In celebration of summer, here's my slideshow of summers long ago - those memories that, for me, are bathed in sunlight, the aroma of coppertone and summer songs.
I suggest watching my slideshow with Astrud Gilberto singing a summer samba, "So Nice."
I hope everyone had a really nice and un-awkward thanksgiving! My only cringe-inducing moment came while my husband sliced my perfectly bronzed, brandy-basted turkey and discovered that I had accidentally left the little baggy of gizzards inside the turkey as it roasted. He then pulled the bagging from my bronzed turkey in front of my horrified family. Oh well... at least this year there weren't any kitchen fires!
After sitting around with family, I did a little surfing on the internet and discovered my new favorite site: Awkward Family Photos. I looked through the photos for nearly a half hour laughing out loud, maybe because I could relate. What is it they say about tragedy mixed with comedy?
I sent the link to my sister, knowing she could relate. She then wrote back mentioning some of our own family photos that would qualify for the site. But my first thought went to this photo below of my just-out-of-the-navy father spending a little quality time with me.
Recently, I did a little Photoshop work (below) on the photo and emailed it to my dad. He still has a twisted sense of humor.
I totally can't believe it's been, like, 25 years since the movie "Valley Girl" came out. It seems like just yesterday I was working the big hair - and that took work, too! I went through a canister of hair mousse a week - lace stockings, shoulder pads, Flash Dance shirts and bangles .
I moved to the Valley right after the movies Valley Girl and Fast Times at Ridgemont High and Moon Unit Zappa's Valley Girl song came out. So, naturally, I had to spend time at the Sherman Oaks Galleria. Even though I was from Northern California, I fit right in. You see, being a Valley Girl was all about attitude.
That and the annoying over usage of "like" - as in "I am, like, so in love with him! Oh my Gawd!" And of course everything to a Valley Girl was "Awesome!"
I had Valley girl slang-itis bad enough that while on a trip to Hawaii, someone heard me speaking and asked, "Are you from California? You have a California accent." I had no idea what they were talking about. Clueless.
Here's a photo, circa 1983. Are we totally tubular, or what?!! Okay, so how about or What? As in what was I thinking?!
I'm the one on the left. If you look closely under my bangs you will see proof that I lost whatever brain tissue I'd managed to accumulate during my lifetime. Yes, under my bangs you are actually witnessing a head band, a HEAD BAND that matches my dress...a head band worn by someone other than Mike Reno from the band Lover Boy.
My only explanation for going out in public in this belted shirt I'm trying to pull of as a dress is that my headband is so tight it must have cut off the blood flow to my brain.
But, hey, it was the '80s. So that's my excuse.
Yet I'm still a Valley Girl. Like Moon Unit sang "She's a Valley girl and there is no cure..." That's totally fer sure!
I can't believe my little girl just turned 18 yesterday.
it seems like just seconds ago - she was only four - and we were on the floor playing with Tinker Toys when I asked her, "What do you want to do when you grow up?"
Without even thinking, because she already knew, Lauren blurted, "Touch the stove, use sharp knives and drive a car." Well, of course, I was wondering what sort of job she, at only four, might want in the future. Instead, she gave me the top things in a long list of things she wasn't allowed to do just yet, but couldn't wait to do.
These days, all those goals (knives, hot stove and driving) have all been accomplished.
Then last night, on her birthday, she asked me. "Now that I'm 18 what are some things I can do?"
"Well," I offered, "you can vote."
Unfortunately, she was looking for something a little more fun. If it wasn't her birthday I would have reminded her that's something considering woman in this country had to fight for that right... but, oh well.
So I said, "You can pay your own bills, screw up your credit and get arrested."
I don't think that's really what she had in mind.
Happy Birthday, Lauren! And please pay your bills, don't screw up your credit or get arrested.
*Recently, I've gotten slightly addicted to Youtube. I've been finding all kinds of nostalgic stuff, including a video of the man who made Lauren's life possible: King Cotton. Whenever we see King he takes pride in knowing he deserves credit for her existence. King is the one who pulled me back into the wrap party for Tape Heads when I was out the door and ready to leave, and introduced me to my husband. Thanks, King!! 
Very, very early last Sunday Morning -
Mom: Oh, I don't like the sound of that. I want you to go the emergency room as soon as possible...and don't walk around!
Me: Why? (My heart starts pounding harder)
Mom: Movement could cause a blood clot to break off and head toward your lungs.
Me: Whaaaaa?!!
After a few restless hours of enduring a throbbing, tight feeling behind my knee, I got up out of bed. I couldn't sleep due to the pain in my leg. Naturally, I assumed the worst, that because I had been sitting for an excessive amount of time editing photos on Saturday, I might have a...thrombosis! (a blood clot that can form in the leg due to sitting too long, i.e., long airplane trips.)
By 4:30 a.m. I had sufficiently freaked myself out enough that I did two stupid things: 1) Looked up thrombosis on the internet - which gave just enough information to make me think I had it. 2) Called my mother in Paris at 5:00am our time, but 2:00pm French time. I wouldn't have called her if she were sleeping, but I figured since she was once a Registered Vascular Technologist and she could ease my mind. She would tell me I don't have it, that I'm being silly and go to sleep.
But no! After I explained the location of my throbbing pain, she made me think If I took one more step I was going to keel over.
Cut to:
Interior of Emergency room at nearest Valley Hospital. It's approximately 5:45 am. I'm in my own room behind a curtain, and wearing a backless hospital gown!!! How did I let this happen? A vascular technologist enters to give me a Doppler exam (an ultra sound scan of the veins and arteries of my painful leg).(Photo: On the pain chart I was only a "4")
Me: (Rambling my silly story to the Tech)...And since my mom was once a Vascular Technologist...well, she convinced me I should come in to have it checked out.
The Tech raised my gown up to the top of my right thigh, and then walked over to turn out the light.
Me: Wheeew...I wasn't sure how well I shaved my legs. So the dark is good. (He needed the room dim to see the monitor)
Tech: (laughing) You're silly.
Me: (He touches my upper thigh) Whoa! You're hands are cold.
Tech: Oh, you haven't felt cold yet.
(And then he applies the ice cold ultra-sound gel up and down my leg)
He sits down and presses the scanner along the gelled area of my inner upper thigh. (Again, I'm wondering how it came to be that I have a strange man touching the inner part of my thigh. I can hear my blood pulsing through the monitor... blub, blub, blub (he squeezes part of my leg)...woooooosh.
Tech: (concentrating his eyes on the monitor) So you said your mom lives in France?
(I only told him that to explain why I would call her at 5am our time...I didn't want to sound like a complete hypochondriac nut-case who would call someone as they slept. Nope. I'm just a partial nut-case. I called her in the afternoon France time.)
Me: Yeah, on a boat...on a boat in Paris.
Tech: Reeaaaaallly?
Me: Mmmmhhhm...Anyway she's why I'm here. And because I looked up blood clots on the internet. Don't ever do that...look up medical sypmtoms on the internet. My daughter did once and convinced herself for months she had a brain tumor.
Tech: Your family sounds like a lot of fun.
(I'm thinking, did he mean fun as in "crazy"? And if he did mean crazy, I proved him right by rambling on about other emergency room visits.)
Me: Yeah, so...A chicken came to my door in the suburbs.
Tech: A what?
Me: A chicken in the suburbs. That's weird, right? 'Cuz who sees a chicken in the suburbs?
Tech: Exactly.
Me: Anyway, as I open the front door to this chicken, my husband is sitting on the couch laughing that maybe someone's cursed me. You know, it sounds like a voodoo thing...sending a chicken to someone's door. And then, only an hour after the chicken is at the door, while sitting in my backyard, a wasp stung me on my wedding ring finger.
Tech: Oh no...seriously?
Me: Yeah, so, I said, "Ow!"
(Tech starts howling. But, being the professional that he is, his eyes are still scanning for blod clots)
Me: And I thought nothing more about it until about three in the morning when I woke up with a really swollen finger. It was so swollen that my wedding ring was cutting into my skin.
Tech: Eeeewww.
Me: Yeah, so the next day I went to a pharmacy and held up my finger to the pharmacist. By then my finger looked like a purple balloon. I asked if he had something I could rub on it for the swelling. The pharmacist's jaw dropped and he said, "I would run to the emergency room right now if I were you." So I did. And the nurse cut it off.
Tech: Wah?!
Me: I'm sorry... I'm tired. I meant, the nurse cut off my wedding ring and said, "I never saw a finger that swollen." He told me I almost lost it... my finger.
Tech: Seriously? (Still concentrating on the monitor, he squeezed my calf muscle - woooosh went the blood - as he watched for my deadly clots.)
Me: Yep. And a few years before that I raced to the emergency room when I nearly cut the top off the same finger while making potato salad. (I shook my head remembering those bills) Oh no...this is going to be expensive (I said after realizing our major medical insurance doesn't cover these visits). I don't spend money on manicures...I just rack up the bills on wacky emergency room visits.
Tech: (takes his eyes off the monitor) Uh... you might want to start getting manicures instead.
Again, he fixes his eyes on the monitor.
Me: So, does it look like I'm going to live?
He's laughing.
Me: I'm thinking I am since you're laughing...I hope.
The nice Tech begins putting his equipment away. I thanked him, and asked if I can take a photo. We say goodbye. He leaves.
After waiting alone in my little room, a very serious nurse with salt and pepper hair walks in and looks at my wrist band.
Nurse: Has the ultra-sound tech come yet?
Me: Oh, yeah. I thought maybe you were going to give me the results. (But she said nothing.) So am I going to live?
The nurse ignores me as she places a red plastic band on my right wrist.
(What's that band mean, I wonder... I'm crazy? I'm a goner?)
And then the nurse starts walking toward the door.
Me: (Yelling at her back) So? Am I going to live?! (She exits)
I sit alone in the room, pretty certain I'm going to live.
Finally, the doctor comes in. Tells me everything is fine with my veins. Again, I explain the silly chain of events (the hours spent photo editing, throbbing leg, internet symptoms, ex-Cardio-Tech/worry-wart-mom in France...better safe than sorry dead).
The doctor still wonders why I felt this pain.
Doctor: Please, do a few squats for me.
I stand up in my completely backless gown, with my back toward the now opened door and do some pretty good squats for a tired person (all the way down and back up), only to turn around and see an ambulance driver - or was it the janitor? - saunter by. There I was, my entire backside exposed to strange men early on Sunday morning. And then, with all the information I gave the doctor, he gave me my diagnosis:
PAIN DUE TO INACTIVITY
Oh the humiliation!! And it wasn't even 7 a.m.
The other day, I read this article, "A Tale of Two Sisters," in More Magazine, written by sisters, Joyce and Rona Maynard. Each wrote about why there has been distance, emotionally and geographically, between the sisters. That I couldn't relate to. I only wish I could see my sister, someone who I've enjoyed getting to know more and more over the phone - but we are separated. My sister's in the South East and I'm in the West. But I did relate to this: Joyce Maynard spoke about how the sisters' separation let them create new roles, new identities - rather than staying stuck in the roles they played in childhood - Joyce as the happy one;Rona as the sullen one.
I've sometimes wondered why I was so adamant to leave Northern California for Los Angeles - a place where I didn't have a job or know anyone. Yes, I wanted to experience warmer weather. Yes, I love the Southern California beaches . Sure, I grew up dreaming of life in the entertainment business. But what the Maynard sisters' article reminded me of is this: I wanted to leave behind the roles I had stepped into during my teen years.
While I grew up in San Francisco (except for the years traveling), I spent my entire teen years in Pacifica, California - a beachtown of approximately 40,000 people, about fifteen minutes south of San Francisco. It had one theater and two high schools - both schools I attended - and is surrounded by rolling green hills that tend to trap in the fog. It could be a nice place to live. But after San Francisco, it felt like living in slow motion. The language was different; instead of kids saying to each other, "I'm finna whoop yo' ass!" they'd say, "I call you down." And no one had an afro or listened to Funk. Heck, these Pacifica kids wore overalls and listened to Captain and Tennille!!!
In Pacifica, there were only a handful of groups to hang out with - 4-H Club, stoner crowd or surfer/jock group. While I would've loved a horse, I didn't find any interest in raising goats; I grew up in San Francisco where the adults were stoners...so, no interest there. I eventually squeezed myself into the cheerleader role... momentarily. None of us ever fits these high school roles completely or know who we are entirely; yet everyone else has an opinion about us. These are the titles I was given -
I was told I was a snob and stuck-up...I even had a group of girls spray paint "Slut!" on every locker I had. So, apparently, I was that too.
More common than those titles were - space cadet and air head. Even my US History teacher, who was also one of the coaches, called me "air head." He laughed and made jokes about me right along with the jocks in his class.
The truth was I was just a confused, under-confident, near-sighted kid who drifted off dreaming about everything I wish I could be doing beside sitting at school. And once people got to know me they realized I was just a 
goofball...which was a name I didn't mind at all.
I almost died a week before graduating from Terra Nova High. At about 1am on a Saturday morning, after I dropped my friends off at their homes, I drove my VW bug alone down a steep and windy road. I went to step on the brakes and the pedal went all the way to the floor without slowing at all. My brakes were completely out.
My car began shaking as it picked up speed. I pumped the brake pedal. I tried to down shift. I pulled up the hand brake, but the car kept going...so - sure that I was going to die - I thought of my options: hit the wall of the mountain; keep building speed down the road or go off the cliff. I was desperate. I even thought of jumping out. Then... there it was - hope: A fire hydrant. I rammed my car into it. The bottom of my car peeled back like an opened sardine can. But at least I stopped.
The next Monday at school I told my friends, half joking, that I was so desperate I thought of sticking my foot onto the ground to slow the car. I mean, come on!! I was desperate. Within hours, I couldn't walk down the hallway without someone yelling, "Hey, Wilma!!"... as in Flintstone, because the cartoon characters stopped their stone cars with their feet.
After graduation, I'd run into guys I used to date at the market. I'd wait on girls who thought I was a bitch as I worked at Rockaway Deli on Highway One. Friends would still laugh about the "Wilma" story.
So, yeah, the Southern California weather sounded nice. But leaving a town where I knew half the population and leaving behind all the labels I'd been given since Junior High sounded just as nice.
Years later, as a pregnant and married wife living in the San Fernando Valley, Cindy - one of my best friends from San Francisco, who I'd known since I was seven or eight - came to visit me. At the time, she was dating a comedian who lived in Hollywood.
During our visit Cindy said, "You'll never guess who I had dinner with the other night."
"Who?"
"Rob Schneider," she said.
He and I knew each other in high school. Hung around the same people. Saw Prince in "Purple Rain" as a group. Went to Hawaii, after graduating, as a group. We even butted heads during Terra Nova's Senior talent show. As the director, he wanted me to come to a rehearsal. No matter how adamant he was, I refused. I told him my reason, thinking then he'd understand the importance of my obligation.
"But, Rob, that's when I'm getting my hair permed!!"
Somehow he didn't understand. Anyway, after moving, I hadn't seen him in years.
Cindy continued. "Yeah, Warren and I had dinner with him and Dennis Miller at Canter's. After talking, I realized you and Rob both lived in Pacifica, so I said, 'Do you know Michele?' And he said, 'Oh, you mean... Wilma?'
Sometimes, no matter how many miles you travel, there are some things you can't leave behind.
*Photos from the Oceana High School 1980 yearbook. Someone caught me drifting off in photography class. And that was my favorite class.
In the spirit of Halloween, Today's LA Times Travel Section had an article about Ghost Towns, which featured one of the best ghost towns I've ever been to: Bodie, California.
My family and I went there about six years ago when visiting Yosemite. It's amazing. Starting right from the bumpy, old west-style drive into town - Bodie is an experience.
(photo to left: The grave site of one of Bodie's prostitutes: Rosa May.)
Yep, it's very cool to peek into windows and get a dusty glimpse of life as it once was - warped-floored saloons, desk-strewn classrooms, homes with rusty bedsprings and pharmacies with amber colored bottles once filled with odd 
elixirs.
I could've stayed there for hours. To me, it's about as close to time travel (a huge childhood fantasy) as I will probably get. I took photos of the buildings as my husband wandered off. He stood behind a group of Japanese tourists and smiled as someone took their photo. He could barely tell me what he did he was bent over laughing so hard about how the people will look at their photos and wonder who the smiling non-Japanese guy is. Meanwhile, my daughter and her friend Sara walked around rubbing their arms from the ghostly vibes felt with each gust of wind that blew through the sage and gravel paths of town.
Naturally, I had to tell my daughter about Bodie's legendary curse (read halfway down linked page) which falls upon anyone who dares pilfer any of the town's items. She was so spooked that before we left the ghost town's parking lot, my daughter took off her shoes to extract any cursed pebbles that may have worked their way into her shoes. She took no chances.
Ooohhhh...the poor kid. Bwwaahhhhaaa hhaaaa!!
*Here are some interesting local cemeteries:
Pioneer Cemetery in Sierra Madre. I read that Halloween and Family Plot were filmed there.
And the Hollywood Forever cemetery - where so many celebrites are buried. You can even search some of the life stories of the people buried there.
Pasadena Magazine is beautiful!!
It's not only exquisitely designed, but it's interesting, informative and well written. I'm so impressed with the variety of articles. Writer Maryann Hudson has a great story, "The Journey Continues," on Pasadena before and after the revitalization, which I really enjoyed. And Iva-Marie Palmer - who posted a comment below - provided vitally important info in her piece, "A Night Out for $20." Now that will come in handy!
I truly appreciate the opportunity to contribute to the premiere issue. And the launch party at the Vista del Arroyo Bungalows was impressive - jazz and
rock bands in different bungalows and food catered by Katana. And, best of all, I got to see a lot of the wonderful people I have been lucky to meet earlier when writing my articles.
The subjects of my first article were four inspiring women who began Truly Mom. Each of the women are genuinely sweet people who impressed me with their incredible gratitude and appreciation for life and their determination.
My other article is on the down-to-earth, compassionate and extremely busy Dr. D*R*E*W (I spelled it out that way because earlier I had a weird incident with someone blog-searching his name and misusing a photo I took of him.) I truly appreciate him letting me tag along to his lecture, his home and KROQ.
The photographer, Sarah Brewer, took some really great shots for my two articles. And I believe she took the great cover photo of the Arroyo
Seco Bridge.
Yep, it was an exciting evening. I even got to meet Ernest in accounting, who overheard me speaking to someone. He tapped me on the shoulder and said, "What's your name?"
I told him and he said, "Oh, I just sent you a check."
I gave him a big hug. "I like you, Ernest!"
This is our new kitten. She was a little wild cat with a lump on
her side and a fever. My daughter found her running around the side of
our house and took her to the vet this past June.
So we decided to keep her and call her June. The name works out well since our other cat is named Johnny - you know, like Johnny Cash and June Carter.
Anyway, here's how my family has crossed the line and become "Them": The Nutty Cat People - not that there's anything wrong with that. It's just not a lifestyle choice we've ever thought of adopting.
Here's what happened -
One family member (who shall remain nameless) walked into the living room and found the kitten, June, choking. This nameless person yelled to me, "The cat's choking on her toy!!" It's a little fuzzy pom pom with a mouse face on it and a string of yarn with a bell on the end for the tail.
I ran in the room to see the FM (family member) sticking his/her fingers down the kitty's throat to pull out the toy. I jumped in for some kitty Heimlich thrusts. Nothing!! So I, too, stuck my fingers down her throat. What do you know!! She didn't like that. Not at all. So she ravaged my hand with her little kitty teeth and claws.
With my bloody hand I grabbed my car keys and with the other hand I grasped the kitten, and ran to the car. My daughter ran behind. We sped to an emergency vet down the street. The kitten was still breathing. Great. But the the object would be speeding its way down her stomach. We needed to move fast!
Stupid emergency vet! He couldn't see the kitty toy on June's x-ray. So in a huff, my daughter and I sped her over to a more trustyworthy vet. We told them about the silly vet who couldn't see the mass. They nodded their heads in sympathy, served us chai tea lattes and reasoned the best we could do would be an endoscope (sp?) (tube with camera) to find the object and pull it out. So the kitten stays for the over night procedure.
1:35 am - Phone Rings. I know it's the vet. My heart races.
Me: Hello? How's my kitten?
Vet: Sorry.
Me: Excuse me. (My heart dropped to my knees)
Vet: Sorry, you cut out...what did you say?
Me: The kitty, how is she?
Vet: Uh, fine. But we can't see any object other than food in her stomach.
6:30am - I go to pick up the kitten. She is to be taken, with catheter in tow, to our regular vet for further examination.
7:15 am - June the Kitten - who the vet assistant lovingly referred to as "Butthead" for her obstinate personality (it runs in the family) - and I drove (well, I did the driving and the kitten ran around the car clawing at her head cone) toward our vet. Maybe the object was lodged too far down?
7:20 am - My cell phone rings. I pull over from driving and dig my phone out of my purse.
Me: Yeah.
Family Member who shall remain nameless: I found the toy.
Yep, the kitten never swallowed the toy. We suspect that her tooth was just caught on her collar and so it looked like she was gagging.
I told the FM who shall remain nameless, after realizing we now can't afford to go on vacation due to the cost of this fiasco, "Hey, don't worry. Let's move forward. Think of it as making a deposit in your karma bank."
I really want to believe that, because a week in Tahoe would've been a lot of fun. Anyway, apologies to the Vet we found to be lacking in medical knowledge. I guess that degree on your wall does mean something after all.
Antique Row on Sherman Way in Canoga Park.
(Postcard on left, Sherman Way as it was in the 1950s. And the photo I took today.)
If you're in the Valley and are into collectibles and thrift shops, vintage clothes and antique stores, there are plenty on Antique Row. You'll also find some cool little specialty stores, like Dragonfly Stained Glass Studio and the Cake decorating shop, Kake Creations, where I've gone before quite a few of my daughter's birthday parties.
And The food over there's good: Cavaretta's Deli, Follow Your Heart, and Pastries by Edie, to name a few.
Bob's Big Boy last Friday night -
I can't believe I've never gone to the Arboretum in Arcadia before yesterday. It's like Disneyland for Plant lovers. There are different lands: Australia, Africa, Asia, The Americas - lakes, ponds, waterfalls and (my favorite) an herb garden, with the San Gabriel Mountains in the backround.
Apparently, it's one of the most
filmed locations in Los Angeles (Tarzan movies, Fantasy Island, Love Boat, The Road to Singapore, The African Queen - to name a few) Yes, here stands the cottage where little Tattoo (or whatever his name was) on Fantasy Island pointed to the sky and called out "Da plane! Da Plane!"
There were roaming peacocks and geese - and as I was taking photos of a tree, a big ol' red fox (not the one from Sanford & Son) ran by me.
Before walking around, my husband and I drove toward the mountains, stopped in the lovely town of Sierra Madre where we ate sandwiches and drank Italian sodas at Bean Town Coffee bar; it's the type of place (fresh food, coffee, ice cream in a livingroom like setting - cushioned chairs, tables, board games & computers inside and tables outside) that I would have if I ever open a place to eat.
Scenes from Invasion of the Body Snatchers (below) and Dude, Where's My Car were filmed in Sierra Madre.
Why am I auditioning for a TV game show? Why am I trying out for the roller derby?
Well, see this kid? That's me on my 8th birthday in April of 1972. I was blowing out candles and making a wish. And whatever that wish was - whether it was for the invention of a television-telephone or my future Hollywood stardom - I know I was not wishing for mediocrity.
Unfortunately, I feel like that's just what I spent my last month doing: Using my time and energy toward a mediocre endeavor... and without even realizing it.
Anyway, I remembered the time a friend lamented about her ability to choose good, undrunk men, and how I advised to her to try the "George Costanza" method of choice-making. Did you ever see the Seinfeld episode where George has amazing luck doing the opposite of what he would normally do? Well, that's the George Costanza method of which I speak. And that's exactly what worked for my friend. She did the opposite of what she normally did and found a nice, undrunk type of guy. Though, in reality, she had too many years of "issues" to practice the Costanza method for long - so she eventually let the guy go. But that's not my point. Here's my point.
My Mission Statement:
For now on, I will put myself into situations I would not normally put myself into and then write about them. All that can happen is 1) I will have a unique and surprising learning experience. Or 2) I'll have great material to write about. And then I'll submit these stories to an appropriate publication or maybe I'll just post them on my blog.
My first self-given assignment starts on Wednesday. I'm auditioning for a network game show. I figure that might make for an interesting story, and - who knows? - maybe I'll even win some money so I can remodel my kitchen. And on a scale of one to ten - ten being the scariest - auditioning for a game show registers only about a 4 in the discomfort factor. So maybe one day I'll learn to fly an airplane (like my grandpa) or - you never know - jump out of one.
Next I'm trying out for the roller derby. Hey, I already bought my mouth guard and hot pink tights.
(For anyone who read my original rant - I removed it for two reasons 1) It sounded whiney and 2) the experience of which I ranted will have to just go onto my long list of mistakes I've made which I will have to learn from.) It's time to move on.
This Saturday, August 11th, from noon to 4 p.m., will be Home Movie Day at the Linwood Dunn Theater on Vine Street in Hollywood. Appearing will be... my old 8 mm family films! Along with other home movies, of course. I can't wait! Since the first time I heard of this event I wanted to go. While you couldn't pay me to sit through "Sex and the City," I could watch strangers' home movies for hours. So I thought I'd see if I could include mine with the others.
Years ago, I edited our family films to Beatles' songs onto VHS. There are glimpses of California in the 1940s through the 1970s and Europe in the late 1960s. There are montages of my mom and her sister in 1940s black and white playing in San Francisco. Those films fade to color as my dad's movie camera scans Golden Gate park of 1967, where my sister and I
are tumbling on the grass below Hippie Hill.
Behind us are young hippies, some strumming guitars. Then we're in Disneyland, where I push a little girl away from Chip or Dale and stalk Pluto. From there, we fly to Europe where we buy our trailer. There's a lot of smiling, waving and mugging for the camera as we pass gypsies and the guards of Buckingham Palace; the sun sparkles on the canals of Venice and on the Mediterranean of Greece... we move through Morocco, Yugoslavia, Italy... many countries and years all edited down to just snippets, bits, pieces of our family as it once was a long time ago.
As a fifth generation San Franciscan, I am disgusted to read that there is talk of corporate sponsorship for the Golden Gate bridge.
I have a hard time imagining people who truly appreciate the bridge's rust-colored elegance, would want to taint it with the mearest link to corporate branding.
While scanning Google for quotes, I found a perfect one by Kevin Starr, my first cousin once removed (my mother's cousin): "Great works of art encode within themselves messages that are at once transcendent and enigmatic, mysterious. What does the Parthenon mean? What does Beethoven's Ninth mean? What does Hamlet mean? The Golden Gate Bridge means many things. It means the victory of San Francisco over its environment. It means San Francisco remains competitive. It means that people can cross the channel more easily. But it also means something else. It celebrates in a mysterious way man's creativity and the joy and wonder of being on this planet."
You see, to some of us that bridge has meaning. For the more philosophical and optimistic it can be a testament to "man's creativity"; for the less philosophical-type who lack creativity, the bridge looks like a money making billboard.
Yeah, I've now lived in LA half my life. I'm one of those seemingly rare people who likes both cities for different reasons. But I spent the first have of my life being raised on San Francisco's fog, limb numbing beaches, the zoo's pink popcorn, sourdough bread, Joe's Ice Cream's dipped cones, Original Joe's hamburgers and
downstairs Chinese restaurants. I grew up trying to avoid the creepy
strip show barkers calling, "Step right this way for a good
time!" as my family walked on Broadway to our favorite Basque
restaurant, down an alley somewhere near Columbus. My dad taught me to
drive a stick shift on hills so steep the blood would rush to the back
of my head as I neared the top. The city was our backyard. We didn't
visit Alcatraz, ride the Cable cars or stroll along Golden Gate Bridge
just for fun. Those parts of the city were just there, like my elbows. But it
didn't mean we took the bridge for granted.
I'll always want to defend the city in which I grew. It's like another family member; my family, in their own ways, helped to raise it. My Great-Grandfather was an heroic firefighter (That's redundant, I know) during the 1906 earthquake and died on duty in 1925. My Grandmother, as a young woman, once worked for Elmer Robinson, who later became SF mayor; my Grandpa was the head of automotive maintenance for SF Muni. Other family members are policemen and my stepfather, also a fireman, was in charge of the SF fire Department Museum. I'm also proud to say, Kevin even mentions our family, the Collins and Joyces, on pages 132 & 133 in one of his books, "The Dream Endures."
The Golden Gate Bridge was always there - spanning the ocean mouth - through fog, fog, more fog and drizzle and on the most brilliant sun drenched days. The bridge was my escape to the pristine beaches of Marin, the dense Muir Woods, Mount Tamalpais, Point Reyes and even my favorite salon.
The Bridge can be a lot of things - A way out, a place to contemplate life, a symbol of whatever you want - But it was never a way to rake in more money. I think anyone who can even consider corporate sponsorship has to have no history with the city. So here's my suggestion for those types:
Rather than sucking any more soul out of the city I grew up in, why don't you seer, tattoo or etch the corporate logo onto your own already uncreative, soulless foreheads.
It's a much better idea than Nike Bridge, for instance. I can see it now - Drive across it... "Just Do It."
My California Writers Club bio (Michele Miles Gardiner) is now posted, thanks to the club's president, Carol Wood, and her Webmaster husband, Glen. (Photo to the right shows me in front of the address on my library card - 2669 23rd Ave., which was my grandparents' house.)
The bio covers my early love for books and writing, so I thought I'd post this photo of me "reading" Grimm's Fairytales to my baby sister before I could actually read. I just made stuff up...not that my sister seemed to mind.
And to prove my early passion for books, I posted my first library card. It was so important to me I managed to hang on to it for over three decades. 
So this morning when It was too early to get up, but I couldn't sleep and had plenty of important things to think about - like the writing assignment I'm supposed have done this afternoon and the bills I need to pay - this is what I thought instead:
Oh my...gawd! I just missed living my life with the name Exotica Gutch (sounds like Gooch), instead of Michele Miles.
See, my father was raised by his step-father, and even took his last name: Miles. My dad's mother told him his biological father had died. But then, when my dad was in his thirties, and I was around thirteen or so, he bumped into someone (a family member or an old neighbor) and they got to talking...and, well, it turns out his "original" dad was not only walking around quite alive - but lived only blocks away from my where my father grew up. Anyway, after this discovery, there was much catching up to do, so we made many visits to this newly discovered Grandpa Gutch...his last name is German. So that means Gutch would've been my last name too if things had worked out differently.
But before knowing I Should've been Michele Gutch and not Michele Miles, my dad liked to tell me about how his mother insisted before I was born I should be named Exotica. This, I'm positive - knowing my dad - would've been fine with him. So if my mother weren't so strong willed and my father's biological father wasn't thought dead, today I would be - EXOTICA GUTCH.
What would my life have been like - or be like now - as Exotica Gutch? Would I have naturally gravitated to singing lead for a Punk band? Would I have been even more picked on in school and thus dropped out to join some traveling troupe of misfits in a painted caravan roaming Bulgaria and Yugoslavia? Would I be a wallflower who'd work at Wal-Mart by day and come home to eat my microwave food alone in the dark while watching re-runs of Soap Operas, envying the characters with "normal" sounding names like Jill Brookstone or Kate Heathcliff?
Oh...the thoughts that haunt me when I should be sleeping or thinking other things. I have only Exotica to blame. She's the little oddball who has never really left me. I am her and she is me. She's the one who causes me to write down my strange thoughts as if anybody on the planet cares. Damn you, Exotica Gutch!
(Photo: My father, my sister and me at the top of the Statue of Liberty - 1969)
It was a nice, cool day for a Sunday drive, so my husband and I decided to check out
what's left of Route 66. We began in Monrovia (Though the route actually starts in Santa Monica at the Pier) and continued up the 15 North, just before Victorville.
Well, there's nothing trendy about old Monrovia. And I liked that. On our short walk through the old part of town, I didn't see one Guess or Coach boutique. But I did see a Florsheim shoes with white leather loafers in the window, a bakery with dusty wedding cake displays, and a tea parlor - all of which were closed. Just up the street we found a park, dense with beautifully aged trees and a nearly century old band
stand.
On we headed up Foothill Boulevard (Route 66) and stopped in to visit the Aztec Hotel,
restored since 2000. What a vibe! I'll let the photos speak for themselves.
We continued up Foothill Blvd. (Old Route 66). Much of the Route is now huge shopping plazas of Weinerschnitzels, Targets and Lowes...but the farther we got, the funkier it got...nothing but liquor stores, weed strewn empty lots and dusty motels with stiff clothes hanging out to dry.
Below are photos of Bono's Historic Orange, the Wigwam Motel and the Summit Inn (along with others). *I took a lot more photos, which can be seen by clicking on my Flickr account on the left side of my site.*
Any San Franciscan knows that It's-It Ice Creams - once sold only at Playland-at-the-Beach - are as unique to San Francisco's history as the Buena Vista's Irish Coffees, Hippie Hill, Carol Doda of the Condor Club and sourdough bread. And while many San Franciscans remember missing It's-Its after the demise of Playland in 1972, and then joy at seeing the ice creams re-emerge in markets not too many years later, they probably don't know the entire story.
The missing piece to the It's-It tale involves my mother Nancy and her friend Priscilla; their contribution to the ice cream treat's history even got them recognition from Herb Caen in one of his columns and labeled "the It's-It Girls" by another writer.
Over the next week or so, after a little more research, I'll write in more detail about how my mother and Priscilla became the "It's-It girls." But for now, I'll post these photos (taken in 1973 or 1974) of my mother (the brunette on the right) and Priscilla (the blonde on the left) standing in the It's-It booth my father made and hand painted. The little girl is Priscilla's daughter, Jocelyn. Hey, she's eating an It's-It...That was one of the perks of being an It's-It girl's kid. (Photos contributed by Priscilla)
Thanks to ex-San Francisco resident (but always a San Franciscan) Pondering Pig for reminding me about my It's-It memories. His great San Francisco posts always get me remembering.
Travelling North on Route 99 in Sun Valley, my husband and I discovered the Pink Motel (9457 San Fernando Road) - used in filming "the OC," "the House of Sand and Fog" and "the Whole Nine Yards." (I only found that info out later through Google.) Oh, and a commenter named Kenny told me the motel was also used in this Maverick's video for "Here Comes My Baby."
When we got out to take photos, I felt like I was far, far away. The air felt still. People slowly milled about the motel grounds looking worn and beaten in their leathery skin.
My husband walked over to speak to a man about a red 1960s Dodge for sale, so I wandered around taking photos and wondered about 
the people I saw. What brought them here? What's gone on in their lives?
A weathered man with his hands in the pockets of his greasy blue overalls, smiled a gapped-toothed smile at me, and said something in a garbled voice I didn't understand. He stared at a patch of green in the middle of the Pink Motel's parking lot. After a few "huhs?" I realized he said, "Um watchin' a rabbit." I smiled at him and thought, hmmm...right, remembering the movie "Harvey." 
Then my husband called me over to check out the motel's coffee shop next door. We pressed our faces to the window. "Oh man, it's like a time capsule!" I said. The interior seems to be authentic. There were a few tears in some of the booth's upholstery, old cigarette machines, and slighty dingy lamps. It looked as though they closed shop around 1955 and just never cleared the place out. But, apparently, though it's no longer serving food, it's now used for filming.
We walked around the back of the coffee shop and discovered a large lot behind a fence with palm trees, dirt, dried grass and a huge pool, now covered in graffiti. I imagine that back in the middle of the last century the Pink Motel was a nice little place to
visit.
Before walking back to our car, I smiled again at my gap-toothed friend of questionable sanity. He smiled back, his eyes cracked at the corners, and then he went back to staring at the same patch of grass near the bird of paradise plants. Poor man, I thought. And then I saw the little black rabbit. He nodded at me, "See!"
After realizing the man was just friendly and not insane, I blurted "I like this place" to my husband.
"Yeah, well, I wouldn't wanna know what it's like at night," he said.
We continued on down San Fernando Valley road, curved into Burbank and then into Glendale. We stopped at Pecos Bill's BBQ (1551 Victory Bl.)
for some sloppy, smoky-sweet and meaty shredded bbq beef sandwiches. I'd often driven passed the little shack, which taunted me with its fragrant smoke, but hadn't yet eaten there. Opened since 1946, by the current owner's grandpa, you'd think I would've stopped sooner. But I'm glad we did today. The tasty food, friendly service and small town atmosphere capped off our historic Valley tour nicely.
Satisfied, we hopped back into our car and headed toward
Magnolia and stopped for camera batteries at the Handy market in Burbank. There, folks were lined up in the parking lot for more barbecue. I think I spied some huge turkey legs under clouds of smoke. We got our batteries, took some photos and headed west down Magnolia toward home.
...or I'm crazy.
I was sure this was going to be the first year I didn't ONCE write the previous year on my checks. I've written check after check this month without having to do this:01/01/06 Nope. Not once. I was very proud - Until, I re-read a letter I faxed six days ago, on which I typed January 4, 1907. Ugh!! Well, at least I got the last two digits right. I just screwed up the century. So now I'm worried craziness is creeping up on me; it's one of my greatest fears (beside being completely zipped inside a mummy sleeping bag, like my uncle once did to me.)
Or maybe I'm just a crazy, time travelling fool. See!
(Okay, this photo was taken at a Sixties costume party, so that explains the clothes. But what's with those eyes? There is no other explanation than I am absolutely crazy. I can't imagine what was taking place that I needed to react like that. Yeah, so I'm pretty worried that it won't be long before my daughter will have to wipe cream of wheat from my chin.)
Oh, and while I still have some working brain tissue I should defend my uncle. He had a perfect right to zip me completely (the zipper went all the way around my head, like a cacoon). You see, before that I jumped into his car and hid in the back seat while he drove (without knowing I was in the back) to go pick up his girlfriend. I popped up in the back seat yelling, "Surprise!" So I deserved to be zipped.
The California Writers Club Vice President, Scott Sonders, asked me if I would speak at the April 7th CWC meeting...for an entire HALF HOUR. He knows two things about me: One, I am passionate about writing. And two, I like to talk.
Me: Whaaah? What am I going to talk about for a half hour?
Scott: Think of it as an opportunity.
Me: Errrrrr....Okay...I guess.
Then I realized (Bwaa haaa haaa!!!) I would have an entire audience held captive - all mine - for a full half hour. That is an opportunity, considering I have a teenager who won't listen to me for one quarter of a second.
Anyway, I did speak at the CWC meeting this past Saturday. And it went well enough that some people even asked if I had copies of what I spoke about to take home. I didn't, since I just blathered what was in my head. So below I will write down the main things I spoke about.
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Since the reason I come to the California Writer Club's meetings is to share ideas with other writers - in the way Hemingway, Fitzgerald and Stein might have held salons in 1920's era Paris - I thought it would be a chance to share with other writers. So I asked things I often wonder, to see if anyone could relate, like -
Why is it that some of the best writing ideas come at inappropriate times and odd places? Like when I'm in the shower, covered with soap and without a pen? (I told my husband I said this to an entire audience and he winced).
Do friends call you with wacky stories (what their crazy uncle did in the supermarket, for instance) thinking that you'll write about it?
Does anyone else find that when you finally have a quiet chunk of time to write, that's exactly when you get a mad urge to clean out your refrigerator vegetable bins?
Am I the only one who realizes all the changes I should have made to a piece after I've sent it off to the editor?
Does anyone else find their head gets crowded with critics and judges when they write - like Simon Cowell, Judge Judy and your parents are debating every word, each sentence and your complete merit?
And the worst...
Have you ever picked up a book in a bookstore and thought, I could've written this? But then you come to the realization - yes, but that writer actually did it. They took the time and effort it takes to write a book, and you (or I, rather) did not...yet.
----Then I passed around a questionnare, so that other writers could share their answers and I could compile them into a little hand out for the next meeting. I also gave my own answers to the questions to share with the audience.----
Q. What books do you keep near (or often refer to) when writing?
For me, I often get re-inspired by Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird. All I have to do is read what she has to say about school lunches, and I need to grab my pen to capture the ideas in my head.
Also, I might read A Natural History of the Senses by Diane Ackerman, simply for the exquisite way she describes the senses; her writing is so good it's inspiring.
And some of the old stand-bys: Elements of Style by Strunk and White and On Writing Well by William Zinsser.
Q. What inspires you to write?
I enjoy trying new (sometimes odd) things, having experiences - like the time I took a writing class from a published rock groupie or a comedy class at Canoga Bowl. The funniest part of the entire evening at the "comedy" class was listening to an ice fisherman from Flin Flan, Canada discuss his trials during his employment search in Los Angeles. That made me laugh - an ice fisherman in Los Angeles trying to find work; the comedy teacher did not make me laugh. But the experience did give me something to write about.
Q. What writing pet peeves do you have?
For instance, cliches - which are almost cliche as far as writing pet peeves go. Here's one I have: the hyperbolic use of words, so that word usage is heading in the direction of the standing ovation. Everything is "amazing," "awesome" or "miraculous" these days. Just like Jay Leno's audience gives him a standing ovation Monday through Friday...diluting the specialness of the tribute. It used to be true legends like the late Ray Charles, etc. would be the rare person to receive a standing ovation, now I watch the American Music Awards and Mariah Carey even gets one. People are handing them out like handy wipes at the AM PM mini-mart. That's what's happening to words. Everyone is incredible these days, thus diluting the meaning.
I have to admit, I do this too. Though I try to make an effort to reserve my complimentary words for the deserving.
Q. What words of inspiration, philosophy or quote helps to motivate you?
I like this Somerset Maugham quote: "Only a mediocre writer is always at his best."
And I also like to remember that Erma Bombeck didn't have her column published until she was 38-years-old and Laura Ingalls Wilder didn't publish her first book until she was 65.
Because, unlike acrobats or gymnasts, we writers can write at any age. As a matter of fact, the older we get the more experiences we have to write about.
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I had a lot more Q&A, but this post is getting rather long.
I then passed around some great publications, like The Sun Magazine, that seek submissions from freelance writers. And mentioned that I recently read a childhood friend's story in The Sun. She even wrote a piece about living in San Francisco State University's Student housing, as I did. But here's the interesting part, I think - she found the experience rather humilating, while I didn't. We lived in barrack-style, cockroach infested apartments. She wrote of being embarrassed of her make-shift bedroom, while I thought she had the coolest room on the block. Her dad, a theater set decorator, had gutted their pantry, and then created a bunk bed with a desk underneath. It was draped in tapestry, and felt special, like a secret haven. But she (the writer) found it too embarassing to even invite classmates home. Yet I never gave our economic status or our living conditions much thought at all, though the place - crawling with more latch-key kids than parents - has made me want to write about it.
As people (as writers) we may share similiar experiences with others, but have completely opposing perspectives. So as writers we shouldn't let that stop us from writing a story, simply because something has already been written. Write it, but from your own perspective - your own slant.
Anyway, I managed to blather away somewhere close to 30 minutes with minimal moments of shame (except, of course, discussing my shower habits). So I'll compile the answers to my questions from the other writers into a booklet. That way, I not only challenged myself but will also have something tangible from the day.
Our friend Fred Mandel, a talented musician himself, told my husband and me we should check out a friend of his, a guitar player named Philip. He said the guy is an amazing player, the sort of talent you rarely find these days. So we caught a ride with Fred and his wife Jenny out to the Brass Elephant in Monrovia to catch Philip Sayce and his Band (drummer, Kenny Aronoff and bass player, Roger Bueno).
Check out this video!
Wow! They had the place entranced. From beginning to end - the nonstop sweat-flying, chest-thumping, head-slamming, finger-blurring - never waned in energy. It was simply stellar blues-rock. Philip, at one point, walked off the stage and through the bar, ending up right in front of our table.
And the venue couldn't have been better. Where else, exactly, can you see that kind of show for nothing but
the price of a beer? Not that there's even a drink minimum. The cozy 1920's bar - with its thick, aged walls and 
whirrling pulleys of ceiling fans - was filled with locals.
They all seemed to know each other, like the guys I sat near - yelling across the room to friends, pumping their fists in the air to the guitar wails. They had photos of Philip and one of his CDs, out and ready to be signed. Others held up microphones to tape machines and video cameras. They're Philip Sayce fans who've been following the band. And last Thursday Night I heard why. 
Sure, Schwab's Pharmacy and the Ambassador Hotel were plowed down. But Pla-boy (not Playboy) Liquor and the Hollywood Center Motel, among others
, haven't been touched in decades.
Not one to make stick to resolutions, I want to make this promise to myself:
I will finish what I start. I have a bad habit of starting things enthusiastically, and then losing enthusiasm shortly after.
Here's one example:
I love this slide (on left) of a Parisian piscine (swimming pool) circa 1969, taken by either my mother or my father when we were traveling.
Inspired by the abstract way in which the bodies are a mish-mosh of angles on top of the red wooden pool deck, I pulled out my paints.
And this (below) is as far as I got before tiring. This year, I will finish this and everything else I started. I swear!
Let's see...Southern California experienced hail, ice and snow in places as odd as Malibu Beach this week. And now the weather is gloriously clear, warm and sunny. So the weather was about as odd and funky as my week.
Take last night for instance...Please! (Ba dum bum!) I'd like to take it back if I could. It was my first less than fun open-mike experience at Border's Books in Canoga Park. Until last night I was having so much fun reading.
In September, I read "Eat It, It Won't Hurt You," true and frightening frugal tales of living with my father, the cheapest man I've ever known; a man who got our family held at gun point when he refused to pay for the "ridiculously" priced gas in Belgium, after filling his tank.
The next month I read, "Craving Normal," tales of feeling less than normal as I ate my father-made lunches - of wheat on cheddar and browned apple slices - in transparent produce bags, while most kids had Twinkies and Wonderbread sandwiches in real lunch boxes. Those kids wore cardigans, while I came to school in lederhosen and an embroidered sheepskin coat...and other humilating childhood experiences of growing up with parents who said "Far oooouuuut" way too often.
And for the holidays I read, "One Twisted Christmas" about the December of 1967 when my father horrified our suburban neighborhood by placing Santa on his back on top of our roof, with a toy gun in his hand pointed at his head.
People loved those tales. They loved them so much that Matt, the open-mike organizer, asked me to read first last night, and even introduced me as the California Writing Club's "Own Michele Miles." Nobody's called me their own before. I walked up to the microphone with my shoulders back. And then my ego quickly deflated.
I read "Like a Rolling tomato," my experiences of feeling like an alien in a corporate job. I read about the culture of jargon-filled memos, mandatory nylons and ties, angry and cliquey female co-workers who preyed upon anyone with an inkling of joy. And how I managed to leave so I could spend time with my daughter, start my own business and once again have a life free of cubicles and corporate manuals. I escaped like the cherry tomato I plucked from the deli platter that rolled out of my fingers, toward a CEO who droned on during a meeting about financial projections, as I fell asleep.
I was sure this was a story others could relate to, could chuckle at, and maybe find an inkling of inspiration...no such luck. As I read, I could tell by the quiet of the audience (which was larger than usual due to the announcement in the Daily News) that this story wasn't working. I couldn't read fast enough. I just wanted to get back to my seat and away from the microphone. The only thing I was thankful for is that my husband didn't come to see me. It was horrible.
"Nah. It was probably better than you thought," my husband said, trying to make me feel better.
"Uhhhh...no. I'm pretty sure I stunk up the joint. Especially after I saw what the older woman in a pouffy circa 1958 hair-do seated in front of me wrote in her note book: "Michelle...tomato...not interesting to me."
Yep, it was a funky week in many ways - the weather
was odd, and my open-mike night was worse. But, hey, that's in the past, right? The sun's shining now and I'll just learn from my mistakes and persevere. Arrrrgghhhh...I'm trying my hardest to be positive, but I'm even annoying myself.
I found this on Youtube. My husband's the bass player.
Our friend Marv e-mailed this Youtube video, circa 1983, he found of Burton Cummings (American Woman, etc.) with Del Shannon. The video opens with Burton and Del talking, but then the video fades into them on stage playing Runaway. Look for my husband (dressed in a blue shirt and tan pants) playing bass behind Del Shannon's head. Also, please note, the sweater Burton is swearing is just like one I used to wear with a white mini skirt that same year.(Photo: My husband and Burton)
My husband, Ian Gardiner, played with Burton from the mid 1970s to the mid 1980s. When they weren't touring, Burton often had TV specials on the CBC. Below is a youtube medley someone put together of one those shows. My husband is the bass player dressed all in tan standing on the upper-level. The drummer is Jim Gordon; he co-wrote Layla with Eric Clapton, oh, and - due to the strange voices in his head - bludgeoned his mother to death. Now he's in prison. He obviously needed help. It's a sad story.
Here's the video, which also has Randy Bachman and the Manhattan Transfer.
Now I just need to find some of the Midnight Special videos they were on.
Here's another video where my husband's playing bass
Just when I was getting in the Christmas mood... it's over. And what beautiful weather we had here in the San Fernando Valley on Christmas day! The perfect day went by in a blur of flying wrapping paper, oohs, aahs and eating.
My husband and I witnessed our second Christmas miracle; the first was that the icicle lights worked the first time I hung them outside. Our second miracle? My daughter spent her own hard earned money on gifts.
My step-son Adam and his girlfriend Anna visited (Photo below). They gave me a 
glass set complete with drink shaker.
Later that evening, to break in my new glasses, I made Lemon Drop Martinis - 4 parts citrus flavored vodka, one part triple sec, mixed into a shaker of ice. Rim glasses with lemon and dip into sugar. Pretty, refreshing and really simple.
So there's one suggestion for a New Year's Eve celebration. Or as you can see by this party rental company truck
...there are plenty of ways to party. Happy New Year!
Doesn't
this little tree on the left look like something from a Charlie Brown Christmas
special? I felt so sorry for the little guy, I almost wanted to pick
him. But, unfortunately, we abandoned it for the one below. We're that shallow.
Anyway, since I'm the one in my family who spends hours untangling lights and swearing, I took lots of photos of all my hard work.
Here's our tree from the outside. And if you look at the photo on left you'll see my sweet little dog to the the right of the tree. Then take a look at the middle photo. She's posessed!
Merry Christmas! Here's my latest Piece for the L.A. Daily News on the holidays, "Holiday Letters, Cheese Balls and Uvulas...Oh My!" After reading it, my husband said I must've
channeled my inner Andy Rooney (the grumpy guy with the wiry eyebrows on 60 Minutes) when writing it. Not a sexy picture!
Scary Santa Not So Scary Santa
Why I Don't Go To Many Parties
Our friends Mark and Steff invited my husband and me to a party at their recording studio. Once there, I struck up a conversation with a man from Austria. We got right into the deep topic of yodeling and why Gwen Stefani should leave that to the Austrians, followed by a discussion on lederhosen and how wearing the leather shorts often leads to chafing. Something, unfortunately, I know too well.
(photo: me in lederhosen, sans shirt) My sister recently reminded me how our parents were constantly running after us with those damn things, "Wear the lederhosen!" Along with missing Rocky and Bullwinkle and the lack of Velveeta Cheese in Europe, wearing lederhosen was not one of my favorite parts of travel as a child.
That horrifying bit of party banter (yodeling and lederhosen) was followed by
my confession to coupon clipping, which left a small crowd gasping. "No! You don't. 
Tell me you don't." Steff pleaded. What? Is that so weird?
Look, I confess, I don't go to many parties these days, so maybe I'm rusty in the party banter arena. In a previous post I mentioned how I told a group of men, as we discussed the greatness of Top Ramen at another recording studio party, "I bloat after eating it...from the salt." Once again, not a great party topic.
And then out came the bells
Later, Steff and Mark broke out all the instruments - people played guitars, a bass, the harmonica...but a lot of us were left empty handed.
So someone came in with a box of tamborines, maracas and a big bunch of jingly bells. I got the bells. I shook those bells through Beatles' songs, Rolling Stones' songs, the Eagles...and then took a break. A woman ran out to get me in the hallway, "Hey, we need you in there! We need bells!"
Huh? Someone actually NEEDS bells? I thought as I ran in. A guitar player called me over.
Him: What's your name?
Me: Michele.
Him: Hmmm...Michele on Bells?
(And then promptly serenaded me, "Michelle, My Belle...," which left me staring into his eyes until he abruptly stopped playing.)
Him: Why aren't you shaking your bells?
So I did the only way I know how, by banging them on my hips. I discovered a while ago when learning the guitar, all my rhythm is in my hips. I can dance. But play the guitar? Not so good.
So when my husband walked into the room, he found me pounding the bells on my swaying hips in a rousing rendition of "Jingle Bells" before a crowd. Once it ended, I put down my bells and dashed out of the room wondering what the heck I was thinking, as I passed a woman in the crowd who asked me if I belly dance. Oh my Gawd! I thought. Was I throwing my hips into it that much?
And that's why I woke up to my husband saying, "Hey there, bell lady."
Marina Del Rey Christmas Boat Parade on December 8th
Christmas party, preparing Feuerzangebowle - German flaming punch
Marilyn over at California Fever started a Flickr group to send photos of pets and kids to cheer up five-year-old Taylor Parker, who was seriously injured in a traffic accident on November 16th.
I sent this photo of my silly, lovable and slightly klutzy dog (it runs in the family) to Taylor's Flickr group. If you have a Flickr account and would like to help make Taylor smile, please click on Marlilyn's California Fever site above for the details.
Today was such a gorgeous day, my husband and I decided to drive out to Pasadena for lunch at Cafe Verde, and while we were there we took some photos.
Overheard at a liquor store:
Twenty-something woman: (speaking into her cell phone while looking into a glass case at a $299.00 bottle of tequila) Uhhh...It's almost three hundred dollars. I like him and everything. But not that much.
Overheard at a department store:
Blonde teen girl: (resting her weary body onto a circular clothing rack, her head heavy in her hand) I mean, like, he's so ridiculous. Did you see his Myspace page? It's covered with dollar signs. Who does he think he is, P. Diddy? (and then without taking a breath she jumped tangents) Oh my Gawd! I've gotta get my eyebrows waxed. Seriously! There's a jungle growing here. I'm talkin' monkeys are swinging from my hairs.
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Saturday night we went to a birthday party for our friend, Rick. (I figure since I link just about everything, I should do it to promote friends' work, too.) He, like all our musician friends, has actually been my husband's friend for decades. But I tend to usurp all my husband's friends as my own...bwa ha ha ha! Because that's the sort of person I am.
Anyway, back to the party - Not long after arriving, a guy broke a bottle of Champagne on the kitchen floor...for once it wasn't me! I told him, "That's okay, I once broke fifteen Champagne bottles at once," and I saw his face relax in relief as he said "Really?" So I felt good about that, because I know how lonely and humiliating it is to be the only one in a room breaking things or tripping or falling down when everyone is standing perfectly up-right.
I have a thing for trees. And since this camera is new - I'm still learning the settings (as you can tell by some of the photos) - I tried out the manual features on this hundred year old cherry tree. It was so beautifully gnarly and bent. A guy I met said it reminded him of something from H.R. Puf-N-Stuf.
Me: What year were you born?
Him: Sixty-three.
Me: Oh, you're my people! (I said to him and his girlfriend who remembered H.R. Puf-N-Stuf too)
Him: What about the Banana Splits?
Me: I loved them!
Why was I so excited? Because it seems everyone I know is at least ten years older than me or ten years younger than me, so our pop-culture knowledge doesn't translate often. For instance, when my husband saw what Rick was wearing (a turtle neck shirt under a suit jacket, see photo on left),
he quipped, "Who do you think you are? Ilya kuryakin?" And then had to explain to me that that was a character on a show called the "Man from Uncle." And then there's my friend Lisa, who sat with us, and had no idea about HR Puff-N-Stuff. She was a kid in the "Smurf" and "My Little Pony" era, aka the '80s.
So to meet someone who grew up with "HR Puff-N-Stuff" and "the Banana Splits"...wow, I could hardly contain my excitement. It doesn't take a lot to get me excited I guess: Trees, 1970s era kid shows and watching someone other than me break Champagne bottles. I'm easy.
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The weekend ended in a vibrant sunset, perfect background for more of my tree shots.
(Please click on photos to enlarge)
A life in the suburbs:
The cement world of ticky-tack houses in which I exist, where my muscles atrophy and my brain becomes flabbier each day. I am a suburbanite, a San Fernando Valley dweller - as suburban as you can get west of Levitt Town, and I'm embracing the fact that I am sheltered and shallow.
With only enough energy to lift a Sun Drop soda to my lips, and hold a paperback in my brittle wrist, I introduce to you - The San Fernando Valley outside my door!
Pierce College's Halloween Festival is back! (9/29 - 10/31) Come enjoy autumn in the Valley, complete with: pumpkins, animals, corn maze, two haunted houses, a haunted trail, hay rides and more.
(Please click on photos to enlarge)
Pockets of green 
In the San Fernando Valley:
The rolling hills of Pierce College, where cows, geese, sheep, goats and horses meander.
And there's the 50-year-old Red Barn feed store in Tarzana, where you can buy some baby chicks, a horse saddle and eat free popcorn while you shop.
Not far away from the Red Barn and Pierce College is Melody Acres.
Yes, the valley has more mini-malls than I care for, but - if you look - there are still those spots of green which remain from the Valley's rural past.
(Photo on left: my daughter and her pal, Cameron; his dad, a movie-set contractor, built this playhouse in Melody Acres.)
Here's my Julius Shulman article about his Getty exhibition, which I enjoyed writing.
October 15th, I attended the 95th birthday of Julius Shulman, iconic and legendary photographer of mid-century modern architecture. The event coincided with the opening of his exhibit at the Getty. I met the Great "Uncle Shulman" as he calls himself, and Gloria Koenig, wife of the late and wonderful mid-century modern architect Pierre Koenig. Her book, Iconic L.A., the story of L.A.'s most memorable buildings will come out in paperback this spring. Please check it out!
And here are some photos I took on a trip to Palm Springs.
My husband and I are mid-century modern architecture enthusiasts, so spent our time - when not eating and sipping cocktails - finding these wonderful homes in the desert.
We weren't the only ones.
Here's (below) the Kaufmann house,
designed by Richard Neutra. When we found the house, there was already a trio of women, balancing on rocks, trying to peek over the stone wall. One of them was holding the same book we carried, Palm Springs Weekend, which made me feel like we were all architecture groupies. 
Photo on left, is the house where Elvis spent his honeymoon.
The homes just below the canyons were my favorite. I could imagine myself inside one of the sleek homes wearing a cocktail dress, sipping a martini, listening to an up-beat Bossa Nova tune... instead, I simply drove on by.
Below right is the Palms Springs Tennis Club. 
As a kid, during the 1970s, I lived in the Sunset and Richmond Districts of San Francisco. (photo: Me in '74, as a student of Frederick Burke Elementary)
Sadly, San Francisco - like L.A. - has lost many of the places I once enjoyed so much. Places like:
Playland-at-the-Beach: On warm, sunny days, my family and I would often head down to Ocean Beach (just below the Cliff house and across from Playland). After attempting to body surf in the teeth-chattering waters, we'd dry off and run over for hours of romping around Playland's fun house.
First we'd walk by Laughing Sal and her scary cackle, and then we'd navigate through the maze of mirrors and walk over bridges which burst us with air from below (meant to blow up skirts.) Finally, we'd run free through the fun house. I always ran first to the slick wooden slides that started from way above and ended at the floor. The wood was so polished, I'd fly down half screaming and half laughing. And there was the massive disk - like a giant's record player - that spun us riders until we were flung to the matted floor like rag dolls. Oh, man! The fun we had before people worried about lawsuits!
Of course, we never left Playland without buying It's-It Ice Creams. At the time, the ice cream treats weren't sold anywhere else.
Playland shut its doors for good in 1972, and was soon replaced by condos.
San Francisco Zoo's Storyland: (Photo below: My sister's birthday party at the zoo, approx 1974)
As a kid, I didn't find the zoo nearly as fun as I found the Storyland area they had in the Children's zoo. We'd walk through a castle doorway into a world of fantasy; there I'd spend hours munching on sticky pink popcorn and pretending.
I took my daughter to the S.F. zoo in the '90s, only to find Storyland missing.
After many childhood zoo visits, we ended up at Doggie Diner for a hot dog. I loved that old dog.
The Alexandria theater on the corner of 18th and Geary.
In 1972, we lived just down the street on 18th Avenue. That year the Alexandria had a showing of "Gone with the Wind," and I was blown away (bad pun, huh?).
My mom and I sat in the balcony of the ornate and plush Moderne style theater. The moment the musical score swelled and the dusty beam of light lit up the red velvet curtains...I became a movie lover.
The Alexandria closed in 2004.
The ice skating rink on Kirkham and 48th Avenue - I don't even know the name. We kids just referred to it as the rink on 48th and Kirkham. My friend Cindy and I bought ice skates from the Sears Catalog and took two Muni buses to the rink as often as we could. Many afternoons were spent spinning and doing the hokey-pokey. Or we'd go inside the cabin-like snack bar for hot chocolate and to play Pong. We thought Pong was so hi-tech.
After taking off our skates and heading out of the rink, onto 48th Ave., the warm burst of air was a relief (actually cool S.F. evening air, but relatively warm compared to rink's temps.). Then my friend and I might head over to this little market for a snack before getting back on the Muni toward home.
Busvan furniture - A funky furniture store in the Richmond. It's where the hip (but
broke) shopped. While other kids had brown shag carpets, avocado
appliances and orange recliners...we had a Freud-does-the-'70s look: Antiques, persian style rugs, Victorian
velvet couch, crammed books and potted plants.(Photo: Our livingroom, Busvan chic)
Before I ever heard the word "mall", my friend Cindy and I used to explore Stonestown. It was an outdoor shopping center. There, we posed as mannequins in the Emporium, and bought bags of candy at Woolworth's for under a dollar. We drooled over the hip clothes (platforms, multi-colored knee socks and hip-hugger bell bottom jeans) at Judy's Boutique. And we always ended up at the QFI food court for egg rolls. On weekends we'd walk over to the UA cinema for a Disney Double feature. During intermission they'd raffle off cool prizes, like Schwinn bikes with banana seats. I believe the theater's still there, but now Stonestown's just another generic mall.
Gatorville - San Francisco State University Student Housing
We lived here from 1973 to 1975, while my dad went to the college. The place was full of kids - all races and ages. We practically ran the place during the day while our parents were at work and school. On weekends, our families gathered for potlucks or improvised plays or Beatles-themed costume parties in our funky little community center.
We kids would roam around the SF State campus when bored or when we wanted to sell comic books or Girl Scout cookies. We'd go over to the dormitory called, Verducci Hall (see video clip of demolition). The college girls at Verducci would give us their hand-me-down platforms and maxi-dresses.
In 1975, the college needed the property and we were told to move. So I called Van Amburg, my favorite news anchor on ABC's channel 7 (I know. What kind of freaky kid has a favorite news anchor?), and told him the college was kicking us out. I was angry and I was protesting. It was just a bunch of mildewy barracks, but it was my home. Mr. Amburg said reporters would come by to interview me. No one every showed up...and I even took a shower.
About six years ago, I passed the empty lot where Gatorville once stood, only to see dirt.(photo: Gatorville)
I stumbled upon this Day On The Green website, which brought back memories of my first concert in '79: AC/DC, Aerosmith, Ted Nugent... among others. My friends and I fueled up on coffee at Sambo's coffee shop before sitting in the concert line all night. Once the Oakland Coliseum gates opened, it was sheer madness - everyone ran as fast as they could to find the closest spot on the green near the stage. I went to a few Day On the Green concerts, but they went away with the death of promoter Bill Graham, I believe.
Talk about hyperbolic whining...
Greg Palast, ex-San Fernando Valley resident and so-called "muckraking journalist," has said of his time in the Valley:
"For me, the class war began in the Valley. ... We had this sense that there was a bright city over the hill. Cross Laurel Canyon and you entered the city of the winners. We were in the planet of the losers, below sea level, economically and socially."
A statement so ridiculous I nearly snorted coffee out of my nose as I read his op-ed in which that unbelievable quote appeared.
About the same time Palast experienced his "class war" in the "loser" Valley, I explored the world with my family from '68-'70. 
During our travels I saw how people lived around the world, which is why I find Palast's sniveling so ridiculous. He has the nerve to claim insight into world politics because of his Valley days... Please! That's like me saying I once made Jello instant pudding so I'm now an aficionado of all gourmet foods. Yes, let me tell you all about the history of the souffle...because, you see, I've had the arduos experience of preparing boxed gelatin.
Even the Valley's most impoverished citizens during the '60s had opportunities to rise above their meager beginnings. The Valley wasn't the concentration camps of World War II. It was the San - Freaking - Fernando Valley!
(photo on right:my sister & me in East Berlin -July, 1969)
Now, maybe if he'd grown up in Cuba, as did an acquaintance of mine, I'd take Palast's background seriously. This man had everything taken by Castro in the post-revolution. Only by a fluke of circumstances - after being imprisoned - did he escape. I have another friend from Iran who had everything taken from him, too. He fled because he was threatened with death.
Though my family traveled extensivley, we weren't rich. My parents sold everything and bought a trailer for us to live in as we roamed the world. And because of those experiences I learned early how fortunate I have always been. I would be highly embarrassed to complain about my up-bringing since I've seen children begging and doing hard labor. 
We met gypsies elated to have our hand-me-down clothes. And we spent time in East Berlin, where everything was dour in color and carcasses of bombed buildings remained from WWII. But while we (as visitors) were able to leave, the people in East Berlin could not. They were confined by a little thing called the Berlin Wall. And if they tried to escape, the guards were instructed to shoot upon sight.
Yet there was Palast - a bus ride away from the world's major film studios (where people the world over dream of arriving), over the hill from beaches, with no walls confining him...and he has the nerve to snivel.
Until that Daily News article, I'd never heard of Greg Palast so I know nothing more about him. But I'd have a really hard time taking much of what he says seriously after hearing his statements about the Valley.
(the photo above is NOT the San Fernando Valley)
I live in the Valley. I know people who've grown up in the Valley. I know people who arrived in the U.S by raft from North Vietnam and eventually bought homes in the Valley. Mr. Palast, the Valley is not - and never was - North Korea, Iran, North Vietnam, Cuba or any other impoverished and/or dictator run state.
Too bad Palast couldn't use his amazing muckraking skills to uncover the obvious, like working at Bob's Big Boy while living in Sun Valley isn't equivalent to life in the gulag!
(All photos were taken during my family's travels from '68-'70)
*I have a piece that was published about my own Valley experiences, prompted by all the Valley whines, rants and stereotypes from people like Palast. The piece is titled "Valley State of Mind".
Not long ago, my family and I lived in Melody Acres - between Tampa and Corbin Boulevards, North of Hatteras, South of Topham. It felt so much like living out in the country, I'd almost forget we were so close to the 101 Freeway.
One neighbor's rooster crowed every morning; horses clip-clopped down the street many evenings as the sun set. We had our share of mules, pigs, sheep, rabbits, peacocks and emus in the neighborhood.
My daughter and her friends climbed trees, sold lemonade, built forts, dug mud holes, mischievously picked neighbors' lemons. It was as Norman Rockwell as you can get in L.A. county these days.
Each late October, Melody Acres' Neighborhood Association holds a block party where neighbors bring pot-luck dishes, a local band plays on a hay-strewn stage and children line up for pony rides.
One year, an elderly neighbor named Alice came by to see if she would win the longest enduring resident of Melody Acres contest. Considering my age and that I lived there only a few years at the time, she had me beat; Alice moved to Melody Acres in the 1930s as an eighteen year old bride. Her little cottage still sits almost below the Ventura Freeway - a freeway that didn't exist when she first arrived.
We only left Melody Acres in order to buy our own home, otherwise I wouldn't have moved. It was a great place for my daughter to be a child and grow up.
Yes, country living still exists in the valley: Tapia Farms, Pierce college's cow dotted rolling hills, Chatsworth and Sun valley's horse trails and, of course, Melody Acres pot-holed streets.
*The Valley's rural enough to have an online site for Valley horse owners.
Y'all come back now! Ya Hear?
Since I'm half Irish - both my maternal grandparents' families came to the U.S. from Ireland in the mid to late 1800s - I thought I'd make a little effort to celebrate our holiday. Here's a photo (on right) of my Irish Grandma and Grandpa Joyce, taken in the early 1940s.
Grandma made corned beef and cabbage every St. Patrick's Day, yet I'd never once made it myself.
So this St. Patrick's Day, I stuck my corned beef in a crock pot and then headed to the St. Patrick's Day Parade in Canoga Park. There were leprechauns, jugglers, kilt wearing men with bag pipes, a Mariachi band that played "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling" and Rip Taylor, who I remembered from the Gong Show!
This morning I went to the Encino Farmer's Market - Sundays 8am-1pm, on Victory Bl., between White Oak Ave. & Balboa Bl.
I tried my first cheese curd, and was happy to realize I haven't missed anything. Do you know they squeak as you chew them?
I received some sage advice from the kettle corn vendor: "Eat your kettle corn responsibly."
"And how can I eat it irresponsibly?" I asked.
"Oh...there are ways," he said, with one eyebrow raised.
I love when I can actually smell the fruit. The strawberries smelled so sweet as I walked by...that I backed up and bought some - as well as many other wonderful edible treats.
Self-Realization Fellowship Lake Shrine - 17190 Sunset Boulevard, Pacific Palisades, 310-454-4114
Anyone is welcomed, even people in umbrella hats.
Bobby's Coffee Shop - 22821 Ventura Blvd. Woodland Hills (West of Fallbook) - From 1947 until the early sixties*It was a restaurant called the Chicken A-Go Go. For 32 years now it's been Bobby's - an unpretentious coffee shop serving extremely good diner food: eggs, bacon, pancakes, etc. for breakfast and burgers and sandwiches for lunch.*The above information was given to me by the current owner, though someone told me in the comment section, they've been going there since the early 60s and never remember it as a Chicken A-Go Go.*
When my husband and I arrived there was a line, which is usual for a weekend morning at Bobby's; though there were a few seats available at the counter. As we stood outside, I laughed that Bobby's still displays a sign that looked to be many decades old, advertising their Ranch breakfast special. They conveniently update the price with a new inflated one by covering the old price with paper and tape. I would've loved to see the cost of a 1970s breakfast. Still the cost for a two egg, three bacon, hashbrowns with toast and unlimited coffee breakfast is reasonable at $4.85.
The place was packed with an eclectic crowd: parents with kids, people who looked like they had a hard night of partying, the lone paper readers, a big group of college guys - all out for a good breakfast.
With the crowd did come a bit of a wait - but our waitress never let our coffee cups get low and I had fun people watching. Like all good things - it was the worth the wait. When my food arrived, I was happy. My over-medium eggs were cooked just right, and the bacon was exceptionally good - thick, juicy yet perfectly crisp.
On our way out we spoke with the new owner, Warren Akop, who looked completely content to be whisking eggs one minute and working the register the next. He told us the previously mentioned information about Bobby's beginning. He's owned the place for only seven months now - and the food is good as it's ever been. Warren, fortunately, knows a lot about Bobby's history and seems perfectly happy to keep a good thing going. About the Chicken A-Go Go, a fried chicken restaurant, that Bobby's once was - Warren said he would love to track down an old photo from those pre-Bobby's days.
Bobby's as a film location
Warren's also proud that Ray Romano's, not yet released, film "Grilled"
used Bobby's as one of their film locations. With its old time, no fuss, greasy spoon atmosphere, I knew it had to be used for some sort of production. Warren also mentioned a Net Zero commercial filmed there, as well.
Bobby's has been around 32 years for a reason; it's just plain good.
I haven't updated since May because...I haven't had the time I've been lazy and uninspired since the camera I carry around in my purse hasn't been working, so It's been hard to photo-blog.
Can anyone recommend a reasonably priced (under $350.00) digital camera with five or more mega-pixels, good optical zoom, clear close-ups and (MOST important!) quick shutter speed?
I'd like to mention some things I haven't had time to write about in detail -
Agua Dulce Vineyards
Wine Lovers! Have you been out to Agua Dulce Vineyards? It's not far from L.A. and surrounded by horse dotted, rolling hills near Vasquez Rocks. The winery has a wide selection of wines and a great little gourmet shop to buy snacks for a picnic right there, or to savour later.
My husband and I went there one warm, clear day. After tasting their wines and nibbling on cheese and crackers outside in the sun with a view of the vineyards, everything seemed right with the world. The wonders of wine and cheese!
I'd show you pictures, but my camera's broken!
Surfing
Early one cold, foggy June morning, I had my first lesson with Bob Ellis - surf instructor,
ocean philosopher and all around great guy - who owns PTA North Shore Surf shop in Topanga Canyon; he had me up right away. What a blast! My whole life I've lived near oceans, and yet it took me this long to try. Of course, I've got a long way to go to be skilled, but I wanted to thank Bob for, literally, giving me the push. Now I won't just sit on the beach watching my daughter surf. I'll join her.(photo of surf shop - above, right - by Dan Mazur)
James Dean
I introduced my daughter (on left of pair in photo) to James Dean, one recent afternoon. The Nuart had a double feature of Dean in "East of Eden" and "Rebel Without A Cause." I've seen "Rebel" so many times before, but never in a theater. From my daughter's reaction, James Dean still has the same impact on girls as he did decades ago. 
And, disturbingly, I kind of related to the parents in "Rebel Without A Cause."
Anyway, I recommend - if you have any favorite old films you've only seen on T.V., Video or D.V.D - checking out theaters like the Nuart every now and then. Seeing them on a movie screen is an entirely different experience.
