Aprilbaby's California Life

When Things Were So Bad They Were Good: My Goofy Website

Here's a goofy website (When Things Were So Bad They Were Good) I created (and need to tweak) as an assignment in my web design class. If you click on it and the Kodachrome navigation buttons don't light up, can you please tell me? Thanks! Sometimes they don't work in Internet Explorer.

As I said, I'm still working on it; it needs more text and meta tags, etc. And the theme is completely useless other than to humor myself. But, these days, humor is one thing I can still afford.

My Southern California Fantasy Vs. Reality

We've all had fantasies that didn't quite match the realities, right?

Some friends and I have a writing group, and this was the prompt we gave ourselves when we met yesterday: Write about a fantasy VS. the reality.

Here’s what I jotted down in a few minutes –

Fantasy:
I could smell the briny sea air, see the light bouncing on ocean waves, hear the seagulls squeal from my beach house. I’d be tanned, toned and sunlit-blond from biking along the strand near my place on the beach.

Reality:
After leaving my cold, fog-soaked town in the Bay Area, I made it to Southern California! And, yes, there’s plenty of sun and ocean for miles.  Plenty of beach-view apartments, too. But the closest place I could afford was an apartment over-the-hill in Reseda. So rather than breathe in ocean air, I choked on exhaust and grease from Fat Jack’s burger stand as I stood on my balcony. But I had a lovely view of Sherman Way. Rather than light bouncing on waves, the only bouncing-light I saw ricocheted off bumpers and windshields as cars zoomed past me.

Of Southern California, there's fantasy and then there's reality.  At the time, the two, for me, barely intertwined.

The Reluctant Groupies

I just realized I have a large enough collection of “Awkward Celebrity Encounters” to create a new blog category just for them.

Here’s another one:

In 1984, I was twenty and won tickets to see a Paul Young concert at the Kabuki Theater in San Francisco. I wasn’t necessarily a huge fan of Paul Young; I mean, I liked his songs. But mostly I was a huge fan of winning stuff off the radio. So my friend Dayna and I got all decked out in our lace tights, studded belts, bangles and big hair and went to the concert.

During the show, we were happy enough lost in the middle of the concert crowd when two of the theater’s security guards said to Dayna and me, “Hey, follow us. We’ll get you better spots.” They led us to an area right near the stage.  “Cool,” I thought. “We’re close enough to see Paul sweat.” And we were happy to be there and had no plans to get closer.

Once the show ended, the security guards again said, “Follow us.” We did.  And they took us backstage… no, actually, they pushed us backstage.  Once there, I thought, Now what? I didn’t particularly care to be back there. And Dayna, always way more cool than I was, cared even less. But once we were back there, with the security guards no where in sight, we started feeling mischievous. So we quietly walked down the hallway, covering our mouths as we tried not to laugh too loudly.

Then we poked our heads into an opened door, and there, all covered in sweat, stood Paul Young with his band.

Paul didn’t say anything, but his band or crew members started shouting, “Get out of here, you bitches!”

Yow! Now that wasn’t the reaction I expected, I thought. “We’re not bitches,” I think I squeaked, just before running behind Dayna in fear.

Dayna and I stumbled out of there and looked at each other. “Well that was weird,” Dayna said. “Yeah, quite an experience,” I agreed. And that was the end that - except that every time I’d hear a Paul Young song from then on, I’d get a little queasy.

Years later, one night in the early to mid 1990s, I went to pick my husband up at the recording studio he was working at in North Hollywood. When I arrived, he stood on the street in the dark talking to our songwriter/producer friend John Capek and some other man. It was too dark to see the other person well.  I approached the group.

“Oh, this is my wife, Michele,” my husband said to the mystery man.

As I reached out to shake the guy’s hand, my husband said, “Michele, this is Paul. Paul Young.”

I wonder if Paul thought it was weird that I laughed as I shook his hand?

A Weekend of Celebrity Encounters, 1986

Sunday Scribblings writing prompt this week:Write about a chance encounter you've had with an old friend or flame, or perhaps with a stranger -- or even a celebrity.

1986 – I was twenty-two and had lived in LA less than a year when my friend since childhood, Cindy, came to visit from San Francisco. I was living in a Spanish-style house, which I shared with three other people, on the hillside just above Poquito Mas (a tiny Mexican fastfood place) in Universal City. I worked as a movie extra, so I didn’t have a lot of money. But somehow – due to a crazy fluke of luck – Cindy and I had so many celebrity encounters that weekend, it almost seemed like my life was kind of exciting.

First, I couldn’t have planned Cindy’s arrival any better. She would be landing at LAX (LA Airport) that Friday afternoon. Coincidentally, my agency called to see if I could work on a film called “No Way Out,” which would be filming at LAX that same Friday. So I told Cindy, once her plane lands, to find the film crew and I’d be there.

Early that Friday morning, I reported to the “No Way Out” film set, got my wardrobe and went to the make-up chair where a hair-stylist wrestled my huge ‘80s hair into an elegant French twist. Then the stylist told me to wait in the trailer for a make-up person. While I waited alone – or so I thought - I checked out my wardrobe and my new up-swept do in the mirror, looking at myself from all angles. As time past, I swiveled in the chair and zoned out. Then I heard a male voice in the back of the trailer croak a laidback “Hello,” like maybe he just woke up.

I jumped in my seat, realizing, Uhh…I’m not alone. There - lounging on a couch in the back of the trailer, propped up on one tanned and toned arm, wearing faded Levi jeans and a white T-shirt – was an all-American boy-man with sandy-blonde hair. He'd been there the entire time. Ugh! Did I make any stupid faces in the mirror? And did he see me? My face felt hot. I mumbled, ”Hello,” and stared into my lap. I didn’t know who he was, maybe a crew member – a boom operator or an electrician – taking a break. I only knew he was cute.

About an hour later, I heard “Action!” So I did as directed and began walking in the background beside a taxi cab at the center of the scene. That’s when I saw the cute guy I met in the trailer again. He was dressed in a crisp, blue naval uniform… and he was the actor in this taxi cab scene.  He was the star of the film: Kevin Costner! That’s when I noticed his amazingly blue eyes, eyes that seemed all the bluer once I knew he was the film's star. Eh, I’m shallow.

Right after the scene, I saw my friend Cindy waving in the airport crowd. “Cindy, you’re here!!” I yelled, running toward her, still wearing my khaki pencil-skirt and heels, and then proceeded to slide and fall right on my face in front of the film crew. Some welcoming committee, huh?

But I made up for the sloppy welcome by introducing her to my “new friend” Kevin, between scenes. My eyelids wore out from batting them so furiously - which was especially pathetic because most of his attention seemed to be focused on my gorgeous green-eyed-brunette friend Cindy.

“What’s your name again?” Kevin asked her. “Cindy? Hmmm…” he said as his eyes climbed up her legs.

Little did we know then, Cindy also happens to be the name of the woman he was married to at the time.  Funny, he didn't mention that.

After filming, Cindy and I rode an airport elevator down with Kevin, and I said, in a way-too-loud voice, “So, Cindy, where should we go for lunch?” hinting (or shouting) maybe he might want to join us. Cindy elbowed me and whispered, “You are sooo obvious.”

Obvious, yes. But I was twenty-two and knew that if there’s anytime to take chances, to be lamely obvious, to make a fool of myself, it’s a good age to do it. But instead of sharing lunch with Kevin Costner, we watched him – again wearing his Levis and T-shirt - walk off into perfect, golden afternoon. He must’ve felt our eyes burning into him, because he turned around, smiled a dimpled smile and waved good-bye.

Later that night Cindy and I went to the Improv comedy club in Hollywood. Richard Jeni was one of the comedians who performed that evening. Cindy and I sat at a little round table in the front row, just the two of us, until Ray Parker, Jr. – the singer of “Ghostbusters” sat down with us. Again, Cindy elbowed me, but not to tell me how lame I was. Instead, she whispered, “That’s Ray Parker, Jr.” I smiled as nonchalantly as possible, as if I always sit at tables with singers whose catchy songs I can't get out of my head. 

After the show, Cindy and I got drinks at the Improv bar and were immediately approached by Richard Jeni. He and Cindy hit it off right away.

“Hey, wanna get something to eat at Canter’s?” He asked her.

I shrugged.

“Yeah, sounds great,” Cindy chirped.

At Canter’s, I picked at my pastrami on rye as Richard and Cindy had one of those immediate-connection conversations - not one pause or bored sigh; everything she or he said was amazing, brilliant, incredibly interesting or adorable! Yick.

Meanwhile, I ate pickles, let out bored sighs and mumbled about how we (meaning just Cindy and I) should head out to go dancing.

“Hey,” Richard said, looking deeply into Cindy’s eyes, completely forgetting I was there. “Why don’t I take you out tonight?”

“Well…” Cindy started to say until I interrupted.

“Eh, eh, eh… Look, Cindy’s here to see me. You can talk to her later,” I told Richard, thinking I was saving Cindy’s butt and she’d thank me later. Now that I look back, that was a lame-brain move on my part. Cindy paid for her own plane ticket and I should’ve shut-up and let her make her own decision. But at the time, I thought I was some sorta hero.

Anyway, Cindy - being the smart, thoughtful and kind friend she was/is - would have said what I said...only with a lot more tact and a less snotty attitude than I used. But I didn't give her a chance to speak.

Before we left Canter’s, Richard ran into Andrew Dice Clay, so we joined him and his mouth at another table. I think Dice talked until breakfast, at least it seemed like that.

Cindy left about a day later. She returned home to San Francisco where she and Richard Jeni had many long-distance phone calls and a year long relationship, making me realize I was no hero at all and more of a lame-brain than I thought.

But, hey, I did show her one heck of a star-studded weekend.

The Valley's Divorce Generation - The Class of '82

The Newsweek article below is written by a former Valley kid from the Class of '82, the same year I graduated from high school.  Initally, I was simply going link to it.  But after reading some of the article's comments, I thought I'd say more.

My parents didn't officially get divorced until I was about seventeen, but I did know a lot of kids who grew up in split homes.  My parents were much younger than this writer's parents who were of the WWII generation.  And I didn't move to the Valley until '85.  But I can still relate a bit.  We grew up with the same social changes that were occuring during the '70s and '80s.

Many of the articles commentors refer to the writer and our generation as being navel-gazers, whiners and only thinking about "me, me, me".  Yet, in my opinion, we as a group (kids born in the '60s) are rarely heard to comment on our growing up in that era.  Sure, we hear from the Boomers (former Flower Children) all the time.  And, yeah, I blather about my childhood beause I write and that's part of my life. Childhoods are significant to people; that's when people become cognizant of the world, form first impressions.  So why is it wrong for my group to talk about how they responded to growing up in an era of turbulent social changes?  I think it's sociologically significant to hear how former-children responded to divorce, being raised by single parents, being latchkey kids and other side-effects of the times.  If you ask me, my group doesn't get heard from enough about how we have turned-out, or about what we thought of our experiences.

Most kids I grew up with, and still keep in touch with, have definite opinions about those unique years.  But, if we do look back, it usually involves lots of laughing about how we dealt with certain things.  One friend has the driest wit, she makes my stomach hurt.  My sister, too, always has me howling about everything from the progressive schools she went to, where she could rollerskate in class, to the adults' farout lingo and groovy parties we used to spy on.  Far from whining, my friends are people who, maybe because of their pasts, put extra time and effort into their families and relationships.  I guess after growing up watching some of the goofy stuff the adults were doing around us, it was natural to have formed a great sense of humor.

With that said, this article isn't funny.  But I can relate to it... just a bit.

The Divorce Generation Grows Up

Grant High School's class of '82 were raised on 'The Brady Bunch'—while their own families were falling apart. These are their stories—in their words.

Then and Now: Students from the Grant High Class of '82 — Bonnie Pollack, Josh Gruenberg, Elyse Oliver, Laurie Gelardi, David Jefferson, Deborah Cronin, Chris Kohnhorst, Robbie Hyatt, Lisa Cohen, Mic Rothman, Ruth Kreusch, Tonju Francois and David Selig — pose together in February. Below, Pollack as a young girl; Kreusch, Cohen, Francois on graduation day; a young Rothman on the water; and Selig's family one year after his parents' split.

                               

By David J. Jefferson | NEWSWEEK

         

Apr 21, 2008 Issue    

(Below are excerpts)

      

...Such are the scars of growing up too fast—something many of my classmates were doing in the '70s. As newly single mothers went to work to support their families, children were being left to fend for themselves. "We were latchkey kids," says Elyse Oliver, whose mom took a job at Hanna-Barbera studios, painting animated characters for shows like "The Flintstones" to provide for Elyse and her sister. "We had the little necklace with the key on it and we'd walk home from school, let ourselves in and take care of ourselves until she came home about 6 or 7...

...In many ways, the urge to stay married is stronger in my classmates' generation than the urge to get divorced was in my parents'. Perhaps this was a backlash to divorce...

(Read More)

Talkin' 'bout my G.gggg...ggg...gg..generation...and How the '80s Weren't the '60s

Documentaries and coffee table books constantly remind me about my parents’ generation, those “flower Children” of the sixties.  Again and again, we hear how they dropped out, sat in, loved freely.  But I wonder whatever happened to my group?  All those kids, like me, raised on Dr. Spock and "School House Rock," during the '60s and '70s, and who grew to dance beside me in the 1980s? Do they get that jolt back in time when hearing "Rock Me Amadeus" like I do? Do they still sneak puffs of clove cigarettes? Do they remember thinking, as I once did, that Prince's "1999" seemed to be about way off time in the future? Do their kids pull their Flash Dance shirts and ruffled mini-skirts out of the closet for Halloween or for '80s day at school?(photo: me in all my '80s glory.)

The Eighties might not have been the most free spirited revolutionary years, but they were mine. And whenever I smell the sweet, herbal aroma of clove cigarettes, I drift back to the those days - when my hair was big and I wore chunky belts hanging off my waist, bangles up and down my wrists and my lace tights purposefully torn. When my daughter flips stations on the radio and I hear "Don’t Dream it’s Over" by Crowded House, or “I Will Follow” by U2, I remember that music back then wasn’t all Styx and Flock of Seagulls.

I flash back to those many nights of the early '80s when I still lived in San Francisco.  The clubs South of Market were close enough to walk from one to another, like The Oasis with its plexi-glass covered pool as a dance floor; Club Nine, where I gazed up at Chris Isaak suavely crooning in his vintage tapestry smoking jacket, and then watched him crawl by me, on his hands and knees, up a stairway - completely wasted; Club DV8 and Echo Beach, where each evening was lived in a smoky haze of clove smoke and Polo cologne and we could count on hearing Frankie Goes to Hollywood imploring us to "Relax"; there was Hamburger Mary's for pre-clubbing cocktails.  There was The I-Beam, on Haight, to listen to bands like the Meat Puppets, or the Kabuki where I saw the Alarm, and Todd Rudgren's Utopia.

And whenever I hear The Pretenders' "Brass in Pocket," I'm immediately back cruising El Camino Real in Jackie's Nova. Her car full of us girls shrieking along to Chrissie Hynde, "I'm special...so special!" Or if it wasn't that song it was the B-52's "Rock Lobster," or The Euryhymic's "Sweet Dreams," or Talking Heads “Burning Down the House” or The Ramones "I Want to Be Sedated," and, of course, Cyndi Lauper's "Girls Just Want to Have Fun." 

In 1985, I left San Francisco for the sun in Southern California. I spent most of my days slathered in Hawaiian Tropic coconut oil on Surfrider beach in Malibu soaking up the sun and listening to KROQ play The Pet Shop Boys' "West End Girls" or Duran Duran's "Rio,"  over and over again - as I diligently put off finding work.  But my nights were reserved for clubbing.

 
L.A.’s dance clubs, unlike San Francisco's, were spread apart. Sunset Boulevard wasn't all that happening, so my roommate and I would drive to Downtown L.A. for the clubs in old hotels, like Power Tools with its flashing lights, caged dancers and cigarette girls. Or in seedy Hollywood warehouses, like Scream - which smelled like spilled beer and stale cigarette smoke, with its multiple floors, rickety stairs and walls painted in day-glo graffiti. A mirrored room pulsed with strobe lights as people danced together while watching their own images in what seemed an orgy of egos. And The Palace at Hollywood and Vine, with its huge dance floor where big-haired dancers wriggled shoulder to shoulder, bathed in purple light.

Of course, I can't forget all those "hair bands" I saw at The Roxy, The Whiskey, FM Station, Madame Wongs, Club Lingerie and The Palamino – a blur of spandex, eyeliner and ratted-hair.  Or watching U2 film their video for "The Streets Have No Name" on the rooftop of a building downtown, from my upper floor office in the California Mart.  Or dancing as a movie-extra while Oingo-Boingo played "Dead Man's Party" for the movie "Back to School." (I'm in the lower left corner, looking at the camera)


During the Eighties, the most revolutionary thing I did was discover the height my hair could reach with Aqua-Net hair spray; the only thing I ever fought for was my right to party.  And all l I ever protested was the wearing of acid-washed jeans.

While hippie kids had Joni Mitchell to admire, we New Wave teens had Madonna pushed down our throats. My parents lived by sayings like: "If you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem," while my friends and I were pounded with: "You can never be too rich or too thin." My peers (those of us born in the early to mid 1960s) and I were never dubbed anything like “flower children.” Sociologists just lumped us into the "Baby-Boomer" group. The closest we came to being acknowledged was having a group of actors in our age group tagged the “Brat Pack.”


Eventually, I put down my Bartles & Jaymes wine cooler long enough to turn on the television to see what was going on in Tiananmen Square and to witness the fall of the Berlin Wall. But most of the decade had little to do with political revolutions. Most of us young people didn't take ourselves too seriously...my friends and I, anyway.  Maybe that was our way of rebelling. Who knows? Anyway, we were pretty busy playing Pac-Man or watching videos on MTV or moussing our hair for an awesome night of dancing - arms swinging, feet bouncing and heads bopping - like the Go Gos.

No, the ‘80s weren’t the ‘60s.  If the decades were bread, the '60s would be grainy and dense wheat bread to the '80's light and airy "Wonder Bread." It was a pretty ridiculous decade - with Dynasty, perms, Adam Ant, leg warmers and head bands – but It was mine.