The Police

I’ve had a secret love affair with rock/pop legend Sting since 1983, when he and his former band, The Police, recorded their last studio album together. Sting, of course, has no idea who I am. Plus I’d have to fight half the women in the world—including his wife Trudie—for his affections. Nevertheless, I unabashedly adore him.

Over the years, I’ve seen him perform countless times as a solo act. But the most memorable concert still is the first time I saw him play with The Police 24 years ago. I was living in San Diego at the time, so Karen came down to accompany me to Aztec Stadium. We argued over who was going to use the binoculars first when Sting came out in a flesh-colored outfit that made him look decidedly naked. We’ve both been fans ever since.

Rumors had been flying around that The Police, who had become estranged after disbanding in the mid-1980s, were going to reunite. Sure enough, a few months ago they held a press conference to announce a world tour this summer. I immediately called Tim and asked him to get tickets through his radio contacts. They cost a small fortune, but he did good: four seats on the field at Dodger Stadium, 20 rows from the stage.

After what seemed like years, concert day (Saturday) finally arrived. I kept busy by cleaning the house and watching DVDs of The Police and Sting. I even unearthed a vintage t-shirt from Sting’s first solo concert 20 years ago, but was distressed to discover (surprise, surprise!) it no longer fit. A few snips of the scissors later—vintage, schmintage!—and I was ready to go.

Karen and our friend Estelle showed up at the house at 5PM. We debated the best route to take, knowing that traffic would be a nightmare as 55,000 concertgoers headed toward Dodger Stadium. Tim argued for the freeway, but I decided to take surface streets. An hour-and-a-half — and fifteen miles — later we pulled into the stadium. On impulse, we bought “preferred parking” ($35!), in the hopes we could easily slip down the hill after the show. Ha! I don’t know how long it took non-preferred folks to get out of there, but we were stuck in our car for an hour before moving even one inch.

The massive four-story stage was set-up in center field. A six-inch-thick plastic floor covered the grass and baseball diamond. My breath was quite literally taken away as we entered through the team bullpen and suddenly saw the inside of the stadium. So this is what it’s like to be a major league baseball player. Several women stood nearby rolling their eyes as their boyfriends slammed against the outfield wall, pretending to catch a fly ball.

Our seats (white folding chairs) were to the right of the stage, directly in front of an enormous set of speakers. The sound was so powerful I swear my hair moved with every beat. A band called FictionPlane was on stage. I had a vague memory that Sting’s son Joe Sumner was in the opening act, so we all jostled for the binoculars to see if he looked anything like his father. If more people knew Sting’s progeny was on stage, they probably would have been more respectful. As it was, everyone seemed more interested in buying beer and souvenirs than in listening to the band.

We sent Tim to scope out food options and restrooms. He excitedly reported back that he’d found a drinking fountain in the Dodger bullpen and then quickly volunteered to fill-up my empty water bottle. Who cares about concerts when there are baseball landmarks to explore?

Tim called his friend Nick to see if he’d gotten into the stadium yet. Nick said they were stuck on the 110 freeway and were not moving. The second opening act, the Foo Fighters, had emerged and were starting to play. I’ve been to many rock concerts in my life, but this was almost unbearably loud. I sat with my hands covering my ears while people, much younger than me, danced and cheered their way through the set. An hour later, a guy selling earplugs walked by, but it was too late—my hearing was already destroyed.

At 9:10PM, The Police finally took the stage with a rousing rendition of “Message in a Bottle,” one of my favorite songs. We stayed on our feet for the next two hours. Nick text-messaged Tim at 9:15PM to say they had just entered the stadium. Thank goodness we took surface streets instead of the freeway or we, too, would have missed the opening song.

Needless to say, the show was amazing and Sting looked fabulous! My only quibble was “Invisible Sun,” which was played against a backdrop of Iraq war footage. Although I appreciated the sentiment, the images really killed the mood as the concert nearly came to a screeching halt. But the crowd’s energy was soon buoyed again by more upbeat tunes. At one point, Sting turned the singing over to the audience as we all screamed out the lyrics to “Roxanne,” their first big hit. Surely people could hear our off-key voices for miles.

Three encores later, we were heading back to the car, despite the fact that I could barely move from all my jumping and dancing in place. I don’t know how Sting, who is two years older than me, keeps up the pace. Must be all that tantra yoga he’s famous for (by the way, did I mention how fabulous he looked?!)

Karen and I went antiquing late the next morning and, of course, deconstructed every minute of the concert. My ears had stopped ringing, but every muscle was sore. Could it be that I’m getting too old for rock ‘n roll? Nah . . . . As long as Sting and Paul McCartney and Neil Young and others continue to rock, so will I!

Long live The Police and rock ‘n roll!

6/25/07

Finding Nemo

I hadn’t been to Disneyland in a while, so I convinced Tim to go with me yesterday after spending the day with family in Orange County. The plan was to just go shopping at Downtown Disney (DD), the street mall outside Disneyland; but when we saw no lines to get on the Monorail, which stops in DD, we decided to take a quick roundtrip above the park. I was especially curious to see how the old submarine ride had been converted into “Finding Nemo,” a new ride which opens tomorrow.

From the Monorail we could see the submarines, now painted bright yellow, moving through the old lagoon. They looked beautiful, so shiny and new. But wait a minute—what was this? People were actually getting onboard!

“Babe, it looks like Nemo is having a soft opening!” I whispered to Tim. “Let’s see if we can get on.”

Luckily the Monorail stops right above the submarines, so we raced downstairs. Sure enough, there we found a short line of people standing behind a sign that said, “PREVIEW by Special Invitation Only.” I just had to get on that ride!

“Hi!,” I cheerfully said to the guy taking tickets. “My husband works for Disney. Is there any way we can get on the ride?”

He pondered the question for a couple of seconds and then said, “How many of you are there?”

“Just two,” I sweetly smiled.

He looked around to see if anyone was watching and then waved us in. “I LOVE YOU!” I yelled as we zipped by. We were on our way to find Nemo!

The submarines were always one of my favorite rides when I was a kid. Yeah, they were hokey with their foam-rubber mermaids and moldering fake fish, but to my young eyes it all was very exotic. I was deeply saddened when Disney decommissioned the subs almost ten years ago.

All my old feelings for the ride came flooding back as we and a group of middle school boys stepped down inside one of the newly refurbished boats. “How lucky are we to be on this ride?!” one of the boys excitedly exclaimed. I knew exactly what he meant.

After a few minutes, the lights were dimmed and the boat started to “submerge.” From our portholes we could see colorful coral and starfish swaying in the water, followed by the ruins of an ancient civilization, which I think were left over from the old ride. Our automated tour guide (from Australia) next told us to listen carefully, because in these waters we could actually hear fish talking.

He was right, of course, and soon we were treated to familiar scenes from "Finding Nemo” somehow projected onto spaces between and under the rocks we were floating by. The effect really brought the movie to life and was lots of fun. The middle schoolers, who had been chattering incessantly before we launched, were absolutely silent, so I could only guess that they—like me—were completely mesmerized.

All too soon, the fish were waving us good-bye as we started to surface. Our pilot let Tim take a peak at the controls while I went topside. I felt like a kid all over again!

Disneyland may be the happiest place on earth, but it’s even more magical when you’re lucky enough to be one of the first people to experience a new ride. . .

6/10/07

Star Wars Celebration IV

Some of you will no doubt roll your eyes when you see what I’m about to write, but my life truly changed the day I saw “Star Wars” for the very first time. Karen and I went to the 8AM showing at Grauman’s Chinese and were so blown away that we immediately sat through it again. We saw it a third time when it moved over to the Egyptian theater a few months later. Hiding in the bathroom, we then slunk back into the theater to see it a fourth time! I have, of course, seen it many times since then and, even though it’s not my all-time favorite movie—that honor still goes to “The Godfather”—it is the one film I’ve seen more times than any other.

By 1977, I was already a big science fiction fan, having grown-up on “Star Trek” and NASA space missions. But “Star Wars” was something altogether different. The story was epic but accessible and it was funny, too. I couldn’t remember any movie or TV show that so completely carried me away to another world. To me, “Star Wars” was on the scale of the “Lord of the Rings” novels and the Arthurian legend. I never quite saw movies the same way after seeing “Star Wars.”

Although I’ve (unfortunately) lost that innocent excitement about the franchise, I have nonetheless remained a loyal fan and have seen all five of the original movie’s sequels/prequels—in the theater—on opening day. Indeed, Karen and I stood on line so long to see “The Empire Strikes Back” (the second movie in the series), that I ran across the street to buy a pizza for us to eat while we waited.

No surprise then that I practically hopped out of bed today to hightail it over to the L.A. convention center for “Celebration IV,” a multi-day event commemorating the 30th anniversary of “Star Wars.” I arrived at 9AM, an hour before the doors opened, allowing me plenty of time to scope out the other attendees.


Now I’ve never worn a costume to a science fiction con (i.e., convention), but I always enjoy seeing other people who do. The 501st battalion of Imperial storm-troopers were there in force, cavorting with rebel sympathizers and posing for pictures. I also saw several Padawans (young Jedis) and Princess Leias in all shapes and sizes. An extremely tall Darth Vader caught everyone’s attention as photographers went crazy taking snapshots. Then, at 9:55AM, we all suddenly looked upward where a jetpack-wearing Boba Fett was flying in for a landing. Everyone burst into spontaneous applause. The convention had officially begun!

The mass of people politely poured through the doors before quickly running upstairs to the exhibit hall. There we were greeted by a life-sized replica of Jabba the Hutt, Han Solo’s giant sluglike nemesis. Fans were queued up to buy various “Star Wars” collectibles and I could see lines starting to form to get minor characters’ autographs. The exhibits were all far too commercial (e.g., Hasbro, LucasArts, etc.) for me, so I left empty-handed after a few minutes.

I then stumbled into a large hall next-door where one of the “Star Wars” fan clubs had set-up a life-sized X-wing spacejet like the one Luke flew when he blew-up the Death Star. Now this was more like it! I roamed around and looked at other fan club exhibits: the Mos Eisley cantina, peopled with small action-figures; a lightsaber duel between two Jedis; and a beat-up Honda convertible made to look like Luke’s land speeder. In any other world, it all would have looked pretty silly; but I loved it because it was far more authentic than anything the hawkers next-door were selling.

One of the main reasons I wanted to go to the convention was to see “The Vader Project”—an art exhibit of Darth Vader helmets decorated by 66 “underground” artists and comicbook illustrators. I was not disappointed. One Darth Vader was depicted as the Statue of Liberty, while another had antlers. There was a clown Vader and several that made political statements about war. Shag, the well-known L.A. artist who paints in a mid-20th-century style, turned his Darth Vader into a tiki head—very cool!

From there, I wandered over to the Lucas Archives exhibit—a room filled with costumes and other artifacts from all six “Star Wars” movies. I was in ecstasy! Here were miniature prototypes of rocketships and space stations used during filming, as well as Luke’s bionic arm. Among the most fascinating items was a rubber sculpture of Annakin Skywalker’s charred head, which was used as a model for Hayden Christensen’s make-up when Annakin was turned into Darth Vader at the end of “Revenge of the Sith.”

“Look, there’s Annakin’s burned head!” a father excitedly told his young son. The kid recoiled in horror, but the rest of us thought it was pretty neat!

My feet were starting to hurt, so I decided to find an exhibit where I could sit. En route, my eye caught yet another Princess Leia in a skimpy slave girl outfit (show off!), only this time the princess was actually a guy!

“Argh! Where’s the bathroom so I can wash out my eyes!” a male passerby yelled in mock horror, while the rest of us quickly grabbed our cameras. This was by far the best Princess Leia at the con!

Rejuvenated, I headed into a small theater where fan films were being shown around the clock. Some were surprisingly sophisticated for being homemade. But everyone’s obvious favorite was “The Eyes of Darth Tater,” starring various Mr. Potato Head dolls enacting the final scenes of “Revenge of the Sith.” A microwaved Annakin was turned into Darth Vader while his wife, Padmé, gave birth to twin Tater-tots. ("Star Wars" humor...I guess you had to be there...)

With that, I was ready to return home and so made my way toward the parking lot. There, tucked between several cars, were people changing into their “Star Wars” costumes, including one fellow who was halfway to becoming C3PO. I wanted to tell him that he was going to be a big hit because there were no other C3POs at the con, but I just kept walking.

Then suddenly, as I was almost to my car, I heard familiar deep breathing. Rounding the corner was Darth Vader and two red-caped minions looking very unfriendly. I thought of taking their picture, but ran for the car instead. Best not to provoke the Sith lord, especially when he’s on his way to making a grand entrance.

5/26/07

Charles Phoenix

Charles Phoenix is something of an LA icon. A baby-boomer who grew-up in Southern California, he makes a living collecting other people’s old photographic slides and showing them at sold-out venues. The result is what he calls “histo-tainment”—a combination of history and entertainment—which he creates by providing an hilarious backstory to each slide.

He opened the Anson Ford Theater’s summer season with his “United States of Charles Phoenix” show on Friday. It had been a while since we’d seen him—plus Tim had never been to the Ford—so we decided to go. To avoid parking in Hollywood, we drove to the Universal Studios metrorail lot where we could catch a shuttle to the theater after dinner.

Food options were pretty slim at the metrorail station, so we set our sights on Universal’s City Walk, about half-mile away atop the infamously steep hill at Lankershim and Cahuenga. We waited 10 minutes for the City Walk tram before our stomachs got the better of us. Surely we could walk there a lot faster than waiting for a ride. What a mistake! Tim charged ahead, leaving me a hundred paces behind. Fifteen minutes later, we stumbled into the first restaurant we saw and asked for massive amounts of water. I had completely lost my appetite.

We made it to the theater just as the pre-show entertainment was about to begin: music by Domenic Cangelosi, organist at the Moonlight Rollerway in Glendale. With slightly more than a thousand seats, the Ford is far more intimate than the nearby Hollywood Bowl, which seats 18,000. It was a beautiful night and the crowd—mostly young hipsters and others (like us) of a certain middle age—was thrilled. Let the festivities begin!

The “world’s greatest hula-hoopist” Mat Plendl opened the show by twirling up to eight hula-hoops around his body while dancing to Gene Krupa’s “Sing, Sing, Sing.” We held our collective breath and screamed with delight at the end. Charles Phoenix then emerged, wearing a thrift-store suit that he had customized with paint and glitter. The audience hooted its approval. Charles was in the midst of introducing a local pseudo-celebrity in the audience, when he was suddenly interrupted by a blond standing and waving her arms at the front of the theater. It was actress Cybill Shepherd. She obviously thought he was about to introduce her, but sat down when it became clear that he was introducing someone else altogether. An awkward Hollywood moment!

Undaunted, Charles carried on and showed us slides and more slides of families traveling to well-known destinations, like Palm Springs, vintage Las Vegas, Venice Beach, and the wacky Walk-o-Wonders in Columbus, OH. We laughed hysterically at a woman posing in a bra and gorilla mask in the desert and oohed-and-aahed at the space-age monorail zipping above the 1956 Texas state fair.

The show ended with a nostalgic tour of early Disneyland. It was enough to make one weep for happier days. But, instead, we left filled with warm memories and marveling at how lucky we were to grow-up during the wonderful 1950s/60s.

8/13/07

Griffith Park Fire

Karen called at 8:10PM, just as we were leaving on a Baskin-Robbins run. “Quick, put on channel 9!” she said. A small fire that had been burning in the Hollywood Hills all day suddenly flared up and was threatening the world-famous Griffith Park Observatory. Tim and I gasped at the TV screen. The flames looked dangerously close.

Growing up in Los Angeles—and, more specifically, in The Valley—we, of course, witnessed our share of big fires: Bel Air (1961), Malibu (1970), Chatsworth (1983). Seems like the hills above Burbank, where my family lived, burned every summer. In fact, fire was my biggest childhood fear—more fearsome even than lava or death by quicksand! I’ve heard people jokingly say that there are only two seasons in LA—rain and fire—but when flames threaten our cultural icons, like the Observatory and the Greek Theater, it’s no laughing matter.

Assured that the Observatory was indeed not in danger, we resumed our quest for ice cream and headed north on Sepulveda Blvd. We could smell the smoke. “I think I can see the fire!” I told Tim, as I looked east. “Let’s go to the little league fields to see if we can see it from there.”

The little league baseball park sits atop a hill at the southeast end of Culver City. On a clear day, you can see the entire LA basin—quite a spectacular view. The park closes at 9PM, so we raced up the hill. It was 8:55PM.

The pitch-black parking lot was filled with cars—apparently, we weren’t the only ones drawn to disaster. We walked over to a small group of people silhouetted against the city lights.

“There it is!” Tim whispered, pointing to the east.

Even though we were some ten miles away, we could clearly see the orange glow and billowing smoke. No one spoke. Then we all hopped into our cars and drove home to watch the fire on TV. As we neared the house, I could still see the glow looming in the distance. “I think we can see it from the end of our block!” I yelled.

Sure enough, as soon as Tim parked the car, I ran down the street and there it was, looking even more ominous as the flames suddenly took a turn westward. I wondered if the Hollywood sign, which we can also see from the end of our block, was safe. I could hear sirens in the distance.

The cat and I watched the coverage on TV while Tim went to bed. The mayor, fire chief and councilmember Tom LaBonge jockeyed for command of the microphone. The grief-stricken LaBonge described the loss of wildlife and magnificent hiking trails. No longer able to stand it, I turned the TV off at 11:30PM.

I woke up to Tom LaBonge crying on the 6AM news. No structures were destroyed overnight, but all roads surrounding Griffith Park were now closed. I got dressed and walked to end of our block.

The Hollywood sign was obscured by smoke, but all else looked normal. I guess LA escaped another major fire. But just in case, I’ll be monitoring the news all day to make sure my beloved city is safe...

5/8/07

Our Favorite Weekend

The otherwise benign LA Times column “My Favorite Weekend,” which features local celebrities describing their perfect Los Angeles weekend, has recently become a hotbed of controversy. Fans of the weekly column like seeing how the other half lives. Opponents, on the other hand, argue that celebrities are not real people anyway, so why waste precious newsprint on their fantasies.

Although any weekend I get to spend in LA with my husband is a “favorite,” last week’s was especially fun. Here’s a typical example of our favorite weekend:

*Friday night*

Tim and I like to reaffirm our adulthood every year by subscribing to season tickets at one of LA’s many prestigious theaters. We especially like getting dressed up and pretending we’re going to Broadway, or some other culturally significant place. The downtown Music Center, home to the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, Mark Taper Forum and Ahmanson Theater, is the closest thing Los Angeles has to “the great white way.” The atmosphere there can be very festive on warm summer nights when people are rushing to make the curtain at all three venues.

We think the entire scene is extremely sophisticated and so tend to arrive early so we can stroll around outside and admire the crowds. Sometimes we’ll even see famous theatergoers, like Neil Patrick Harris or Michael York. But it was cold and rainy Friday night, so I insisted on going indoors right away. No celebrity sightings this time, but no matter. The play, “Twelve Angry Men,” was very good and gave us lots to talk about on the short drive home.

*Saturday*

No rain, so we decided to take a long walk first thing in the morning. Tim had read that Angels manager Mike Scioscia lost thirty-five pounds by walking an hour a day. If Scioscia could lose thirty-five pounds by walking an hour, surely I can lose at least fifteen pounds by walking an hour every other day. I am now a walking fool.

While we were gone, Karen called to say a friend from college was in town—did we want to go with them to the antiques show in Santa Monica? We met them at noon. Karen insisted that I try on a gorgeous pair of green earrings, which Tim decided to buy for me; but the vendor’s credit card machine wasn’t working, so I wrote a check. So much for gallant gestures! After wandering around for an hour-and-a-half, we rushed home to get ready for that night’s Angels game in Anaheim.

There was a time when I lived for baseball. Tim and I both grew-up loving the Dodgers, but eventually changed teams when we moved to San Diego. In fact, much of our courtship took place at Jack Murphy Stadium. I called my family from there the morning Tim decided we should get married. Though we were already living together, we didn’t fully commit until we bought Padres season tickets after the wedding.

Unfortunately, life is much more complicated now and so, even though Tim still follows baseball, we have little time to actually attend games. That’s why Saturday was such a treat. Through his work contacts, Tim was able to score two field-level seats (and free parking!) to see the Angels, our favorite team since their 2002 World Series victory. This was our first game of the season—very exciting stuff! But like all good LA fans, we left in the seventh inning when our boys went ahead by seven runs. We listened to the rest of the game on the radio during the long drive home. The Angels won.

*Sunday*

Sunday morning, I convinced Tim to accompany me on a family errand to Burbank by promising to stop first at the Hollywood farmer’s market. A full four blocks long, Hollywood’s is, for my money, the best market in town: tasty produce, inexpensive flowers, a fun variety of street performers, plus the people-watching is far more entertaining than anywhere on the west side.

Although we used to spend lots of time in Hollywood when we first moved back to LA, we now mostly just pass through it to get to the San Gabriel Valley or the Hollywood Bowl. Imagine our surprise, then, when we discovered a three-story condo complex sitting on what used to be our favorite parking lot! Furthermore, the Broadway building, where Tim worked in the early 1990s, is now million-dollar lofts!

Located on Hollywood and Vine, the building, which was in very bad shape the last time we saw it, was once home to a glamorous Broadway department store. Its long-abandoned penthouse was even rumored to be one of Howard Hughes’s many LA hideaways. Now millionaires of another sort are going to live there.

“Good grief,” I gasped. “Hollywood is becoming gentrified! Is nothing sacred?”

We craned our necks like a couple of out-of-towners as we gaped at the building’s beautifully restored facade.

“Are you tourists?” a woman standing nearby asked, hoping no doubt to sell us something.

“No, we live here!” Tim declared indignantly as we headed toward the farmer’s market.

We shopped and ate while a guy in dreadlocks played “Yellow Submarine” on steel drums. We then returned to our convertible, tuned the radio to “Breakfast with the Beatles” and drove north to Burbank.

Just another favorite LA weekend...

4/28/07

Sportsmen's Lodge

One of Tim’s coworkers got married this past weekend to Joe McDonnell, a well-known local sports talk show host. Although they work for rival radio stations, employees from both organizations were thrilled to see the couple tie-the-knot after watching their relationship blossom over several years. What really got tongues waggin’, though, was whether or not LA sports royalty, like former Dodgers manager Tommy Lasorda, would go to the wedding. As it turned out, the most famous person there was Fred Dryer, former Rams football player and star of the 1980s police drama “Hunter.” But no one seemed to mind as Dryer graciously posed for photos with several of the wedding guests.

We didn’t attend the ceremony, but we did go to the reception afterward. Tim was in his glory pointing out all the local radio personalities and minor sports figures.

“Who’s that guy with the bad comb-over and sunglasses,” I asked, while munching on my taco salad.

“Oh, that’s Johnny Ortiz, former boxing promoter they used to call ‘The Downey Flash,’” he replied.

“The Downey Flash?” I asked incredulously. “Why did they call him that?”

“Well, rumor has it there wasn’t a woman in Downey, during the 1950s/60s, he hadn’t slept with.” And, sure enough, a while later we saw him dancing with a sweet young thing, even though he must be 105 years old by now!

Other luminaries celebrating Joe’s nuptials included Mark Thompson, of the nationally syndicated Mark & Brian Show, KLOS deejay Joe Reiling, Lew Stowers, Orange County sports reporter for KFWB, and Doug Krikorian, Long Beach Press-Telegram columnist and McDonnell’s on-air partner. Like I said, Tim was in his glory.

The reception was held at the Sportsmen’s Lodge, the wedding and bar mitzvah capital of the east San Fernando Valley and site of Tim’s ten-year high school reunion, 30 years ago. Located in Studio City on the corner of Coldwater Canyon and Ventura Blvd., the kitschy Lodge is conveniently close to Universal Studios and Hollywood. A few years ago, it was threatened with demolition, but the LA Conservancy’s Modern Committee saved it from the wrecking ball. Having spent part of my own youth in the Sportsmen’s Lodge, I was happy when the Mod Com interceded. I must admit to being a bit conflicted, however, when we returned to the Lodge this weekend. Walking into the lobby was like stepping into a 1970s time machine, but not in a fun, nostalgic way. The place is in serious need of a facelift.

Still, we had a good time mingling with Tim’s coworkers and dancing the night away. I am convinced that as long as wedding deejays play “Wooly Bully” and Jr. Walker’s “Shotgun,” we baby-boomers will never grow old. Now, if only there was a similarly easy way to revitalize the Sportsmen’s Lodge...

4/2/07

The Paley Festival

For the past eighteen years, Tim, Karen and I have blocked-off the first two weeks in March for the Paley Festival, a multi-day film-and-panel-discussion event sponsored by the Museum of Television and Radio (MTR). Although older series, like “Hill Street Blues” and “The Odd Couple,” are occasionally honored, the Festival is mostly about the hottest new shows of the season. Over the years, we’ve attended events celebrating “Lost,” “Desperate Housewives,” “Boston Legal,” “24,” “Battlestar Galactica,” “Everybody Hates Chris,” “X-Files,” “The Wonder Years,” “Freaks and Geeks,” “Friends,” “Bernie Mac,” “Deadwood,” and “China Beach,” to name just a few. In 1990, we sneak-previewed “Twin Peaks” a week before it aired on TV. I remember going to work the next day and proclaiming that I had seen the future of television!

A typical Paley event begins with the screening of an episode of the show being honored, followed by an extensive Q&A with the series’ cast and creative team. If a single personality, such as Jack Parr, William Shatner, or Carl Reiner, is being honored instead of an entire series, then a clip-reel is shown recapping that person’s career. A moderator then launches into an “Actor’s Studio” type of interview that is often very funny. Shatner was a revelation—one of the best raconteurs I’ve ever seen—and Parr, of course, was brilliant. But, by far, one of the most memorable evenings was listening to Reiner and his pals talk about the golden age of television. The festivities take place at the smallish Director’s Guild of America (DGA) theater, so it’s always an intimate affair.

In the old days, Karen and I would get up at the crack of dawn to stand on line for six hours to get tickets. This year, however, the Museum decided to outsource its ticket sales to Ticketmaster—a big mistake! By the time I logged on (9:05AM), “The Office,” “Heroes,” and “Ugly Betty” were already sold-out! Never in eighteen years had we been sold-out of shows we wanted to see! I was furious and made a trip to the Museum (in Beverly Hills) to air my displeasure. When I told the volunteer at the reception desk I wanted to complain about how the Paley tickets were handled, he laughed and said, “You and everyone else!” I was offered a million apologies along with promises to do better next year, but there was nothing more they could do this year.

Although we didn’t get tickets to the three shows we really wanted to see, Karen and I were able to attend the “Brothers & Sisters” event on Monday, March 5. The lobby was a frenzy when we arrived. Photographers madly waved their arms and yelled as the show’s stars walked the short red carpet outside the theater. I headed toward the ladies room and was almost wrestled to the ground by a bodyguard who evidently thought I was going to rush the red carpet. “I need to get some water and then I’m going to the bathroom. Is that all right?” I asked indignantly.

The event itself was pleasant, but less than memorable. Sally Field, who plays the widowed mother Nora, got the biggest applause even though the show is supposed to belong to Calista Flockhart. Field looks exactly like she does on television and had no trouble playing the elder spokeswoman on stage. The other big crowd pleaser was Jason Lewis, who plays the gay brother’s love interest and was Samantha’s much younger hunky boyfriend in “Sex and the City.” Although he wasn’t part of the on-stage entourage, he caused quite a stir when he stood and waved to the audience.

Flockhart, who plays Kitty, is only slightly less skinny in person than she is on TV. Still, she’s obviously adored by her male costars (don’t ask me why!) She sat between Rob Lowe, her on-air boss/boyfriend, and Dave Annable, Kitty’s youngest brother, and affectionately flirted with them the entire time. When asked why he auditioned to be part of “Brothers & Sisters,” Annable quipped that he wanted to meet Harrison Ford (Calista’s very famous significant other).

And speaking of significant others (beware: spoiler alert!), it was revealed that Nora is about to get a new love interest: Peter Coyote, who just happened to be in the audience.

With that, our one Paley evening was over...

That is, until two days later when Tim miraculously got a phone call from MTR, saying two tickets had been returned for “Ugly Betty!” Did we want to go? I can only guess that my little chat with Museum staff had left an impression! So the following Monday, Tim and I headed back up to Hollywood to see “Ugly Betty,” even though I had been home sick all day. There was no way I was missing this!

The entire cast, except Tony Plana (the father) and Ana Ortiz (the sister), were there. Vanessa Williams is simply gorgeous and Rebecca Romijn is statuesque. Ashley Jensen, the frumpy dress designer, is a lot more beautiful in person—as is, of course, America Ferrera (Betty), for whom the show was written. The happy chemistry among the actors was palpable and everyone seemed genuinely humbled to be part of such a hugely successful show. Ferrera cried when she described what an honor it is to play Betty. But the evening truly belonged to Michael Urie, Wilhelmina’s gay assistant, and Mark Indelicato, Betty’s young fashion-savvy nephew. Urie is as flamboyant as his on-air character and Indelicato is wonderfully self-assured. All the cast members talked about how liberating it is to be part of a series that celebrates individuality and uniqueness.

I can’t wait to see which shows are honored next year...

3/19/07

The L.A. Marathon

One of the first things I mark on my calendar every year is the L.A. Marathon, which always occurs on the first Sunday in March (today). Not only are we the only people I know who actually watch the marathon (on TV) from start to finish, but the streets around the race route (and beyond!) are always so horribly impacted that it’s almost impossible to travel anywhere north of Culver City the entire day. Karen and I were going to go to the Pasadena City College flea market this morning, but canceled when we realized we’d have to cross the race route at least once no matter which way we went. Better to stay home and just watch the race.

The beginning and end of the marathon are always the most exciting: hearing the inspirational story of at least one breast cancer survivor who runs the 26-mile course to celebrate her new lease on life, and then at the end cheering for the lone woman runner who looks like she might beat the men but never does. Very motivational.

But for us, the best part of the marathon is seeing some of our favorite parts of L.A. on television as the runners race by. This year, the course started at Universal Studios, north of Hollywood, and ended in front of the Los Angeles Public Library in downtown L.A. Once the TV is on, it’s a constant commentary between Tim and me as the camera rolls by numerous local landmarks.

Mile 1: “There’s the fire station on Cahuenga! Yikes, can you imagine running up that hill?!”

Mile 3: “They’re making the Franklin Avenue curve in front of the Presbyterian church! ‘Hollywood Bowl parking—No stacked parking!’” (We’ve walked down that hill. I can’t imagine running down it in a horde of 25,000 people! How do the runners keep from getting trampled to death?)

Mile 4: (Tim) “They’re turning right at Hollywood and Vine!” (Me) “Haven’t they finished converting that building into condos yet?” [talking about the building where Tim used to work]

Mile 4.1: (Tim) “THERE’S MOLLY’S!!” [in a weepy voice, remembering lunches of yore] (Molly's is Tim’s favorite Hollywood hot dog stand).

Mile 6 (Hancock Park, where Vine turns into Rossmore): (Me) “Looks like all the rich folks are still sleeping—not many people cheering from the sidewalks.” (Tim) “Or maybe they all went to Santa Barbara for the weekend...”

Now bored (not our favorite part of town), I hop into the shower, but am out in time for Exposition Park and environs.

Mile 13: “There’s the Coliseum!” (followed by a brief infomercial touting the beauty and cultural advantages of the Exposition Park area. Huh?)

Mile 14: “I see USC!”

Mile 22: (Tim) “They’re crossing the L.A. River!” (Me) “There’s the downtown Sears!” [getting excited again]

At Mile 23, the runners head west as the camera suddenly pans toward downtown L.A. The view is breathtaking and for a (very!) brief moment I wish I was dashing toward the finish line. The men overtake the sole woman runner (a 45-year-old Russian) in the last mile and then it is all over. Along the way, we heard the story of a woman who had lost 100 pounds, which she keeps off by exercising. We also saw a blind man running his third (!!) marathon and watched a father pushing his disabled daughter in a stroller.

Maybe we should actually participate in the marathon next year, even if we only walk two miles and then jump onto the subway. To get in shape, I’ll start by walking around the block as soon as this year’s winners are crowned.

3/4/07

Philadelphia

A month ago, I was invited to lead a couple of workshops in Philadelphia. It was a brief affair—two travel days plus two days in town--but the memory still burns bright.

Forget “Rocky” and the TV show “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia.” The City of Brotherly Love is beautiful and reminds me a lot of NYC, but without the crowds. It is, of course, also totally historic. Benjamin Franklin not only walked these streets, he’s actually buried here, too. In fact, the man is considered a god in Philadelphia, with everything from monuments to pawn shops named after him.

Since I had only one day to sightsee, I decided to take one of those at-your-own-pace trolley tours to get an overview of the city. My first stop was the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall, where I spent two hours reliving the birth of the USA.

Now I’m not a religious person, but I do appreciate the sanctity of certain places and things. Every American citizen should consider these sites hallowed ground—ground that’s protected by metal detectors and security guards, but hallowed nonetheless. Indeed, the Liberty Bell, which used to be out in the open for anyone to see and touch, is now housed in a new facility where it is treated as something of a holy relic. It stands across the street from Independence Hall, where the Declaration of Independence was signed and where the Constitution—the blueprint for all democracies that have come after—was drafted. I was especially moved by the Hall’s Assembly Room, where the founders debated the future of their fledgling country behind closed curtains. Here was the actual chair where Benjamin Franklin (or was it Thomas Jefferson?) sat as the men climbed the short dais, one by one, to sign the Declaration.

Even more moving, though, was entering Congress Hall two doors west of Independence Hall. (I had no idea that Philadelphia served as the nation’s capitol, from 1790 until 1800, while Washington D.C. was under construction). Downstairs was the House of Representatives chamber, with its nondescript wooden desks and plain white walls. Upstairs, however, was an entirely different story. Just as it is today, the early Senate was, by far, the more prestigious of the two Congressional houses as is immediately apparent by their chamber’s lavish furnishings. Plush green wallpaper and red velvet curtains speak to the importance of the Senate’s governmental role. And there were twenty-six beautifully appointed desks, reminding everyone that the U.S. started with thirteen states (two representatives from each, as it is today). The picture (to the left) of the eagle-emblazoned carpet was taken from the exact spot where George Washington was inaugurated during his second term as president. Every student of early American history should stand in that spot.

From Independence Hall, I hopped the trolley to other sights, including Betsy Ross’s house, the art museum (where Rocky made his triumphant ascent), the avenue of flags, and Society Hill. Back at Independence Hall, I decided to walk the two miles to the hotel (the temperature was in the upper 40s—a real heat spell for early January) and visit some of the sights we’d quickly driven by. I stopped in the Reading Terminal market—similar to downtown L.A.’s Grand Central, but without carnitas tacos—for lunch, and then wandered over to Macy’s (formerly Wannamaker’s), which houses one of the largest operational pipe organs in the world. Built in 1904 for the St. Louis World’s Fair, the organ was moved in 1911 to Wannamaker’s department store, where it’s been ever since. Located above the cosmetics counters, on the second floor of a phenomenal marble-lined atrium, the two-story-tall organ entertains customers twice a day at noon and dinnertime. I missed both concerts that day, but now have a good excuse to return to Philadelphia!

Perhaps Tim and I will take a trip back east next fall...

2/5/07

On the Road (Again!)

I travel a lot. Not only do I have an office in Sacramento, but I also conduct workshops around the country and attend conferences. I’ve already gone on three trips this year and it’s only January!

The irony, of course, is that I would be just as happy staying home in my conventional Culver City neighborhood. I always feel like I’m missing something important when I leave L.A.; plus, I HATE to fly. This isn’t just grumpiness over airport security or the discomfort of being shoehorned onto an airplane. This is a true fear of falling out of the sky. I will never see the movie “United 93” and the plane crash scenes in “Lost” always send me running out of the room.

So how do I do it, over and over again? Well, I’ve discovered I pass through five emotional stages when coping with the trauma of travel (with sincere apologies to Elisabeth Kübler-Ross!):

1. Excitement - especially when I’m planning to return to a place I love (e.g., NYC, Hawaii) or when I’m traveling to a place where people I love live (e.g., Seattle). Then there's the fun of finding the cheapest airfares and hotel rooms, as well as hunting down theater events or other things to do.

2. Regret - as soon as I book my trip, I begin wondering how I’ll survive five hours in the air. Will the flight be bumpy? Will it be snowing/raining/foggy/unbearably hot when I arrive? About a week before my trip, I suddenly become obsessed with weather reports, looking for any excuse not to go. “What was I thinking when I said I’d lead a workshop in Philadelphia in JANUARY?!!”

3. Anger - especially when I realize all the fun things I’ll miss because I’m going out of town. “Whaddaya mean you’ve got free sneak preview tickets to the new George Clooney movie? That’s the week I’m in Ohio!!” My crankiness is further compounded by the new regulations limiting carryon items. Because some guy in Great Britain knows how to make explosives out of deodorant and a stick of chewing gum, I now have to squeeze all my cosmetics into a quart-sized ziploc bag. (I’m sorry, Mary Kay, but there’s only room for one jar of facial cream!) You know the world has gone crazy when lipstick and a tube of black mascara are considered lethal weapons!

4. Terror - stomach aches and sleepless nights; but even worse is the fear of forgetting to print my Southwest boarding pass until it’s too late to get on the A line! Such dread can only be surpassed by a white-knuckle cab ride to the airport. Luckily, we live only ten minutes away from LAX, so my husband usually plays chauffeur.

5. Acceptance - once I’ve made it safely through security and have found my gate, I start to settle down and accept my fate. “Surely the pilots won’t risk their own lives by doing anything foolish!” I always tell myself, keeping my fingers firmly crossed. On the plane, I plug into my headphones and push “shuffle” on the iPod. Frank Sinatra, Sting, the Beatles, Neil Young, and Steely Dan are all my best friends as I wing my way to my next destination.

Then, of course, there’s the trauma of finding a cab/shuttle/train to the hotel; but at least I survived another flight.

And most people fear public speaking more than anything else. Ha! When’s the last time you had to run your lipstick through a metal-detector before speaking in front of a room full of conference-goers? I’d rather conduct a full-day workshop in Los Angeles than fly to somewhere more exotic any day.

1/27/07

All You Need is Love

Like many people my age, I love the Beatles. Among my most prized possessions is a numbered print of an early Beatles portrait taken by Dezo Hoffman, which I bought in an art gallery several years ago. I also have a framed copy of “Goodnight Vienna” that Ringo Starr signed while visiting Tim’s radio station. My favorite Beatles poster, which I bought when I was nine years old, has hung in every one of my homes since 1963.

I consider myself more “fan” than “fanatic,” but I do remain a Beatles “purist”—that is, I prefer their studio recordings as they appeared on the albums sold in the US. I can barely stand hearing their songs played live, let alone covered by someone else. Bottom line: don’t mess with the Beatles.

It was quite a surprise, therefore, when I immediately fell in love with an acoustic version of George Harrison’s “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” while listening to “Breakfast with the Beatles” a couple of weeks ago. Turns out the song was a cut from “Love,” the soundtrack to Cirque du Soleil’s tribute to the Beatles. The show has been playing in Las Vegas for several months, but I really had no desire to see it until I heard the music. As soon as the song ended, I picked up the phone and bought a ticket to the show. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect as I was already going to Vegas to attend a wedding (see blog posting 12/17/06).

I suspected the wedding reception would run long, so I made a reservation for the 10:30PM show. Sure enough, I barely had time to put my feet up back at the hotel, before I was hailing a cab to take me a half-mile down The Strip to the theater. Nine dollars later, I found myself strolling through the Mirage looking for “Love.” When I asked the bell captain for guidance, he pointed in the general direction of the casino. At first, I got distracted by the Revolution bar, a sleek affair decorated in updated 1960s furniture, but then found the box office, where people were already starting to queue up for the show.

I was more than an hour early, so made my way over to the Beatles gift shop, strategically placed right outside the theater. I must say that this was some of the best Beatles merchandise I’ve ever seen: interesting t-shirts and other high-end, artsy wares. I could have easily spent several hundred dollars buying memorabilia, but instead settled on an oversized, limited-edition crystal plate decorated with the Sergeant Pepper emblem. I asked the saleswoman, who was thrilled to meet me, to hold it until after the show.

By now, people were milling around the lobby, buying concessions and listening to Beatles music played overhead. The audience (mostly baby-boomers) waited anxiously for the doors to open. Some sang quietly to themselves; others, like the guy next to me, danced in place. Finally, the ushers (dressed like British bobbies) directed us inside.

The stage looked a lot like the big tent Cirque du Soleil sets up when it visits Los Angeles. The theater was bowl-shaped with seats surrounding the proscenium. Four floor-to-ceiling scrims divided the space into quarters. I was worried that my view would be blocked, but, of course, the scrims were raised as soon as the action began. Beatles music played as people poured in.

While I was sitting there, a rather important-looking man came over and started chatting with an older couple behind me. Apparently he was the stage manager because he was soon regaling all who listened with stories of how this had previously been the famous Siegfried and Roy theater. “The tigers were kept in cages right under where you’re now sitting,” he embellished. “They had to dig down six floors to get rid of the animal smell. It STUNK in here!”

The bobby-ushers came around to warn us not to grab at anything that might project above us during the show (!) And then suddenly the lights went down and the show began.

Although there’s no real plot, the storyline loosely follows the Beatles’ lives and music, starting with their childhood during World War II and ending with “Hey Jude.” We saw screaming fans, a pregnant Lady Madonna, “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds,” and a circus for “The Benefit of Mr. Kite.” “Octopus’s Garden” was filled with luminescent jellyfish, squids and fluttering seaweed. Acrobats performed amazing fetes on trampolines for “Back in the U.S.S.R.” But the most memorable acts, by far, were those performed to George Harrison’s songs. “While my Guitar Gently Weeps” was especially moving, with delicate four-story-tall puppets swaying gracefully to the music. I almost started weeping myself.

And then it was over. Most of us seemed to float toward the doors. True fans (like me!) were draped in the red crepe-paper shot out into the audience during the grand finale. In a daze, I picked up my crystal plate at the gift shop and headed toward the taxi line, which was surprisingly subdued.

I had a hard time falling asleep that night with John, Paul, George, and Ringo singing in my head. “Love is old, Love is new...”

Long live the Beatles!

12/19/06

Vegas, Baby!

In the days when I had more time than money, I’d drive just about anywhere for fun. I’ve driven to Idaho, Seattle, Salt Lake City, the Grand Canyon, and lots of places in-between. Nowadays, though, I only drive long distances when I want to avoid getting on an airplane. Since I’ve been flying far too much lately, I decided to drive to Las Vegas, this week, to attend my friend Suzanne’s wedding. Luckily for me, I now have far more money than I have time, because it ended up being the most expensive trip to Vegas I’ve ever taken!

My family always had a soft spot for Las Vegas. We didn’t take many vacations when I was a kid, but my parents—and sometimes my aunt and grandmother—would slip away maybe once a year to the casinos. They’d usually stay at the Stardust or some other hotel from Vegas’s postwar heyday. There they’d play the slot machines until the wee hours of the morning. To my young mind, the whole thing seemed so glamorous. My parents would leave Friday night and return home Sunday morning, tired but happy. My sister Vicki and I got to tag along a couple of times; but it was very clear that Vegas was meant exclusively for people who were old enough to drink, gamble, and see women dance topless in one of the many adult entertainment clubs.

When I was in college, I always drove through Vegas en route to Provo, UT, where Vicki went to school. By then I had lost all interest in alcohol and gambling; but my aunt, who accompanied me on one of my trips, still heard the sirens call and so stayed up all night playing the slots while I slept soundly in the hotel. Fast forward to 1986 when Tim and I eloped to the Little Chapel of the West (located in the parking lot of the now demolished Hacienda hotel), followed two years later by the National Broadcasters Association convention, where we had to share a hotel room with one of Tim’s coworkers because the entire town was booked for the night. I swore then that I would never return to Las Vegas.

Suzanne’s wedding was scheduled at 3PM, so I left home at 8:30AM. I was heading north on the I-15 by 10AM. It had been eighteen years since I’d passed through this part of the world. Still, it was quite a shock to see how much it had developed. Victorville is now practically a suburb of Los Angeles and even sleepy little Apple Valley, where my aunt once owned some investment property, has turned into a boom town. By the way, if you’re still mourning the loss of Bob’s restaurants in Los Angeles, I’m happy to report that Big Boy is alive and well on the I-15, with not one but three (!) roadside eateries between Victorville and the state line. Speaking of which, I was dismayed to see how much the small outpost of Primm has changed over the years. The first town to greet drivers on the Nevada side of I-15, Primm used to consist of a couple of ramshackle casinos where gamblers left their last handful of coins before crossing into California. Today Primm is home to multiple factory outlets tucked behind ridiculously oversized storefronts. Little did I know that even more garish architecture was yet to come.

It seems we always approached Las Vegas at night when I was younger. After miles and miles of desert darkness, we’d suddenly see a glow in the distance and know we were almost there. This time I knew I had arrived by the black smudge of smog hanging over the city. That’s also when I started noticing the huge hotels rising above the landscape—some looking vaguely familiar, as if they were trying to copy the far more fabulous buildings of NYC and Paris. And they were all right on top of each other! I was horrified. Almost every stylish hotel and casino of the 1950s and ‘60s has been replaced by crude monstrosities trying to mimic other parts of the world. As my tow-truck driver, who grew-up in Las Vegas, said, “Things have changed for the worse.” I agreed. But I’m starting to get ahead of myself...

While I was waiting to turn right into the Riviera hotel—where Suzanne was getting married in little over an hour—a pedestrian pointed toward the front of my car and yelled, “You’re leaking!” Sure enough, as soon as I parked, I saw black fluid pouring from the engine. All thoughts of driving to the post-wedding reception (and elsewhere) were dashed. My roommate for the evening, Karen G. (not to be confused with my best friend Karen C. or my high school friend Karen H.!), checked under the hood and determined that the black fluid was water not oil. Still, I didn’t dare drive the car and decided, after much deliberation with Tim (in LA) and other wedding guests, to have the car towed to the nearest Honda dealer the next morning.

So, after staying up well past 1AM, I woke-up at 6AM and called AAA for a tow. Despite everyone’s diagnosis that the problem was probably just a broken hose, the Honda guys convinced me that I needed a new radiator. I didn’t leave Las Vegas until 1PM. Luckily I had brought student papers to grade just in case of such an emergency (be careful what you plan for!)

Did I really need a new radiator? I’m not a mechanic, so have no idea. But everyone at the Honda dealer was extremely nice and concerned for my safety, so I can only hope they did not rip me off in the process. Will I ever return to Las Vegas? Probably not. Nonetheless, the wedding was very lovely and I got to spend time with old friends I hadn’t seen in a while. Plus, I got to experience “Love,” Cirque du Soleil’s tribute to the Beatles. But you’ll need to read my next installment for that story...

12/16/06

Christmas in the Magic Kingdom

As a year-end gift, Disney opens Disneyland two nights in December exclusively for employees and their immediate families. It’s cold and dark, but the park is magnificent, all dressed-up for the holidays; plus the lines to the good rides are practically nonexistent.

We don’t go every year; but this time was a must because we hadn’t yet seen the renovated Pirates of the Caribbean ride. As the entire world knows by now, the Pirates movies have become one of the biggest of the company’s many franchises. And so, to take advantage of Pirates-mania — timed, not so coincidentally, to correspond with the release of the second Pirates film, “Dead Man’s Chest,” this past summer — Disney decided to “update” the ride on which the movies are based. Not only do animatronic versions of the movies’ characters now appear in the ride, but everything has been freshened up.

Over the past forty years, I’ve probably ridden Pirates of the Caribbean some thirty times, so the thrill had pretty well gone for both Tim and me. This time was definitely different, however. Fifteen minutes after the park opened, we were anxiously on our way to the Caribbean.

The ride’s storyline is still very much the same, except now the enemy ship is led by Captain Barbosa (a very good likeness of Geoffrey Rush), who is searching for his nemesis Captain Jack Sparrow (Johnny Depp). (Beware: spoilers ahead!) Captain Jack, who looks exactly like his real-life counterpart, can be seen hiding amongst some mannequins and then again inside a barrel, and finally surrounded by riches, singing “Yo-ho, yo-ho, a pirate’s life for me!” The newly restored treasures sparkle and the villagers and their captors all look freshly scrubbed. There is also a wonderful water curtain, where a projection of the squid-headed Davy Jones warns all riders to turn back. I was so distracted taking pictures the first time around, I made Tim go on it with me again so I could savor every new feature. If it wasn’t so darn late when we got home, I probably would have watched both movies, too, just to relive it all again.

As for the rest of Disneyland, it looked beautiful as always. It’s a Small World was festooned in Christmas lights and Sleeping Beauty’s castle was glorious. Although I thought we’d only want to go on the Pirates ride, we also (of course!) rode my other favorites: the Haunted House, decorated once again as “The Nightmare Before Christmas,” the mad teacups, Peter Pan, and Buzz Lightyear’s Astro Blasters, a combination ride and video arcade. Before we knew it, it was 11PM — way past our bedtime! — and so we caught the tram back to reality . . . but not before picking up our limited-edition, employees-only holiday ornament. Another Disney memento to add to our already memory-laden Christmas tree.

12/10/06