World-famous martinis, books, books, and more books

Manny, Musso and Frank's bartender, pouring one of their famous martinis.

I walked back from Musso and Frank's ladies room yesterday and whispered in my husband's ear, "There are only two stalls in there."
"Yeah, and?" he replied.
"That means there's a 50% chance that I just used the same stall as Dorothy Parker."
His raucous laugh made more than a few patrons look around.

S.Z. Sakall, also known as Cuddles.
Doesn't he resemble Manny?
Manny sounds a little like him, too.

It was a nostalgic kind of day. We had been in the bar where we drank Musso and Frank's signature martinis, and now we were having lunch. Manny the bartender, has been stirring up the iconic cocktails since 1984.

I had heard people rave about the restaurant's martinis, so for once, I didn't call for Bombay Sapphire, my favorite gin. I wanted to have the whole Musso and Frank's experience, to have a cocktail the way they've been making them for years, just like the ones they made for Fitzgerald, Chandler, Parker, Hemingway, and all the other writers who have drunk, fought, recovered from hangovers, and oh, yeah, written there.

We climbed onto barstools, and I was disconcerted by my reflection in the bar mirror. I forgot that old-fashioned bars have huge mirrors running the length of them. Manny the bartender approached, and I told we wanted his famous martinis.

He searched our faces, and said, "You know our martinis are made with gin, right?"

I felt wounded. Didn't I look like a martini drinker?
"Is there any other kind?"was my reply. His smile brightened, and he bustled about making our drinks.

This is how your martini will arrive; the little
carafe is the rest of your drink. Kinda like
milkshakes at Bob's Big Boy.

The only martinis are gin martinis. That is an article of faith so strong with me that even people who know little about me know it. Nothing pisses me off faster than to order a martini and have the bartender ask, "Gin or vodka?"

You can put vodka in a martini glass, spike it with an olive or onion, and even splash a little vermouth in there, but that doesn't make it a martini. If you ask for a martini, you should get gin. If you want vodka, order a vodka martini. Gin drinkers were here first. Manny told us that he had to start asking, because people (probably young people) were ordering martinis and sending them back because they wanted vodka.

He poured Gordons gin into a glass cocktail shaker, added the vermouth and stirred. Manny said, "Some people say, hold the vermouth. I put a little in anyway." Of course, because otherwise, that's just gin in a glass. They stir martinis at Musso and Frank's because they think it waters down your drink to shake it.



The presentation is lovely: Manny lines up the glasses and carafes, then makes a big show of pouring equal amounts in each glass. He goes back and forth a few times, evening up the amounts, saying, "This way, there will be no arguments."

The Central Library's rotunda, with its stained glass globe chandelier
and murals depicting the opening of the West.

The rest he pours into the carafes, and later will come by to fill our glasses. Ah yes, a full-service bartender.
The drink can't be faulted: the olives come with toothpicks in them so you don't have to fish them out with your fingers (believe me, I will, and have). It is impeccably mixed, presented, and poured, and only costs $9.50. There's only one problem: it's still just Gordons gin.

My husband loved it, but he's not a dyed-in-the-wool gin drinker, like me. Let me put it this way: when you're drinking a martini, it's pure alcohol. So the gin matters. I don't order martinis in some places because they don't know how to make them, and even in places I do order them, I'll drink something else if I can't get Bombay or Hendricks gin.

So now I've had the Musso and Frank's experience: next time I'll call for Bombay, and then it will be a perfect martini.

The atrium joins the old and new wings of the library,
 with whimsical chandeliers.

The unremarkable lunch (the wedge salad made me yearn for the Lemon Leaf's) was the mid-part of our day, which began at the Central Library, and continued at bookstores. The library is amazing; I take my students there, and I had never seen the fabulous things I saw on this tour. Our guide was a sweet little lady named Selma, who was knowledgeable, and liked to give us little quizzes. She was amused by the rivalry between me and my husband when it came to answering questions. In the final tally, he was more observant than me, dammit.

Then it was off to Larry Edmunds, which specializes in books on film, television, and the stage, where I found a German Expressionist poster for the Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, and the owner bitched at us because we wandered upstairs, where his office is. (We didn't know, he forgot to put his rope up across the stairs.)

I wander though the amazing mess of Cosmopolitan,
the bookstore seen in the Ewan McGregor
film Beginners, feeling like Indiana Jones.

We really wanted to see Cosmopolitan, the bookstore shown in the movie Beginners, with Ewan McGregor, Christopher Plummer and some delectable French woman, shot in some of my favorite locations in Los Angeles, like the Biltmore hotel.

The owner is a slightly irascible old man, who, when he dies, will take this place with him. The prices are too high, and I felt like Indiana Jones maneuvering though the stacks and stacks of books that threaten to fall on you, but it was an adventure.

I found a hysterical book about real notes that English flatmates have written to one another, with the author's funny comments on the opposing page. That being said, the title, I Lick My Cheese, needs no explanation.

I also overpaid for a book of photographs by Doisneau, who captured ordinary Parisians on the street in the 1950s. We know him best from his black and white series of couples kissing, that got turned into posters.

In the end, I think I overpaid because I wanted the books, he had them, and now I can say I patronized him, much like I can now say I had lunch at Musso and Frank's, even though the food wasn't great. My husband was rather taken with the "charm" of this store, but when I think about it, the reason I didn't like it so much is that books should be treated better than this, in my opinion.

If you are a book lover, you'd be appalled by the way books are piled on every conceivable surface, crammed into every corner, and never dusted in this place. I couldn't see the owner at the cash wrap, because of the stacks on books on the counter. It was almost comical. Maybe my former identity as a bookstore manager was screaming inside me.

On the other hand, my husband kissed me in an aisle featured in the film, and whispered, "Ewan McGregor stood right here."

Yeah, that was worth the trip.

Welcome, 2012!

This may look festive, but don't let that fool you: I didn't even drink on New Year's Eve.

So— the first day of 2012.

Since I am a white Anglo Saxon Protestant of mixed indeterminate ancestry on one side, and Irish on the other, I wasn't raised with any New Year's traditions.

I used to make Hoppin' John on the first day of the new year, but as any Southerner can tell you, the best stuff is made with a shocking amount of bacon grease. Since I started back to Weight Watchers a few months ago, that ain't happening. It was a borrowed tradition, anyway.

I just looked up the Irish traditions, and they aren't too difficult. The first person to cross your threshold on New Year's has a special significance. You want it to be a tall, handsome dark-haired man for good luck, apparently. Since I'm happily married, I'm not sure why I'd want that.

Princess Merida, the latest Disney princess, from Brave,
a new Pixar movie. I'm not sure I can forgive them for trying
 to cast Reese Witherspoon, but thankfully, she was busy.
Merida is voiced by a true Scotswoman, Kelly MacDonald.

If your first threshold-crosser is a red-haired woman, that's bad luck. Guess I'd better not cross my own doorstep. According to some versions, that's because people considered gingers to be witches.

Come to think of it, maybe that's where the British prejudice about red-haired people came from. They tease them unmercifully, and discriminate against them. Not even Prince Harry is immune.

I don't find ginger men to be particularly appealing, but a strawberry-blonde girl with a sprinkling of freckles on her nose? Adorable. I can't wait to see the latest Disney princess movie, Brave.

A princess who is a crack archer, and rides a horse like she was born on one? Awesome! Now we have a princess to emulate besides Belle, from Beauty and the Beast. We really only liked her because she was a bookworm, and didn't really fall for the Beast until she saw his library.

But I digress. Apparently, the Irish clean their houses form top to bottom for New Year's. Well, that ain't happening either, but I did clean out my upstairs closet.

My friend told me that one New Year's prediction is that what you do on that day will determine what you will do the rest of the year. So at least, I organized one closet.

Our day started out at Dillard's, to take advantage of their big sale. The place was a madhouse; apparently, women wait all year long for the big Coach purse sale. They had their own line, clearly marked. We were there to buy dress shirts and ties for my husband. We bought six shirts, two ties, a belt and slippers for around $300. Not too shabby. So, I guess I will be saving (and spending) money all year.

Then we did our laundry, and washed all those shirts. If I thought I was going to get out of doing laundry all year,  I was sadly mistaken. So, laundry's going to happen in 2012.

Prime Desert Woodlands, January 1, 2012.

We took a long walk at Prime Desert Woodlands, so maybe I'm going to spend more time in nature this year. That would be good. Actually, the older I get, the better I appreciate the outdoors.

It was late afternoon, my favorite time of day, and we exchanged holiday greetings with lots of nice folks. It's a very peaceful atmosphere out there, you don't feel like you're right in the middle of lots of houses.

I also baked low-fat apple cinnamon muffins, so I might do more baking in 2012. I don't know why, since I can't eat most baked goods. I did make a pretty healthful dinner, and I know that will continue.

I talked to family on the phone, which I definitely will keep doing. I'd like to get together with family and friends more this year, and I always want to do more entertaining.

I'm writing this column, and I really want to do more writing in the coming year. I couldn't get to it the last few weeks, and I hated that.

So those are my predictions for the new year. There's still time left before midnight for me to get some other things done, if you know what I mean.

I hope 2012 will be a better year. Last year wasn't a terrible year for me, but there's always room for improvement. Of course, if the 2012 doom-sayers are right, and the world ends, 2011 is going to look pretty good about then, right?

I hope you have a wonderful, prosperous New Year!

Christmas: Bearing down like a freight train

Sisters, one blonde and one brunette, were a common theme in
 Victorian Christmas ephemera. As it happens,  that's exactly
what my daughters are, so I collect them. 

The familiar journalists' claim that they write better under pressure is pure bunk. The truth is, for many of us, it's the only way we start writing, when the deadline is breathing down our necks like Malificent in her more reptilian form.

My students say that same thing, and when they turn in papers that get returned with a big fat "C", they understand that working on deadline isn't all it's cracked up to be.

Our nine-foot Noble fir. 

The deadline for this blog is self-imposed, but I take it very seriously, and the fact that I haven't posted for a couple of weeks makes me sad. No one pays me, so I can't get in trouble for blowing my deadline, but I appreciate that people read it and expect it to be here on Sundays.

I have had two weeks of a killer cold, giving finals, grading papers, and posting grades, along with a previously scheduled all-day outing with Charles Phoenix, and I just couldn't make time to blog.

Truth be told, I shouldn't be blogging now. My apartment is a gawd-awful mess, my daughter and her husband are coming to stay with us tomorrow, and I'm not finished shopping. But I've realized something, that writing isn't something I do for other people; I actually love to do it, and I've missed it.

So, now I am ready to take on the last deadline of 2011 — Christmas. Oh, I know what you're saying, I only have four days left, I'd better hurry, what was I thinking, etc.

But we do have a tree, and thanks to my husband, we actually got some cards out. He went out and bought them, wrote thoughtful notes in each one, and all I had to do was sign my name. He's a God-send, really. Then, determined to wrestle Christmas to the ground, he insisted we go out and get our tree.

The big fight every year would be
who got to hang the ballerina.

As I've written before, Christmas is all about the tree for me. If I had no presents, no turkey, no candy canes, no cookies or eggnog, as long as I had my tree, I would be perfectly happy.  Even though the ritual changes from year to year, the ornaments stay the same.

I love all kinds of holiday trees, and I can appreciate the beauty of trees done in all one color scheme, for example. My favorite one are done in white, crystal and silver, or in all Victorian colors: that combination of burgundy, pink and gold. But when it comes to my house, I want my traditional Noble fir, white lights,  and ornaments I've had and collected for years.

Every year, I buy Hallmark ornaments for my family and one or two for my tree. Hallmark incorporates a lot of pop-culture and historical events into their work, so I have a commemorative Neil Armstrong that hangs on the tree and gives his famous moon landing speech when you press the button.

Near Neil hangs a space shuttle, with the bay doors open. An astronaut hangs overhead, repairing a satellite. My kids think these are dumb, and have nothing to do with Christmas. Maybe not, but I'm the daughter of an aerospace engineer, so I love aviation related things.

The horse actually changes color!

I have multiple Alice in Wonderland ornaments, and Disney features large: Snow White looking into a mirror, Sleeping Beauty's castle, and a 50th anniversary of Disneyland. We used to see the Nutcracker every year, so that is represented in different ways, including a Sugar Plum Fairy that always a point of contention about who got to hang her on the tree.

The Horse of a Different Color with Dorothy and her gang hangs on the tree, and I hear the cabbie from Oz give his spiel every time I plug in the lights. Rhett Butler and Scarlet O'Hara embrace as Atlanta burns in the background, prompting my husband to make this goofy video. 

There are ornaments with my kids' photos in them, and crocheted snowflakes my sister made and stiffened with starch. Some belonged to my parents when they were first married, and I rescued them from the trash when my mother deemed them too tatty for her tree. They are definitely worn, but I love them.

Possibly my favorite is the light-up box office and marquee of a theater playing "It's a Wonderful Life." Another bulb has George and Mary embracing from that final scene.

I guess I should really write down where all these things came from, and whether or not they have special significance. Now I'm getting older, I'm thinking about the stories I want to leave behind. There are so many people who have passed on without me finding out everything I wanted to about them.

Well, I'd better go. You can't see what kind of wood my table is for all the paper covering it, and I've got Christmas errands to run. Have a great holiday, and I'll be seeing you soon. Before you go, leave me a comment and tell me what you favorite Christmas ornament is.

The Muppets redux, with Charlotte

They're back! The new Muppet Movie, co-written by and starring Jason  Segel,
shown above with Amy Adams and the gang.

The holidays have always gone hand in hand with the movies in my family.

Not so much in my family of origin: my mother never goes to the movies, yet watches the Academy Awards every year and complains that she didn't see any of these films, so why is she watching this dumb show? My dad used to go to the movies as an outing.

My dad would say: "Do you want to go to the movies?" My mom would ask what was playing. He'd say, "Who cares; do you want to go to the movies or not?" The last film I saw with my dad was Star Wars: The Phantom Menace. I thought he'd like to see how far special effects have come. It turns out you don't have to be a Star Wars fan to hate Episode I. Who knew?

But in the family I raised, we went to the movies as often as we could afford it, as soon as the kids were old enough. Man, I saw a lot of crap with them. Some craptastic standouts were Mousehunt, about a rodent outsmarting Nathan Lane; Airborne, about a California teenage surfer forced to live with relatives in Cincinnati (in winter!), starring Seth Green; and Center Stage, about young, good-looking hopefuls trying to get into the American Ballet Academy in New York.

It seemed that we ended up at the movies every Thanksgiving and Christmas day, usually after we'd taken relatives' checks to the ATM so we could afford it. It was our family's time together after dealing with our extended family, which was sometimes contentious and stressful.

Charlotte with her kid's pack of movie treats
and a Mickey Mouse lollipop she came in with.
Megan Hernandez photo

I know lots of other people go to the movies on holiday weekends, so I was apprehensive about getting a seat for The Muppet Movie on Saturday, our first theater visit with Charlotte. I made my husband leave the house about 40 minutes early, only to encounter a nearly empty parking lot. I felt a little foolish.

We were the first people in the theater, but eventually enough people showed up to make it a communal experience.

Charlotte has been to the "moobies" before, to see Tangled, Winnie the Pooh and Puss in Boots, but we had never been with her. My daughter posted on Facebook that she had Christmas shopped for Charlotte in the Disney Store right under her nose because the two-year-old was entranced with the huge screen, and we saw a little of that in action.

It's like she is in a spell with a screen in front of her. They arrived after we had sat down, and the whole time my daughter is taking off Charlotte's coat and putting her in the booster seat, the tot never took her eyes off the screen playing commercials. It's rather disturbing.

I knew that my daughters were going to be big movie fans early on. When I put on a VHS of Disney's Bedknobs and Broomsticks one day, my older daughter saw Robert Stevenson's name on the credits, and said, "Oh, he directed Mary Poppins." She was about 7. We watched a lot of Turner Classic Movies in our house, but when colorized ones came on, we adjusted the set to watch them in black and white.

My son-in-law is a video editor, with a degree in film from San Francisco State; I guess it was kismet that he and my daughter would find each other. He has his heart set on Charlotte going to USC, so maybe it will be USC Film School. Chris is the big Muppet fan in the family, by the way. He owns complete seasons of the Muppet television show on DVD.

If you ask Charlotte what her daddy does, from the time she could talk she would say, "Daddy go work; press buttons." When he has to work on weekends, sometimes he'll take his little family with him, and let Charlotte sit on his lap and press buttons. That might be why she has no problem working anything mechanical at my house.

Jason Segel, the Muppet fan who helped bring the new
Muppet Movie to life, with Kermit and Miss Piggy. The fans
 are saying that the film was made by "the right people,"
who love the original and wanted to see it done right.

The film is adorable, heartfelt,  and laugh-out-loud funny. The Muppets' biggest fan Walter (who apparently hasn't looked in the mirror and discovered that he is a Muppet), overhears a evil oil baron saying he is going to tear down the Muppets' old studio to drill for oil.

That's not an inconceivable notion, there's a oil rig in the middle of Beverly Hill High School.

So, the gang has to get together and put on a telethon to raise 10 million dollars in three days to keep the property. Walter and his human friends Jason Segel and Amy Adams seek out Kermit, and the four of them hunt down the rest of the gang.

Every show biz cliche is here, and played for huge laughs. Fozzie Bear is found playing Reno with a backing band made up of what looks like escaped convicts, including a very hairy boar in drag standing in for Miss Piggy. Meanwhile, Miss Piggy is channeling Anna Wintour as the head of Paris Vogue, and is so successful, she is reluctant to return to her former life.

Some of it is so amazingly clever, I'm still laughing, like the chickens clucking a version of Cee Lo Green's hit single "Forget You," which started out as a song with lyrics so objectionable it had to be rewritten to be played on the radio.

The film was wonderful, full of song and dance numbers, written by one of the guys from Flight of the Conchords (the other one directed the movie). They shut down Hollywood Boulevard for two days filming in front of the El Capitan for the finale, which had me in tears.

Charlotte loved it, but I did get on her People-I'm-Not-Talking-To list because I shushed her once. She says very funny things, but sometimes forgets to whisper. She was very good, although she ended up spilling lemonade all over her shirt, unlike the baby crying intermittenly through the whole film. Just when I would get fed up enough to get an usher, the thing quit screaming.

I can't wait for something else to come out so I can go with Charlotte again. She doesn't know it yet, but she's getting a kid's camera for Christmas that also takes video, so soon she may be making her own films. I'm betting they'll be about bunnies.

Back-up Romeo performs well

Vittorio Grigolo and Nino Machaidze in LA Opera's  production of Romeo et Juliette.
 Grigolo was ill on Sunday, and  Charles Castronovo filled in.
LAtimes.com

I couldn't write this weekend, because I had family things to do, papers to grade, and an opera to see on Sunday. I shouldn't write now, I'm so far behind, but I can't help myself.

We were very excited about the opera, Gounod's Romeo et Juliette, with two emerging stars: Vittorio Grigolo and Nino Machaidze. There hasn't been so much buzz about this opera since Anna Netrebko and Rolando Villazon did it at the Dorothy Chandler in 2005.

Although I think anytime great voices paired with beauty come along, opera lovers go nuts. The days of 300-pound sopranos may be over, but chubby tenors and baritones are still with us. And let's face it, what are the statistical odds of someone amazingly hot also having a dynamite voice?

I saw the Villazon and Netrebko version, and was completely blown away. I walked out of the theater and over to the box office where I bought tickets for my kids, because I realized it was a once in a lifetime opportunity. I've since seen them sing together in other operas like Manon and La Traviata, and their chemistry is so amazing, I would hate to be married to either one of them. They really make you believe not only in their love, but also in the power of love.

So there were high hopes for this new production, and the reviews were fantastic. There was praise for Machaidze's purity of tone, Gigolo's athleticism, and both their sex appeal. We saw Machaidze last season in A Turk in Italy, and were so impressed, we saw it again. She was great. But this pairing was not to be for us, as Grigolo was ill.

It was the culmination of a series of unfortunate events. It was raining so hard that the drive was quite scary, and all we wanted was to get to the plaza and have drinks and lunch at the Pinot Grill. The parking structure was full of people acting crazy, cutting us off, cutting in line, and one car with some defect that made it screech at high volume.

"A scotch and food, that's all I want," my husband said as we emerged from underground. We were greeted by the maitre de saying "We're closed." We have had lunch there before in fairly terrible weather, and so were mystified. Apparently, electrical things were shorting out, so he decided to close. We could buy sandwiches in the little store on the plaza, and were welcome to eat in the tent, he said.

My poor husband was emotionally drained by the drive and uncharacteristically grumpy. It was frustrating; we could see the alcohol on the bar, but we couldn't buy any. So we made do with ham and brie sandwiches, chili, and a couple of Newcastle ales, while listening to the rain pound on the tent. A couple of women who had just got in under the wire were eating salmon steaks next to us. It was galling.

We went to the prohibitively restaurant at ground-level and ordered drinks and coffee, which cheered us up a bit. In our seats, we settled in, only to have Placido Domingo come on stage. When you see Maestro before a production, it's never good, and this wasn't. Grigolo was ill, he said. "When you can't sing, you can't sing," he said with a shrug. "It happens to all of us."

Charles Castronovo

Maestro said that tenor Charles Castronovo, who had his breakout role in LA Opera's Il Postino, had been in town on Saturday for the company's anniversary celebration, and they had convinced him to stick around to fill in. He was very good, especially for stepping in at the last minute.

The bedroom scene was good, even though Machaidze left her nightgown on. When Netrebko did it, she started out naked. Even with the nightgown on, some teens sitting behind us were tittering at the sight of two nearly naked people rolling around in bed. I guess they live sheltered lives.

When I mentioned to one of my Russian students, Nino, that an opera singer had her same name and was from Georgia, she told me that it was the name of a famous Russian Orthodox saint who was born in that region.

Wags are calling Machaidze the "Angelina Jolie" of opera. She was as great as she had been last season, and as beautiful. Castronovo was not hard on the eyes, either. I'd still like to see Grigolo, so maybe we can go back. I mean, I've got to see a guy who is quoted as saying "Opera is like boxing or Formula One. It's dangerous."

Shady Shakespeare and just plain bad Brontë

The Thames in Shakespearian London, an example of the CGI work in the new film Anonymous. See more Anonymous publicity stills at IGN.com

It's weird: I can see a film like Anonymous, which plays fast and loose with any number of historical facts, and enjoy it just fine, disbelief fully suspended, but give me a 2009 Masterpiece Theatre version of Wuthering Heights where Heathcliff shoots himself, and I'm ready to hang the scriptwriter.

I'm not sure what it is; I understand that events need to be combined, compressed and maybe even conflated for the sake of dramatic license, but veering from the text of Emily Brontë's masterpiece is just unnecessary. It has plenty of drama, excitement, and action already, it doesn't need firearms. Plus, we're meant to think that Heathcliff pined away for Cathy, and was beckoned to death by her, a much more gothic way to die.

Rhys Ifan as Edward deVere, pays tribute to
 Elizabeth I, played by Vanessa Redgrave.

Anonymous intertwines the story of how Edward deVere, the 17th Earl of Oxford, was the true author of the plays allegedly written by William Shakespeare with the Essex plot against Elizabeth I. According to the film, deVere tried to recruit playwright Ben Jonson, but Shakespeare found out and claimed authorship himself.

Oh, and that Elizabeth I gave birth to six illegitimate children. Wow, never heard that before. That's not a spoiler, by the way. Who she gives birth to is the big deal plot point.

The film portrays Shakespeare as stupid, petty, and venal. He is a buffoon, as well as a blackmailer, and the Earl is embarrassed by having him front for his plays. Why do I not mind that the greatest literary genius in the English language is so maligned? Because I am not an Oxfordian, as the group of people who believe this stuff call themselves. It's just a lark to me, and I appreciate the amazing look of this film.

The filmmakers have used a new computer imaging process and built 70 sets to bring Shakespeare's London to life, and it is a glorious, filthy, muddy mess. There are aerial shots of the city and the Thames that are breathtaking. It shows Elizabeth's funeral procession coming down the Thames with thousands of people lining the banks in tribute.

It was an amazing David Lean-esque shot. One problem: Elizabeth's real procession was on land; the Thames didn't freeze that year. That's the kind of stuff that's all over this film, so you're better off not even thinking about it. They wrap a real mystery —who really killed playwright Christopher Marlowe — into their plot, and make it seem like he was bumped off because he "knew too much." He had also been dead for five years in 1598, when the movie was set.

Edward deVere, the 17th Earl of Oxford.

It didn't used to be Oxford. The origin target of the conspiracy theorists was Sir Francis Bacon. I've heard that one all my life. Apparently all this stuff about the Virgin Queen giving birth was wrapped into the Oxfordian theory back in 1934, because of the Earl of Oxford's relationship with Her Majesty. I've never believed the idea that Elizabeth never had sex, but there's plenty of ways to do that that don't involve intercourse. I'm just saying....

The IMDB message boards for this film are a robust back and forth about the historicity of the film the debate about the authorship of the plays with a healthy dose of name-calling. The whole controversy is rather like the evolution/creationism argument. One side has an overwhelming number of facts and coincidences; the other, blind faith.

Oxfordians accuse the academic community of believing in the man from Stratford as an article of faith, that we are too afraid to even debate them because our entire existence is on the line. They accuse us of believing in the "magic" of genius. They actually make the argument that scientists were sure continents didn't move, but then plate tectonics were discovered.

I believe in the genius of Shakespeare the way I believe in the genius of Mozart, who seemed to be a mere conduit for some mysterious wellspring of music.

Some people say, what's the difference? I guess it would be that Americans love a good Horatio Alger story, and Shakespeare, the son of a glove maker, becoming the most celebrated author in the English language makes a much better story than some highly educated earl.

So, go along with the joke, or check it out and agree with them, I don't care. But you should see this film, or you will miss some great filmmaking. And Vanessa Redgrave and her granddaughter Joley Richardson playing the old and young Elizabeth I.

Tom Hardy (his real name, you suppose?) and
Charlotte Riley, who spend a lot of time snogging
on the moors in this version of Wuthering Heights.

But stay far, far away from that wretched Wuthering Heights. For one thing, if you are a fan of the book and the 1939 film, you will miss many of your favorite scenes and lines; they're just not there.

One site called Bronte Blog had reaction to this misbegotten version of Wuthering Heights, and my favorite comment was about lead actor Tom Hardy's Heathcliff, saying he "looks like rock star Jack White auditioning for a Tim Burton film and behaves as if directed to discover synonyms for scowl, glower, and skulk unknown to Roget." That's some great stuff!

Hardy wasn't quite menacing enough, and it was highly annoying that Heathcliff and Cathy spent a good bit of time rolling around on top of each other. Of all I times I have imagined Penniston Crag, I never thought of it as Make Out Point.

So, ultimately, I guess the difference is you can muck about with facts, but don't screw with the text. Wow, I really am an English teacher.

You say want a revolution?

My new iPhone with a Disney Princess Dress Up Sticker app
 I bought to entertain my granddaughter Charlotte. In case you are wondering,
that's an Alice in Wonderland pepper shaker it's leaning on. 

I finally got an iPhone a few weeks ago.

Because of my history as an early adopter and Mac fanatic, my children think I run out and buy whatever the latest gadget is, but actually, I am restrained by finances.

In the case of the iPhone, I was restrained by hatred of AT&T. I had just escaped their nefarious, money-grubbing clutches when it was announced that they would have exclusive rights to Apple's newest toy. I was heartbroken, but even my lust for the iPhone wouldn't make me go back to them.

My Samsung Intercept that I was happy with,
except that I longed for an iPhone.

I had Sprint, and got along with my iPhone wannabe Android Samsung Intercept. It was sleek and black, had a slide out keyboard that I really liked, and I could get many of the same applications that the iPhone could. The screen stuck sometimes, and I had to return it (twice), but basically I had a decent smartphone experience.

When Sprint finally got the iPhone, I reserved mine the day it was announced. I got the iPhone 4, not the new 4S, because I may be a Mac acolyte, but I realize they are not infallible. And sure enough, Apple is having to provide a patch because the 4S is having a battery life issue.

There's been a lot of talk about Apple at our house, because my husband and I are both reading Steve Jobs' biography by Walter Isaacson. I really wanted it, but I was afraid of being mocked, since everyone knows about my Mac obsession. But when Jim mentioned buying it for the Kindle, I asked that he put it on mine, so I could read it simultaneously on my iPhone.

The book stays in the Cloud, so we both can access it. I just have to say "no" when the app tries to take me to the furtherest page read (my husband is way ahead of me). It's fun; we read parts aloud to one another, laugh at Job's audacity and hubris, and reminisce about our iMacs, MacBooks and iPods.

I had an Apple IIe, so I've been along for the ride practically from the beginning. Apple was big in the schools, and they offered special financing for teachers. That first machine did very little. We could use it as a word processor, make banners (great for classrooms!), and play a few text-based games.

When the Macintosh came out in 1984, we got it, with the new 3 1/2  inch (hard) floppy discs that you had to swap back and forth while playing some games, because they held so little information. Later, about 1989, we used Prodigy and America On Line to connect to the internet at a whopping 14.4K baud rate over our telephone line.

We lived in Lake Los Angeles, and our connection point was in Bakersfield, a toll call. Those were some hefty bills before we realized we had to limit our online time. The problem was, that at 14.4 everything took a million years to download.

My blue iMac in the late 90s had only two ISB ports, meaning I had to buy a hub to dock my PalmPilot. I'm still bitter about that.

I didn't know much about Steve Jobs in the 80s, but I did know about Steve Wozniak, because in 1982 he dropped millions of his own money into the US Festival rock concert, at the site which became Blockbuster Pavilion.

When I took an honors art history class in college, we were supposed to take an historical art period and update it. I thought about how Byzantine Christians used arcane symbols in art to identify one another surreptiously, and how the symbols in an Apple computer did the opposite: they were intended to be open and welcoming to the non-geek computer user, and make true believers out of them.

So I rendered Steve Wozniak as a Byzantine saint with the border being Apple symbols, like the trashcan and the FileServer, a hand holding a tray with a file folder on it. It was a poster-size board with torn-up magazine bits standing in for tessarae. In the accompanying paper, I noted that Apple's mailing list was called the EvangeList, and that Wozniak was referred to as St. Woz.

After reading the book, I see why he got that name. Woz didn't really care too much about money, he just liked to "make cool shit." After Jobs screwed over co-workers at the IPO who had been with the two Steves from the start, Woz spread his stock options to all the employees, so that most of them made enough money to buy houses. He comes off as a big, sweet teddy-bear of a man, who just loved being a part of something great.

I kind of feel sorry for kids today, who have never known a time without computers. It feels like we were really witness to a revolution, and it was a heady, exciting time. I remember television commercials for a training school in the late 1960s talking about how computers were the future, back when they took up an entire room and were operated with punch cards. Here's a scene from Danny Kaye's Man From The Diner's Club from 1963. At 7:25, you can see the huge mainframe behind him. There's a hysterical scene later on when the punch cards go insane, but I could't find it on the web.

I scoffed at the time, but now computers have changed practically every aspect of our lives.

I thought I was happy with my Android smartphone, but when I got my iPhone I experienced the difference, and it was palpable. I missed my keyboard at first, but the auto correct feature on texting is rapidly making me forget my QWERTY keys. There are apps that are made only for Apple products, and my first download was a Disney game for Charlotte.

Now, I have ordered an iPhone for my husband, who has been making do with a three-year-old flip-phone. I really don't care what we have to pay to extricate himself from his T-Mobile contract. Because now that I've witnessed the difference, how can I let my loving husband do with less? When I have filet mignon, how can I let him have hamburger? It ain't right.

Entertainment note


Some time back, I saw the hilarious show, Menopause the Musical, at the Lancaster Performing Arts Center. I was skeptical, because frankly, I don't think there is one damn thing funny about menopause. I suffered mighttily from hot flashes and still carry a fan with me, like some latter-day Scarlett O'Hara. But the show won me over, with its new lyrics to classic Baby Boomer favorites, like Motown and the Beach Boys, poking fun at night sweats, hot flashes and other menopause maladies.

The show is making another appearance, this time in a concert form, minus the sets, at LPAC on Tuesday, Nov. 8 at 7:30 p.m. That's election night, so some local pols might be needing solace, and this rollicking show could be just the thing. Tickets are $35, and can be purchased at the box office. Call (661) 723-5950 or visit www.LPAC.org.

There's a Two for One special going on, so if you call LPAC and give the secret word BOGO, you and a friend can have a night out for the price on one ticket.