowledge, but was impossible in such a huge crush of people. Tim had an email saying his name was on “a list” to get tickets, so we headed over to Will Call, where there was another long line. The friendly couple behind us (our age) said they hadn’t been to the Bowl since 1968. We told them where the restrooms were and how to get back to the shuttle after the concert.

At Will Call we were told that all record company tickets were being held at the “west gate” entrance, so we waded across the masses of people and made our way further up the hill behind the shell of the Bowl. The air is more rarefied here as this is the secret entrance for VIPs and other celebrities. This is also where the performers hang-out until the concert begins and, indeed, we quickly walked by the four million-dollar motor coaches individually housing David Crosby, Stephen Stills, Graham Nash, and Neil Young. A clutch of older (our age) groupies waited patiently outside the barricade to catch a glimpse of their heroes entering the back of the Hollywood Bowl.

With five minutes to go, we found the ticket table, where a disinterested woman on a cellphone pointed us toward the next table over. Tim gave his name and, after a couple of moments, was told there were no tickets waiting for us. He then tried the name of the record label and was told those tickets had already been picked up. Desperate, he left a voice message at the record company and then called his contact at the radio station. Meanwhile, I silently watched as various celebrities raced by on the way to their seats: James Spader (Alan Shore on my favorite TV show “Boston Legal”), Jeffrey Tambor (the father on the now canceled “Arrested Development”), and retired basketball great Bill Walton.

Tim’s radio contact told him that the tickets were supposed to be at Will Call, so we headed back down the hill, weaving among all the high-priced SUVs and convertibles now parked headlight-to-taillight behind the Bowl. The crowd had thinned out considerably, but there was still a long line of Will Call stragglers. We were halfway to the box office when I heard applause coming from inside the theater. CSNY had taken the stage. My concern about missing the opening song had turned into real panic that might not even get into the concert. I began debating with myself whether it was better to buy tickets at the window and watch the concert from the “cheap” ($48!) seats or just go home. I decided to make my decision once we got to Will Call.

At the window, Tim showed his ID once again. I held my breath as the woman took it and left. After what seemed like a lifetime, she returned holding an envelope with Tim’s name scrawled across it. We were in! I strained my ears to hear what the boys were playing—maybe I’d catch at least part of the opening song after all! We then joined the throng slowly moving into the theater and finally charged our way up to the entrance. I forgot all about using the restroom, my usual first stop inside the Bowl. I was now desperate to hear the last notes of the opening song!

Grabbing my hand, Tim pulled me inside the theater. I was literally stunned at how close we were to the stage. I probably would have stood there in a daze for the next three hours except, before I knew it, Tim was following an usher up to our seats. We sat down just as CSNY finished singing “Carry On.” As the audience leapt to its feet, I turned to Tim and whispered “THANK YOU” and started to cry. I couldn’t believe that we were finally there, sitting in the best seats (Garden Terrace) we’ve ever had at the Bowl, listening to one of our favorite rock groups of all time.

Needless to say, the concert was wonderful. Crosby and Nash looked good and sounded especially fine as they harmonized on several songs together. Time has been less kind to the once gorgeous Stephen Stills, nonetheless he managed to bring us to our feet several times throughout the night. The true driving force of the evening, though, was Neil Young who, after all these years, still looks like a big kid enthusiastically playing guitar for the very first time. Never one for subtlety, most of his songs focused on the futility of war, past and present. Jeffrey Tambor (who was sitting two boxes over from us) and I screamed out the lyrics to “Impeach the President,” which were projected at the back of the stage.

The concert ran over the 11PM curfew, so we were cheated out of an encore. But it didn’t seem to matter as everyone left the Bowl on wings. We skipped the shuttle and flew down Highland Blvd. on foot, while I quietly sang, “Helplessly hoping, her harlequin hovered nearby, awaiting a word...” I was fifteen years old once again...

8/2/06

ComiCon 2006

My best friend Karen and I started going to science fiction conventions in the mid-1970s when we were in college and "Star Trek" fans were madly lobbying for the return of their favorite show. I moved on to ComiCon in the '80s, when Tim and I lived in San Diego. The primary focus back then was on comic books and genre paperback fiction. Dealers sold their wares in a small showroom, while expert panels and fans debated the merits of science fiction and fantasy in even smaller meeting rooms. Boring! So I stopped going.

Today, of course, ComiCon has become an enormous media event where the studios and TV networks love to preview new movies and other products to a captive audience of fans. Last year, we spent the weekend sneak-previewing four new science fiction TV shows (all of which have since been canceled!) and several movies. I knew I was in my element when attendees at one event were admonished to turn off their pagers, phones *and* light-sabers!

Tim had to work this weekend, so it was just Karen and me, on our own again some thirty years after our very first “con.” We decided to take the 7:20AM train out of downtown L.A. in hopes of getting into the con by 11AM. The train was filled with fellow fan-boys and girls making their annual pilgrimage to comic book heaven. Getting off in San Diego, we hooked up with a former student, Mike, and his new friend Pedro, a journalist from Brazil who was taking a day off from covering the Miss Universe pageant in L.A. You never know who you’re going to meet on the train!

Together the four of us walked to the convention center, about five blocks from the train station. The weather was oppressively hot—sunny, humid and very little breeze, even though we were only half-a-block from the water.

I knew there would be an impossibly long line to purchase tickets on site, so we pre-registered on the Internet, thinking we’d be able to waltz right in like we did last year. No such luck! Non-ticket-holders were directed to gate A while we were pointed toward gate C, where we were greeted by a line that stretched well past the length of the convention center. I almost passed out a couple of times from heat exhaustion as we stood there roasting in the sun. Karen and I took turns going into the air-conditioned building while the guys saved our place. In my ten years living in San Diego, I never knew it to be this hot. More evidence that global warming has arrived. Finally, after more than an hour, we were shepherded inside the building, up the escalator, and into an inside hallway, before being directed to a battery of volunteers who printed up our name badges. We were then set loose to enjoy the convention.

There are several parts to ComiCon: numerous programs held concurrently in meeting rooms, large and small, on the second floor of the building; author and celebrity signings, each with its own table and queuing area; an art show, where nascent artists and comic book authors can display their work; and the enormous exhibit hall, where dealers display and sell products over the entire first floor of the convention center. Although Karen and I had carefully gone through the program, selecting panels we wanted to attend, all that planning went out the window when I actually got into the con and was immediately, as if in a trance, drawn to the exhibits. We left Mike and Pedro to fend for themselves as we dove headfirst into the great hall.

Nothing can really prepare you for the sensory overload of the exhibits. Everything is loud, flashy and crowded, as each vendor tries to fight for your attention. There are rows and rows and rows of comic books, action figures, posters, movie memorabilia, photographs, artwork, sculptures, video and computer games, etc., all screaming for your approval and, of course, your pocketbook. I always start at one end of the hall and slowly walk up and down each aisle, waiting for something to catch my eye.

Turning onto the third aisle, Karen and I both spotted a comic book, “Gangs of Camelot,” and stopped in our tracks. “Oh my gosh!” I yelled, as the four young men behind the table snapped to attention. The comic book featured Chicago gangsters being transported back in time to help King Arthur defeat his lifelong nemesis Morgan le Fey. “What fun!” I blurted out, having never seen anything like this in all my thirty years collecting Arthuriana. “Would you like the artist to autograph a copy for you?” one of the young men asked. “Of course,” I said and soon had a signed copy in my hand. Looking most grateful, the artist encouraged me to email him my feedback. And you know what? I just may.

Completely revitalized, I was now ready to conquer the rest of the exhibits. While Karen attended a program, I made my way through the crowds in a daze, looking for more interesting items. It was wonderful being in the company of so many fellow fans letting their geek flags fly. At one point, I overheard someone say, “Look, there’s Johnny Depp!” and quickly turned my head, even though I knew there was no way in hell he’d ever attend ComiCon. I did see a couple of celebrities, though: Jorge Garcia (Hurley from "Lost") drew a big crowd of paparazzi in one of the booths, and Nichelle Nichols (Uhuru from "Star Trek") was signing in another. Then, as I was making my way through an especially thick crowd, I heard a man yell, “STAND BACK! STAND BACK!,” and there was Stan Lee (a deity among comic book authors), walking through the hall surrounded by bodyguards. We all moved and then burst into spontaneous applause.

The best part for me, always, is seeing people dressed in costume. At Star Trek conventions, just about everyone is dressed as a character from the show. But at ComiCon, your only limit is your imagination. This year, there were lots of pirates and wenches, looking like they had just stepped off the set of "Pirates of the Caribbean." I saw several Captain Jack Sparrows, but the best was this amazing lookalike, who captured Johnny Depp’s effete mannerisms perfectly and even had gold-capped teeth. I also saw lots of Star Wars characters and, of course, Klingons, who tended to congregate at the snack bars, intimidating younger conventioneers. There were also lots of superheroes, who I’m not familiar enough with to name, and an abundance of fairies and elves. Everywhere I looked, people were taking pictures of their favorite comic book, TV or movie characters. I was sorry that we weren’t staying for that night’s masquerade party.

At 3PM, I took a break and joined Karen for a panel on the future of science fiction on TV (does not look hopeful, although the Sci Fi channel continues to introduce new innovations). I then returned one last time to the exhibits while Karen enjoyed a panel on one of her favorite shows, "Veronica Mars." We ventured back out into the heat at 5:30, hoping to catch the 6:20PM train. But the train was late. After waiting in a hot line for another hour, we finally boarded and left San Diego at 7:30PM. We got back to Culver City by 11PM. I immediately took a shower and gratefully climbed into bed, where I dreamed about Jack Sparrow and the other wonderful characters I had seen. Although it was hot and exhausting, I promise to return again next year; but this time I’ll go on Friday when the crowds are not so plenty.

7/23/06

Taste of Larchmont

We moved back to Los Angeles in 1994 after living in San Diego for nearly ten years. In those days we were renters and so moved into Park Labrea, an enormous, fifty-year-old apartment complex in the heart of the mid-Wilshire district.

One of the pleasures of living in Park Labrea was its proximity to Larchmont, an increasingly upscale section of Los Angeles, developed in the 1920s. Adjacent to the mansions of Hancock Park, the quaint Larchmont “village” gives this part of town a real midwestern flavor. Tim used to get his hair cut there and we’d frequently eat lunch or dinner at one of its many restaurants. The atmosphere is friendly and casual, and even the celebrity residents seem like normal folk. Tim met Huell Howser once at the barbershop and we even saw Kate Mulgrew, at the height of her “Star Trek” fame, openly dining in a sidewalk cafe while chatting loudly about her fellow trekker Patrick Stewart. We’ve seen other TV stars there, too, just going about their daily lives.

We’ve gone to the annual Taste of Larchmont event, off and on, for probably ten years. Where else can you sample the food of several favorite restaurants all for one flat fee? In fact, we’re big fans of the whole “taste of” phenomenon, having attended events in Coronado, Culver City, El Toro, Santa Monica (at both the Promenade and the pier), the backlots of Universal Studios, and Westwood. Then, of course, there was the famous time Tim and I got separated in a NYC subway, only to miraculously find each other amid 50,000 people enjoying the Taste of Battery Park! But that’s a story for another time...

Unlike similar events, which are usually held in parking lots or other more scenic spaces, the Taste of Larchmont is served up in the restaurants themselves, all located within a one block radius of each other. The mood is more like a progressive dinner since you tend to see the same people going from table to table. This year, fourteen restaurants and seven dessert stations participated.

The tasting was scheduled to begin at 6PM, so naturally we arrived at 5:55PM. None of the restaurants was ready to serve, so we decided to start at Chan Dara, one of our favorite Thai food places, at the farthest end of the street. Several other early birds were already there, including a librarian friend David, who we see every year at this event. Everyone was chomping at the bit to begin! Finally, at 6:05PM, the doors opened and we began to feast: vegetarian spring rolls and chicken and noodles with peanuts sprinkled on top. You would have thought we’d been on a week-long fast!

Next was Kiku Sushi, which I don’t eat, so Tim got double portions, and then onto Prado, which was serving Cuban. Arroz con pollo and a tasty salad—yum! Not much time to sit around savoring, however, because we were soon onto Louise’s Trattoria, which has become one of our favorite westside haunts (love that Sicilian cobb salad!). The pasta primavera was disappointing (mine is *much* better), but the bread was outrageous as usual. It was now time to conquer the other side of the street.

We followed David almost reluctantly over to the Larchmont Deli, where there is always more food than any human could possibly consume. Sure enough, in addition to the usual sandwiches, salad bar, and cold cut platter, the owners had set out hot plate meals, including roast beef and some other items I was already too full to admire. Tim grabbed a four-inch-thick turkey sandwich, while I nibbled on a slice of salami. We left David behind as we fled to the next destination.

We skipped the El Cholo tamales (not as good as Corn Maiden) being served at Coldwell Banker, but did take a breather in front of a real estate agency window. There was nothing listed for under a million dollars, so we laughed and moved onto the outdoor “pavilion,” where dessert was being served. I got a scrumptious lemon bar from Sweet Lady Jane. Tim had a cupcake, chased by a slice of French apple pie from Callendar’s Wilshire, our former local Marie Callendar’s, which has been transformed into an upscale “grille.” (Excuse me while I roll my eyes...)

By now barely able to move, we waddled over to the Avocado Grill, where we forced ourselves to eat carnitas tacos. “Enough!” Tim declared. But that didn’t stop us from carrying away sandwiches (Cafe du Village) and two slices of cheese pizza (Z Pizza) for lunch the next day. Sadly, we were too full to even consider La Luna and Le Petit Greek, two of Larchmont’s more popular eateries.

Next year we’ll be sure to bring ziplock baggies so we can truly get our money’s worth!

7/18/06

Vacation in Pismo Beach

Every two years or so, Tim and I like to rent a condo in Pismo Beach for a few days. It’s far enough from L.A. (three hours by car) to feel like we’re getting away, but close enough to retain all the comforts of home (Trader Joe’s, L.A. TV stations, etc.). Plus it’s only 10 miles from San Luis Obispo (SLO), an enlightened college town that’s always got something interesting going on.

It’s not surprising, therefore, that I jumped at an offer, several months ago, to lead a workshop in SLO this week. My only provision was that we schedule the workshop on Thursday or Friday so Tim and I could spend the weekend in Pismo. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect as it’s been hotter than hell even in Culver City, where we’re relatively close to the beach. Al Gore is right—global warming is here! Consider this a mandate to see “An Inconvenient Truth”!

As soon as the workshop date was set, Tim started hunting for a condo on the Internet. Even with two months notice, the pickin’s were slim, so we ended up with a townhouse that sleeps six. The thing was enormous—literally 500 square feet larger than our home. And it was decorated in a western motif gone berserk. The manager of the complex called it “our house of animals” and he was right. In the living room was a stuffed deer’s head, buffalo (?) horns and a huge rack of Moose antlers, that cast an eery shadow when the upstairs light was on. After a while I also noticed a pair of bookends made out of deer hooves and a stuffed armadillo poised under the staircase. The walls were covered in hand-painted murals of outdoor western scenes—a clever way to avoid hanging pictures, except in the middle of it all was something of a shrine to the owner’s mother, Catherine Kent, who apparently sang and/or acted in an all-female western troupe. Framed pictures of her (mostly of the cheesecake variety) hung along the staircase and in the dining room. Too bad we didn't have our camera.

After getting over the shock of having to spend the weekend in a Wild West museum, we decided to take a walk into “town” to see how Pismo had changed over the past two years. The drive-in burger joint, Pom & Roy, had either changed management or got a new coat of paint; otherwise, everything still looks the same. The Old West Cinnamon Roll store, which is open every day of the year but Christmas, is still there, as is the eight-lane bowling alley. Mo’s barbecue is still serving up ribs and tri-tip and The Scoop is still the place to get ice cream. It was Thursday afternoon, so things were fairly quiet. By Friday afternoon, however, the place was a zoo, with campers full of families arriving for the weekend.

The highlight of every trip to Pismo is the SLO Farmer’s Market, which starts at 6:00, Thursday evenings. Anxious to get a good parking spot, we arrived in SLO at 5:30PM and watched as vendors heated up their grills and popped their tents in preparation for that night’s hordes. Amazingly, within 20 minutes, several blocks of Higuera St., SLO’s main north-south artery, was turned into an outdoor marketplace. By 6PM, the place was swarming with tourists and locals alike.

The central coast is famous for its barbecue, so we started by walking the entire length of the market, checking out the various menus and comparing prices. Finally, we decided on pulled pork sandwiches from Mother’s Tavern and had a feast, perched on the first empty curb we could find. We then went in search of other food items that we could either eat in the condo or take home at the end of the weekend. I bought two half-pound tomatoes, which were so big it took me 20 minutes to chop them up later that night. Tim bought two jars of his favorite olallerberry jam. I was determined to buy some strawberries to munch on over the weekend, but couldn’t find any to my liking, so we treated ourselves to a scoop of outrageous blueberry cheesecake ice cream instead. By now, we’d walked up and down the market three times and so finally headed back to Pismo as it started to get dark. After snacking on organic tomatoes, we went to bed, surrounded by murals of sunflowers and cacti.

I taught the next day, so Tim ran errands between news reports of uncontrolled fires in San Bernardino and war in Israel. At 3:30, he picked me up in SLO and we returned to Pismo for an early dinner. I had noticed a new restaurant in town called Two Blocks Off the Beach—actually, I had noticed the sign outside, promising homemade desserts!—and so when Tim read a glowing review of it in the weekly newspaper, we decided to give it a try. The food was wonderful—one of the best spinach salads I’ve ever eaten. And the dessert was fabulous, as promised. Finally, a great restaurant in Pismo Beach.

Like most beach towns, the downtown area is pretty much overrun by teenagers at night; so we turned around and went back to SLO to see the recently released documentary “Who Killed the Electric Car.” As enlightened as SLO is, most of its movie theaters show the same ol’ summer blockbusters, which we’ve already seen. The happy exception is The Palm, a tiny art house that shows nothing but independent and international films. Luckily we got there early, because the movie—shown in a theater about the size of our master bedroom—was almost sold-out. The film chronicles the creation and ultimate destruction of the popular EV-1 electric car created by General Motors in 2001. Several villains are portrayed in the film, including the oil companies, who are obviously not enthused about electric cars, GM, who saw no profit in manufacturing mass quantities of fuel-efficient cars, and the government, which bowed to the pressures placed on them by GM and the oil companies. I found myself mumbling and cursing throughout the film as the electric car’s enemies prevailed. I half-expected Tim to shush me like he did when we saw Michael Moore’s “Fahrenheit 9/11” the first time. As for the rest of the audience, they were fairly subdued, until George Bush came on the screen, proposing to drill for oil in the Alaskan preserves. You would have thought Hitler himself had walked in the door for all the booing and hissing that erupted by the time Bush finished his speech. I knew then that the movie had struck the same chord in everyone else that it had struck in me.

On Saturday, we got up early and headed north to Cayucos after having a hearty breakfast at SLO’s famous Apple Farm restaurant. Cayucos, we discovered two years ago, is the antiques capital of the central coast. Still, we were quite surprised to find the place crawling with people. Turns out there was a six-mile “Rock to Pier Fun Run” that morning, from Morro Bay to the Cayucos pier, and hundreds of people had either participated or come to cheer their loved ones on. The stores weren’t open yet, so we stood on the pier watching as the last few stragglers crossed the finish line. All else was forgotten, however, when the stores opened at 10AM.

Now I collect a particular pattern of dinnerware called “Swiss Chalet.” It’s a set that was sold in supermarkets when I was a kid in the early 1960s. My mother bought a few pieces, which I took with me when I moved out of my father’s house fifteen years later. I never really gave these oddball plates and saucers much thought until I saw an entire set of them at the Rose Bowl flea market about three years ago. They were beautiful: white with small blue and green hand-painted flowers in the center. I passed them by that day, but soon became obsessed with collecting all the pieces I didn’t have. I even did a bit of research and found out that the set, called Swiss Chalet, was made by a well-known porcelain company named Marcrest. In addition to the usual plates, bowls, cups and saucers, a different manufacturer, Fire King, also made an entire series of drinking glasses, which I had never seen, and Pyrex made matching cookware. I was completely hooked and have spent many hundreds of dollars buying almost every piece of Swiss Chalet I could find.

I have never been able to find the holy grail of Swiss Chalet pieces, however: a blue pitcher which has no identifiable markings, except a Marcrest stamp on the bottom. I have seen the pitcher in pink, which of course belongs to another set altogether, but never in blue. So Tim and I were on a very specific quest in Cayucos: to find the blue Swiss Chalet pitcher! I even printed off a picture of it, which Tim kept in his pocket, just in case.

Well, after three hours, not only did we *not* find the pitcher, but we didn’t even see one single piece of Swiss Chalet, which is highly unusual. Could it be that I’ve already bought most of the inventory in the western United States?! I did find some other cool stuff, though, including a pair of two-inch plastic red-and-white salt-and-pepper shakers that perfectly match our mid-century red kitchen, plus a $3.50 brochure about Angel’s Flight, one of downtown L.A.’s most precious lost treasures. I also found an old poster of Culver City’s former raceway, which was demolished in the 1950s or ‘60s. I didn’t buy the poster on our last trip; but this time I grabbed it immediately from exactly the same spot I had left it two years ago!

From Cayucos, we went back to SLO to do yet more shopping. Tim found a wonderful set of old Hollywood postcards, circa 1965, with an astounding picture of the Hollywood freeway without a median wall! Of course, maybe a wall wasn’t necessary in those days because the postcard shows a completely uncongested freeway, with only about ten cars merrily zooming by. My, how things have changed!

We had hoped for more barbecue, but opted instead for some tasty individual pizzas from Pizza Solo, a fast-food restaurant in a newer part of downtown SLO. We also stopped by House of Bread, where free samples were generously provided. Tim almost convinced me to bring home a loaf of parmesan cheese bread, until I took a bite of my sample and ended up buying sourdough artichoke pesto bread—yum!

Exhausted, we limped back to Pismo with our treasures. We were going to see another movie later that day, but decided instead to take a stroll along the beach and happened upon a wedding. We spent the rest of the evening watching the Angels game.

We are now back home. The cats survived without us for three days and Tim is absorbed in the L.A. Times. We never did find time to eat ribs in SLO, so we’re on our way out to have Santa Maria barbecue in our own beautiful downtown Culver City. We’ve got the Taste of Larchmont tomorrow night, the Hollywood Bowl on Wednesday, and ComiCon in San Diego next weekend . . . so stay tuned for more reports soon.

7/16/06

Trip to Catalina

We woke up in a seafaring mood after spending much of yesterday watching the new “Pirates of the Caribbean” movie (loved it!) and so booked two round-trip tickets on the 12:45PM catamaran from Marina Del Rey to Catalina Island. In the past ten years, we’ve been to Catalina maybe three or four times—usually just for lunch, then we turn around and head home. Our favorite restaurant, located on the main boardwalk, serves exceptionally crispy carnitas. We like to eat at the outside bar so we can people-watch and see the ocean.

Since the Marina boat doesn’t return until 7:30PM, we decided to pack our own supplies in case things got boring. We grabbed our iPods, a radio (to listen to the Angels game on the way home), books, jackets, and hats. I also filled three bottles with water in case of sudden drought(!). After opening all the windows in the house—so the cats wouldn’t die of heat while we were gone!—we turned on the porch light and left for the Marina.

We, of course, were the first passengers to arrive. The ticket counter is located in Fisherman’s Village, a sad little restaurant/shopping area that probably saw its last heyday some thirty years ago. I was desperate for a cookie or other baked good, but could only find ice cream (three different stands!), prepackaged sandwiches and t-shirts. I finally settled for a small bag of Doritos, opting not to ruin my appetite for carnitas.

The other passengers started to arrive while we waited at the dock. There was a family from Oklahoma that was going over to attend a wedding or some such event. There was also a group of four Asian women, only one of whom spoke English. A young couple had a small white fluffy dog in tow and others were loaded down with all kinds of luggage. Then there was the handsome young man who immediately latched onto an attractive young Australian woman, claiming that he was going to Australia himself next month for a job. Tim and I gave each other the secret “Yeah, right!” look and then quietly eavesdropped to see how far he got.

The boat was now 15 minutes late and so I ran to the restroom one last time. Naturally, as soon I left, the boat arrived, causing quite a flurry to get on board. Anxious to get going, we all rushed down to the dock only to be directed back up the ramp to wait a while longer. Finally, after about 10 minutes, it was announced that the boat had hit a “big fish” on the way into LA and would have to be inspected before it could leave for Catalina. As we soon found out, they actually did hit either a dolphin or whale—“a large flailing fish and lots of blood in the water,” was how the captain explained it—which, of course, could very well have caused a lot of damage.

After another 20 minutes, we were told that water was seeping into the boat and so our trip was canceled. We quickly got our refund while the poor Oklahomans, et al., tried to figure out a way to get to Long Beach to take the next boat out of there.

By now, it was well beyond lunchtime, so we headed up Admiralty Way to Casa Escobar, past the crowded restaurants of the Marina. Located next to a decidedly “downscale” Best Western, Casa Escobar is another relic of the 1970s that is well past its prime. Still, on a warm summer afternoon, the view from the patio is just as beautiful as the view from the nearby Ritz-Carlton; plus Casa Escobar serves one mean plate of carnitas. Who needs Catalina anyway when good food and the ocean are just ten minutes from your own front door?

7/8/06

July 4th block party

One of the first things we learned, when we moved into our house eight years ago, was that our neighbors hold an annual Fourth of July block party. With barricades on one end of the block and Ballona Creek on the other, it’s easy to create our own private street. It’s all very illegal, of course, but since we’re part of a tiny portion of LA that juts into Culver City, the Culver City police don’t pay us any attention and the LAPD are just too busy handling other bigger problems.

The party, which is organized by a pair of families who live down the block, is usually announced a week in advance via a photocopied invitation that is hand-delivered to each house. Tim, who grew-up in a very tightknit neighborhood filled with kids his own age, waits anxiously every year for our invitation. We have missed the party a couple of times, but this is pretty much a highlight of his summer.

Although the festivities don’t usually begin until 3PMish, the barricades go up first thing in the morning so the families can start assembling their pop-up shade tents on the street. We assume the cooking starts hours before as there are always massive amounts of meat and other tasty delights. Guests are asked to bring a side-dish; our hosts provide everything else. In the past, I’ve baked cookies, made salads, etc. This year we took gourmet olives and shared some of my sister’s homemade pickles. Tim also contributed a bunch of fresh sausage he bought at the market. We can tell it’s time to mosey on over when we smell meat (ribs, tri-tip, pork roast, chicken, and sausage!) barbecuing on four separate grills.

When they were younger, the neighborhood kids spent a big part of the day decorating their bikes and Big Wheels with balloons and bunting before parading them up and down (and up and down!) the block to much applause and cheering. Now they entertain themselves by playing street football and basketball (the boys) or visiting with their friends (the girls). One of those ubiquitous “Johnny jump-ups” is inflated on the Ballona end of the block for the new generation of little ones.

The adults congregate around the food and drinks, staying cool under the tents and neighborhood trees. Music (U2, Clapton, Motown, etc.) blasts from two speakers strategically placed on one family’s roof. People chat, sing, and just basically bask in the casual atmosphere of the day. We sat with a young Australian man who was traveling around the world, staying with friends whenever possible. He said he loved Los Angeles but would soon be moving on to Canada, England, Israel, Egypt, Europe, and then finally Asia.

Neighbors drift in and out of the party, sometimes going back to their own family gatherings at home. We managed to grab a nap after sampling most of the food.

The climax of the day is always the Culver City fireworks, which are launched from the high school stadium just three blocks away. In anticipation, the local kids start setting off their own pyrotechnics as soon as twilight descends. There’s always a lively display of Roman candles, sparklers and Piccolo Petes, which strangely go quiet as soon as the real fireworks begin. This year we were also treated to a fabulous display of aerials launched above Ballona Creek by, of all people, our plumber, who lives two blocks away. It was a veritable embarrassment of riches as our heads spun around trying to catch all the pre-show magic.

Things finally settled down at 9:15PM, when the first fiery chrysanthemum exploded over the high school. As we do every year, we quickly caught-up with our neighbors across the street while waiting for the next array to appear. One neighbor was diagnosed with cancer and is undergoing chemotherapy; the others had to put their elderly dog to sleep. Too much news to share just once a year.

The fireworks were spectacular. Certainly not the caliber of Disneyland’s nightly show, but nonetheless outstanding by Culver City standards. The recent renaissance of the downtown area has apparently led to a new and improved Fourth of July fireworks show! Hooray for redevelopment!

As soon as the fireworks ended, we sadly wished everyone a good night and went our separate ways. My best friend Karen, who had joined us for the show, zoomed off as we retreated home to our terrified cats. Without a minute’s delay, the neighborhood kids resumed their own show, launching their remaining firecrackers, etc. Exhausted, we fell right to sleep despite the constant sound of Piccolo Pete playing outside our living room window...

7/5/06

L.A. Film Festival (final day)

The final day of the festival was something of a bust—partly because the film we saw was a real stinker, but also because it was so damn hot that any remaining interest in the festivities seemed to be sucked away.

We arrived an hour early, as usual. Happily, it was Sunday so we were able to park on the street for free. There wasn’t one person on line when we arrived at the Crest, so we hung-out in the shade on the other side of Westwood Blvd. Fifteen minutes later, the previous show let out and, from among those folks, a line began to form. We jaywalked and then huddled under a sad-looking tree near the theater’s entrance. There was absolutely no evidence of celebrities or cast members and, indeed, as we soon found out, this was to be a screening only with no Q & A.

The movie was “Wild Seven,” an extremely self-conscious noir piece filmed in the style of “Pulp Fiction” and other Tarantino rip-offs. Robert Forster and Robert Loggia played a pair of aging ex-cons who plan to pull one last heist; but things go awry when Forster brings his son (writer-director James Hausler) into the mix. The movie had its moments—including a funny scene with a gun dealer who also sells stuffed teddy bears—but was disappointing overall. Still, we decided the festival itself made for an exciting and fun weekend and so may just buy two 10-film passes next year!

With that, we rushed back to our car so we could get home in time to see one of our favorite TV shows, HBO's “Entourage,” where the "real" Hollywood insider stuff happens.

More adventures soon...

7/3/06

L.A. Film Festival (7/1/06)

No celebrities at yesterday’s film festival. In fact, no full-length film! Instead, we attended a UCLA lecture called “L.A. Noir: The City as Character,” which featured clips of several post-WWII films—mostly black-and-white—shot on location in Los Angeles. My favorite was a scene from “Sunset Boulevard,” showing a mechanical stop/go sign that was eventually replaced by our three-color traffic lights. We also saw the old Angels Flight (“Kiss Me Deadly”), oily Venice canals (“Touch of Evil”), the magnificent Bradbury Building (“DOA”), and assorted shots of City Hall and Bunker Hill. Tim has “Mickey Rooney” programmed into our Tivo wish list, so of course his favorite clips were of the Santa Monica Pier, where we saw Mickey (playing the bad guy) being endlessly chased by the cops in “Quicksand.”

I wanted to watch “Chinatown” when we got home; but Tim was in more of a military frame of mind, so we watched “Black Hawk Down” instead. We’re seeing our last festival film later today. Be sure to tune-in tomorrow for details...

7/2/06

LA Film Festival (7/1/06)

While everyone else on the 405 freeway was getting an early start on the long Fourth of July weekend, we were headed north to Westwood to see two more installments of the LA Film Festival: “Right at Your Door,” a dramatic thriller set in present-day Los Angeles, and “I Want Someone to Eat Cheese With,” a comedy written by, directed by and starring Jeff Garlin, Larry David’s overweight manager in the hilarious HBO series “Curb Your Enthusiasm.”

Our first challenge, of course, was finding reasonably-priced parking. It was still well before 5PM when the lots change to the more affordable evening rates, so I knew we were in trouble. I tried a lot near the Crest theater, but quickly made a U-turn when I noticed we would have had to pay $16 (!) I then headed over to the $5 lot we use when we can’t find free parking on Geffen play nights. It was $7, but I was starting to worry about getting to the theater on time and so paid the price. Tomorrow we go back to taking the bus!

There was no one on line when we got to the theater (Mann Festival). In fact, it was so hot outside that the festival volunteers told all ticket-holders to wait in one of Westwood’s many air-conditioned coffee shops until 30 minutes before show time. We did and, finally, at 4PM were admitted into the theater.

“Right at Your Door” is a frighteningly realistic look at what might happen if terrorists attacked Los Angeles. The protagonists are a young couple who had moved to Echo Park just two weeks before. The wife (Mary McCormack, of “West Wing” and “ER”) gets caught in the fallout when bombs explode during the morning rush hour, while the husband—an unemployed musician (Rory Cochrane, formerly of “CSI: Miami”)—listens to the unfolding events on the radio at home. As contaminated ash starts to pollute the entire city, it quickly becomes apparent that the wife is doomed.

Suffice it to say that the movie is a real-life nightmare. Listening to the radio reports of bombs exploding in downtown LA, Century City and then LAX, I could barely remain seated in the theater. It reminded me of the nearly unwatchable nuclear holocaust film “Testament” (1983)—except all the horror of this movie is squeezed into 48 hours instead of over several weeks. Tim and I were both relieved when it was over. As soon as the credits rolled I ran to the bathroom, where I overheard one exhausted-looking woman say to another, “I need to see a comedy!”

The Jeff Garlin film was starting in 30 minutes, so we left before the post-movie Q&A began. But we did wait long enough to see the writer-director Chris Gorak (art director on “Fight Club” and “Tombstone”) and Mary McCormack (tall and pretty). We ran into a hurrying Rory Cochrane (cute!) as we left the theater. We were grateful to be outside in the light of a beautiful day.

En route to the Crest, we noticed a man wildly gesturing and yelling to a couple across the ever-congested Westwood Blvd. “There he is!” Tim said. And sure enough, there was Jeff Garlin and his petite blond wife walking down the wrong side of the street. The gesturer was advising them to go back to the stoplight so they wouldn’t get killed jaywalking.

A short line greeted us at the Crest. Actress-comedienne Bonnie Hunt was already there, graciously signing autographs for several fans. She plays one of Jeff’s love interests in the movie and is much prettier and thinner in person. Things started getting crazy when Jeff arrived, but by then we were on our way into the theater.

Once inside, Tim noticed that the last three rows—the best seats in the house—were open, so we quickly staked our claim in the third row. Luckily, several other people soon joined us because, five minutes later, a petite blond—Mrs. Garlin!—showed up to rope-off the last three rows. We refused to move, so instead she taped off the two rows behind us. We also agreed to save the three empty seats next to us. We were about to be surrounded by the entire cast of the movie!

I was busy watching for celebrities, when Tim whispered, “Dan Castellaneta is sitting right behind you!” Castellaneta, best known as the voice of Homer Simpson, plays a mini-mart owner in the movie. Next to him were Mina Folb (alum of the wonderful old TV show “That Was the Week That Was”) and David Pasquesi (Garlin’s friend from Second City), also both in the movie. Behind Tim was documentarian Morgan Spurlock and a fetching blond, whom he introduced as his “new wife.” Apparently he’s no longer with the woman who stood by him for thirty days in “Super Size Me.” Spurlock was telling everyone about the new season of his TV show “30 Days,” when Richard Kind showed up to quite a fanfare. He had just been named as a replacement lead in “Dirty Rotten Scoundrels” on Broadway and so was treated to much hugs and kisses by his peers. By the way, Kind is much handsomer in person than he is on TV. He plays Garlin’s agent in the movie.

We also saw Caroline Rhea, a comedienne who used to have her own talk show, and Paul Mazursky, who plays a TV producer in the film. Mary McCormack slipped into the last row right before the lights dimmed.

The movie was wonderful. Very sweet and funny, it’s partially based on Garlin’s early show biz life in Chicago, where he grew-up. It’s by far the best film we’ve seen at the festival. Afterwards, Garlin, Bonnie Hunt and the producer took questions from the audience. Garlin was obviously very thrilled to be there. We all screamed in joy when he announced that he had sold the movie to a distributor. Tim and I gave the film the highest rating—GREAT—on our exit surveys.

Headed back to the car, we walked up “Popcorn Alley,” a street cordoned off for festival-goers. We marveled at a group of Asian tourists using chopsticks to eat bags of popcorn! Everyone was in a festive mood. Tomorrow we return for more...

7/1/06

LA Film Festival (6/29/06)

Tim and I went to the first of five (!) events we're attending this weekend at the LA Film Festival. Although the festival happens every year here, we've never gone because it's been in Hollywood, which is now too far to travel unless the event is really, really special. But this year, it moved to Westwood—just a 10-minute ride on the freeway—so we bought tickets to not one but *five* movies, which may never see the light of day outside the festival.

I had read in the paper that lines were starting to queue up at least an hour before each film. Since the movie was starting at 7PM (Wed. night),we decided not to fight traffic and so instead caught the Culver City bus, which goes directly to Westwood and UCLA. Our first coup of the night: Tim got to ride the bus as a senior!

Tim to bus-driver: "How much is the fare?"

Bus-driver: "It's 75 cents for her. You ride for 35 cents."

We laughed all the way back to our seats. Forty minutes later, we were standing on line at The Majestic Crest, a small but beautiful old (1930s?) theater that became "Majestic" after a recent renovation. The movie was "The TV Set," a comedy starring former X-Files actor David Duchovny, Sigourney Weaver, and sit-com star Justine Bateman. I was there to see Duchovny, whose most successful post-X-Files project has been voice-over work for dog food commercials. The line wasn't long, but by Hollywood standards we were very early (6:10PM). In fact, the standby line of people hoping to snag last-minute tickets was longer than ours. Tim spied a couple of non-Hollywood types who we always see at sneak previews.

I had to use the restroom, so walked a block away to the local branch library. By the time I returned, Tim was already inside. Outside there was now quite a flurry of people trying to get tickets. There was a very short red carpet, but even it was all but obliterated by the throngs of folks trying to get in.

The Crest is truly a magnificent theater—one of those hidden gems that only locals know about. Inside the auditorium are murals of old Hollywood, done partially in fluorescent paint so that when a blacklight shines on them, the signs above the fake skyline appear as neon. Anyone who loves Los Angeles must visit the Crest at least once to pay homage to the way things used to be.

Because we were so early, Tim was able to find us the perfect seats right in the middle. While he was off buying snacks, a woman sat down next to me and proceeded to introduce herself! (When's the last time that happened to *you* in a movie theater?!) Turns out, she was part of a larger group there to support one of the minor actresses in the movie. They cheered when her name appeared in the film credits.

Tim returned with tales of seeing at least two celebrities: Willie Garson, who played Carrie's gay best friend in "Sex and the City," and some kid who used to be in "The Wonder Years" (not Fred Savage). We also spotted someone whom we decided must be in the movie because everyone kept hugging him. Sure enough, it ended up being Jake Kasdan, the director, who introduced the film before it screened.

The movie was good, but probably of very little interest to people outside the West LA area. The plot involved a writer-producer (Duchovny) who was trying to get a TV pilot made and sold. Despite his determination not to sellout to the studio, he does indeed sellout and ends up with a big hit. The audience absolutely loved it! There was hardly a moment when someone—including us—was not laughing. But will people outside the Los Angeles area ever understand what's really going on in the movie? We doubt it and so Tim is predicting that it will go directly to DVD and never see the inside of a theater again.

After the showing, Kasdan, Duchovny, Bateman and Willie Garson, who played the director in the film, got up in front of the theater to answer questions from the audience. We stayed long enough to see them all—Duchovny looked very good (tall, thin and handsome)—and then quickly left to catch our bus home. If we missed the 10PM bus, we'd have to wait an hour for the next one to come by, so we quietly slunk out with all the other Philistines.

We've got four more films to see—including two tomorrow!—so more news from the trenches this weekend!

6/29/06