Happy birthday to my #1 fan!

Mary Ellen Ianni at Filoli Gardens in Woodside, CA.
She is an avid nature photographer. 

My biggest fan is turning 80 this week.

I met Mary Ellen Ianni sometime in 1980. At that time, she was my employee's mother. I hired her daughter Beth to work in my chain record store when she was in college. As time went on, Beth became not only my employee, but my friend, and Mary Ellen progressed from being Beth's mother to my friend, as well.

Beth says her mom liked me right off, which wasn't the case with everyone, apparently. If Mary Ellen didn't like you, you'd never know, because she is a proper lady. She has a sweet demeanor, and the zen-like-patience-wrapped-around-a-rock-solid-core of an elementary-school teacher, which she was for 34 years. Thankfully, I've never seen her angry, but I pity any little boy who tested her resolve.

When I gave birth to my first daughter, Beth was one of her first babysitters. I'm sure her roommates in the San Francisco State dorm appreciated my squalling child interfering with their Friday night partying. After that, Beth and her family were part of my family's landscape. Any trip to San Francisco wasn't complete without dinner with Mary Ellen and her husband, Lawrence, known to his friends as "Poe."

Lawrence and Mary Ellen Ianni
at a dance in 1950.

Mary Ellen and Poe met at Clarion State Teachers College in Pennsylvania, where they both worked in the dining center. She was a waitress and he a dishwasher. It wasn't exactly love at first sight. Well, on her part, anyway. Mary Ellen thought he was "awful," and couldn't understand why so many other people liked him. He was garrulous and loud.

Poe, on the other hand, considered Mary Ellen the "perfect combination of pretty and nice." In one of my favorite stories about them, Poe spent all his textbook money taking her out for pie, and then had to do his homework in the library with books his professors put on reserve. Nice to know he had his priorities straight.

I asked Beth how he finally won her over, and she said, "I'm sure there was persistence involved: he must have taken it gentle and slow." That cracks me up; it sounds like he was coaxing some woodland creature out of the underbrush.

They dated for two years before they got married, and will celebrate their 60th anniversary next year. It was telling that when Beth looked for photos for this blog, it was difficult to find photos of Mary Ellen alone. There were only shots of them as a couple.

They moved to California when Poe got a job as provost at San Francisco State, and Mary Ellen taught in the education department. By now he was a Phd, and she had an MA in Education from Indiana University of Pennsylvania.

Indiana, PA, by the way, is the hometown of Jimmy Stewart, one of my favorite actors. When Mary Ellen gave birth to Beth, Stewart was in the hospital visiting his father down the hall. He was signing autographs by the elevator where she was taking a stroll, and when the throng dispersed, he asked her if she wanted one. "No, thank you," she said, and later he popped his head into her room to say "hello" to the woman who was so cool in the face of fame.

Mary Ellen and Poe in 1990.

She is always cool, calm and collected. The first earthquake kit I ever saw was in Beth's car. Mary Ellen is the queen of preparing for any eventuality, and she had emergency kits everywhere.

Apparently, she researched every aspect before they bought the house in San Bruno. Mary Ellen considered flood plain maps, seismic activity charts, and weather reports.

When my children came to San Francisco to attend college, she made sure that each of them had an index card with her name, address and phone number, as well as their own, in case of emergency.

Both of my kids stayed with Beth at one time or another during their transitions to school.

I was always rather in awe of Mary Ellen and Poe, probably because of their education. Although my love is English literature, and his American, I loved to talk books with him. And he had great stories about the 1960s protests when students were taking over the administrative offices, and his colleague S. I. Hayakawa. When I started teaching college English, Poe gave me a stack of his books, which I treasure.

I always craved Mary Ellen's approval. Years ago when my kids were young, I had an idea for travel books that included guided tours on cassette that I discussed with Mary Ellen. I never pursued it, but I was happy she thought it was a good idea, and now such things exist on CD.

When I started writing the column, I used to send a month's worth of clippings at a time to Mary Ellen in a manila envelope. When I went to grad school, things got crazy, and I gradually stopped. She never complained, but I know she was sorry to not receive them anymore. So when I took the column online, I was happy that finally she would be able to read me on Sundays, like everyone else.

After 10 years of teaching at SF State, Mary Ellen retired when Poe got the top job at University of Minnesota at Duluth. Now they are both retired at home in California, and she spends her time quilting, doing nature photography, and traveling. She has been active in the Philanthropic Education Organization.

According to Beth, Mary Ellen gave her "the greatest childhood anyone could wish for. My childhood has lasted 50 years." This weekend, friends and family will gather to honor her on her 80th birthday at a Bay Area hotel. It was supposed to be a surprise, but Poe didn't want to make any decisions without her, so he had to break down and tell her, offering her a choice of menus.

I wish I could be at the party, but my new semester starts on Tuesday, and I know the birthday girl understands about writing syllabi and doing class prep. So I sent her a small gift, and wrote this unworthy tribute.

Many happy returns of the day, Mary Ellen!

At my October 2, 2010 wedding. From left, are Becky and Charles MacQuarrie,
Jim, me,  Brenna Humann, Bill Schiller, baby Fiona, Poe and Mary Ellen.

Support your local art-house cinema!

An artist's rendering of the new Laemmle Theatre on Lancaster Blvd.
I forgot my camera,so this is the best I could do without violating copyrights.

Okay, art-movie lovers, it's time to put your money where your mouth is.

For years, we have campaigned for something other than the standard blockbuster movie fare. Sure, I like to see superheroes save the world as much as the next person, but also I need independent films, foreign films, auteur films — pieces of art that have something to say besides "We spent $200 million on this thing, come look at it."

One of three films playing right now
 at the Laemmle Theatre on Lancaster Blvd.

I need movies like "Beginners," which we drove 132.5 miles and probably spent $100 to see at the Landmark at the Westside Pavilion, by the time you add in dinner downstairs at the Westside Tavern. You can now see this Ewan McGregor and Christopher Plummer charmer for $11 a ticket right here at home at the new Laemmle Theatre on Lancaster Boulevard.

And you know what? The seats are more comfortable here.

For years, we have been at the mercy of Cinemark, who responded to our cries for more culture by playing a few additional art house films for one week at a time. By the time anyone figured out that "Midnight in Paris" was at the Lancaster 22, it was gone.

I have been very bitter about Cinemark's "The Best Seat in Town" claim, considering they were "The Only Seat in Town." Granted, they did give us the Metropolitan Opera's "Live in HG" series, and for that I am grateful. I obviously need them for the latest 3D animated kid's movie and summer tentpole, but I think they will be seeing me much less.

My husband and I went to the gala opening of the new theater, and it is amazing! The front of the house is a gift shop called Forge with gourmet cooking items (some amazing picnic things), bath salts sold in open barrels (mix your own concoction), and an array of decorating goodies, as well as a magazine stand.

Ewan McGregor, Melanie Laurent, and Cosmo in "Beginners,"
a love letter to Los Angeles, among other things.
The dog is hysterical, by the way...

Upstairs there are clothes for young people, sort of an affordable Urban Oufitters meets Anthropologie.  The women's clothes were marked small, medium and large, but whether that is juniors or women's, is anyone's guess. But the stuff was fantastic, and reasonably priced.

I heard a rumor  this space was originally intended to be a book shop. If so, they probably realized that the 33% profit margin looked a little anemic next to 60% for gifts, and figured there was a reason why there's only one new bookstore left in the Antelope Valley.

The Santa Clarita Valley's Signal carried a piece about the Laemmle opening, and of course, snarky, snooty SCV residents left comments complaining about how it should have been built in their valley instead, and how the screen will be ripped and seats trashed within the year because of our low-life residents. Feel free to leave comments of your own. We know they are just jealous.

Years ago, we used to be able to see art-house films in Valencia, but lately, they've been getting the same trash as everybody else, and my kids have been coming up here to see movies. (Of course, the fact that two baby-sitting grandmas are here helps.)

Comedian/actors Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon eat their way
 through the north of England in "The Trip," engaging in
dueling impressions and pissing contests (figuratively).

Remember when you went to a frock film and there were six people in the audience, and the theater seemed so immense it made you sad? Fear not, English lit majors! Each of the three theaters holds between 46 to 58 people, because the seating is love seats with tables on each side. Which makes it easier to hold hands during the latest Richard Curtis romantic comedy, and makes it cozy.

You can get dinner, beer and wine to enjoy in your comfy seat, and the aisles are so wide that no one has to trip over anybody else's feet. Also, the Coke machine is trippy; you push a button to get one of about a dozen different beverages out of the same tube.

We saw "The Trip" at the gala, and it was very funny. Judging by the laughter level, it was most funny to Anglophiles and regular viewers of BBC America. Steve Coogan, a comedian and mostly TV actor (Tropic Thunder, Night at the Museum, 24 Hour Party People) and Rob Brydon (outside of a bit part in "Shaun of the Dead," probably nothing you've seen) play versions of themselves in this not-quite-reality show.

Driving a Range Rover through the breathtakingly beautiful Lakes District and eating gourmet food —each dish more elaborate than the last—the two men engage in one-upmanship, whose career is on the rise, whose Michael Caine imitation is the best, and whose personal life is the most fulfilling. (My money is on the married guy, Coogan's almost-compulsive couplings–– with innkeepers, photographers and waitresses look pretty joyless.

"The Trip" was originally a BBC television special in multiple parts, and Coogan and Brydon play upon their personas as well-known television stars. It has a loose script, but much of it was improvised, and Brydon does impressions until Coogan wants to kill him. You can see their dueling Michael Caines here. 

Sean Penn in "Tree of Life." Why is he in a suit in
what looks like Bryce Canyon in Utah?
I don't know; lets go see the film and maybe find out.

If for nothing else, it is a must-see for literature majors, as they tromp though Wordsworth country (quoting Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey, and more), sleep and smoke pot in Coleridge's bed, and discuss British writers. I have already begun planning that trip.

The third film is "Tree of Life," which my friend Barbara has been asking me to see down in Pasadena, so now we go can see it, only closer to home. I don't know much about it, other than it stars Brad Pitt and Sean Penn, won the Palme d'Or, was directed by Terence Malick, and has the most baffling trailer I have ever seen.

But I'm going to see it, good or bad. Know why? Because I only have to drive a mile and pay $11 (maybe $8, if it's the right time of day). Because I can.

So c'mon, art-house film lovers, we got what we wanted. Now, stimulate that economy and go to the movies....

Faux band delivers genuine rock

Group shot of The Rising, a Bruce Springsteen tribute band we saw last night
 in Palmdale at the Starlight Concert series.

It wasn't really like seeing Bruce.

Of course I was sitting in a fifth row seat that cost me ten dollars, as opposed to a nosebleed arena seat that would set me back the equivalent of a week's grocery money. That was one of the biggest differences.

Palmdale's Starlight Concert Series featured The Rising — Bruce Springsteen Tribute at Marie Kerr Park, and it was a fabulous night for it. There was a nice breeze; it wasn't too hot — the perfect high desert summer evening.

Me, I wouldn't have gone on my own. My family lives down the turnpike from Asbury Park, and at one point, Bruce Springsteen was the most important musical figure in my life—why would I want to see someone imitate him? But my husband told me he "splurged" and bought $10 tickets for a free show so we didn't have to bring our own chairs.

The Rising's faux Bruce Springsteen
and Little Steven Van Zandt

And really... isn't that one of the joys of marriage? To push one another out of our comfort zone and learn how to compromise? I took him to the opera, he takes me to tiny Hollywood clubs to hear bands only a handful of people have even heard of. And to Springsteen impostors, apparently.

But I was wrong — these guys kicked ass. They have made a study of the E Street Band, all the mannerisms, on-stage clowning, voices, facial expressions — the works. For that two hours, they are the Boss and the E Street Band.

The faux Bruce bears a passing resemblance to Harvey Keitel, especially his barrel-chested body. The man has no waist. He's got the Boss' guns (you can tell he works out), and wears the painted-on black jeans, motorcycle boots and black vest with no shirt.

The physical resemblance is closer to John Mellencamp than Springsteen, but the voice he has nailed. The entire Springsteen oeuvre is there, from raspy whisper to full-throated scream. If you spent the show with your eyes closed, you wouldn't know the difference.

Little Steven has the black kerchief around his head, and the requisite pout and parade-rest stance, with wrists crossed. He is ridiculously young, but he tries. Even the heights are spot-on: Steven is shorter than Bruce, and Clarence Clemons is much taller. 

I'm not sure where they found a drummer who looks like a middle-aged certified public accountant, but Max Weinberg would not be flattered by this doppelgänger. The real Max may be bald, but he was never this unattractive. A Jeff Buckley lookalike was playing keyboards, and the bass player looks like an androgynous 12-year-old.

The Clarence Clemons character from
The Rising —
A Bruce Springsteen Tribute.

The faux Bruce did everything the real Bruce did — cover at least one rock and rock classic song, wade out into the crowd, thrilling the girls in the front section by singing to them and sitting in their laps, and introduce songs by telling stories in his gravelly voice.

A break in the middle of "Tenth Avenue Freeze Out" found "Bruce" referencing the Lockheed layoff, as he urged us to forget all that was worrying us and just let the rock and roll heal us.

Next to Bruce himself, the strongest member of the ensemble was the one playing Clarence Clemons. He was a tall black man with long braids who played straight man to Bruce's goofiness just like the real sax player. They cavorted like 5-year-olds at recess: hopping, skipping, and jumping on and off risers. When he put the sax to his lips, though, he wasn't goofing around.

I wondered if The Rising would tackle "Jungleland," and whether they would mention Clemons' death on June 19 at age 69. As it turns out, they did both. I feared the worst. Of all the songs in Springsteen's catalog, this is my favorite. 

When I first heard it in 1975, it just took the top of my head off. I was out with a friend, and he put it in his car stereo. When we got where we were going, the song hadn't ended, and I begged him not to shut it off. After it was over, we both just sat there, decompressing.

"Jungleland" was the song most associated with Clarence: the 18-bar solo that stands as the greatest sax solo of all time, as far as I'm concerned. It was the song fans played over and over on the day we found out Clemons had died from complication of a stroke.

"Bruce" and "Little Steven" 

The Rising did it justice. The solo wasn't as great as Clarence would have played it, but it was damn close. The Bruce's voice was perfect, and the rest of the players played it note for note. I was impressed. It made me sad to think I will never hear that song or that solo live again from the E Street Band.

Clarence is gone, we lost Danny Federici to cancer at age 58 back in 2008. We can never have the E Street Band back again. It reminds us that our whole generation is aging, and there's not a damn thing we can do about it.

The Starlight Series this year was all cover or tribute bands, and it was a great idea. After all, with some of those oldie bands Palmdale has been hiring, you've only got one or two original members anyway, you might as well save yourself the expense of paying for the name.

So we had a great time, and afterward had a few beers at the new Yardhouse, otherwise known as "Beer-drinkers' Paradise." It was a great evening out, and we didn't have to drive to Los Angeles.

Avoiding black slide of death

Today, I am catching up on some museum exhibits at the Getty and the Geffen Contemporary that are about to close, so I offer this column which won an award from National Newspaper News Executives in 2003 as Best Humorous Column when it appeared in the Antelope Valley Press. What could be more fitting in this 100 degree weather than going to a water park?

The Black Snake Summit at Six Flags Hurricane Harbor in Valencia,
home of the Twisted Fang slide. www.marriott.com

Just in case you are not convinced that the perfect body is nothing but the fever-dream creation of Conde Nast and Hugh Hefner, spend the afternoon at a water park.

In the nine hours I spent there, out of the thousands of people I saw, there were maybe three perfect bodies, two of them teenagers.

Even some people who look terrific with their clothes on have a few places that are dimpled and jiggly when they are walking around in a swimsuit.

I learned two things from my time spent at Hurricane Harbor — that no matter what size you are, there are plenty of people fatter than you, and some of them will be wearing bikinis.

I have battled bulges since I was 12, so I know how hard it is to lose weight, and I don't think that carrying extra pounds makes you less of a woman or less of a person.

But I also don't think it's something to be proud of and lovingly swathe in Spandex.

But that's just me.

It was entertaining, though, lying on a lounge chair by the Forgotten Sea wave pool, watching thousands of people walking around half-dressed.

The wave pool in motion looks like the last half-hour of "Titanic." The machine kicks up two foot waves and the tank is as crowded as a beach in mid-July.

Those revelers who had a few extra dollars after they got held up without a gun at the front gate are on rented rafts.

The rest of the poor suckers, like steerage passengers, are bobbing around trying simultaneously not to drown or get kicked in the head by those in the rafts.

It's interesting how the theme park experience changes with the age of your children. When they are small, we parents are the ones encouraging them to be brave and move beyond their comfort zones.

You hold their chubby little hand while they wade in the kiddie pool or dog-paddle around the shallow end. Then you wake up one day and they are saying, "C'mon Mom, doncha want to go down Venom Drop?"

No, I don't want to go down the Black Slide of Death — the one that sits at a 90-degree angle to the ground.

Now, suddenly, they are the ones dragging me to the top of something called Black Snake Summit - 75 feet in the air - encouraging me to fling my middle-aged body down twisted metal tubes that look like human Habitrails.

I braved most of the rides, although I did have a ugly claustrophobic moment as I looked into the black mouth of the Twisted Fang, an enclosed body slide.

I realized that I would be in a small, pitch-black place for the amount of time it would take for me to fall 500 feet. Thankfully, that took only a few seconds.

But, like Alice, down the rabbit hole I went; my anxiety over how I was going to manage to get off the ride with a modicum of decorum overcoming my abject terror. And then, in a twinkling, it was over.

I think that is why we have teenagers, to push us screaming out of our comfort zones, just when we think we should be sitting around in lounge chairs taking it easy.

Even though they may have taken over our confidence-building and cultural-translation roles, they still need us.

I don't know about anybody else's teens, but mine still haven't managed to figure out how to spend the day in the sun without getting horribly burned.

So they bring us along to do what we have always done — provide cash and nag them to put on their sunscreen.

Summer has been good for geeks

A screen capture of the Jackson Browne page on Spotify.com, the new free music player.

I'm not the world's biggest computer geek. I don't write code, can't read or write html, and I really could use a class in Microsoft Word. I know Word does all kinds of cool stuff I don't even know about. But I do like to keep up with the times.

My family's first computer, the Apple IIe. It didn't do much,
especially since we didn't write code.

For those of us who love the latest tech thing, it has been a good summer. My friend Ed sent me an invitation to Google +, OS Lion came out, and www.spotify went online.

Google + is a new social network that may just have the answer to handling your Aunt Helen's  wanting to be your friend on Facebook. You don't want to offend the dear old thing and you might like to share your children's Disneyland photos, but you don't want her to see pics of you and the hubby doing tequila body shots in Cancun.

With Google +, you designate people in your life to different circles, like family, friends, coworkers, acquaintances, even church friends, I suppose.

Then, each time you upload a photo, make a comment or share a link, the program asks which circle you want to share it with. So, as long as you pay attention when you post, people sitting next to you in the pew on Sunday won't see your drunken party pics.

I upgraded to OS 10 Lion the other day, which makes the trackpad on my MacBook operate like the touchscreen on a iPad (which I can't afford, but would love). To scroll up and down, you just use two fingers; and to switch between open programs, you just swipe in a sideways motion. You pinch to make things smaller, and reverse to increase the size. I've yet to master it all, but it has made my laptop way less attractive to my husband.

Charlotte Quinn, who "reads" Dr. Seuss
books on my smartphone.

An aside: my daughter told me how disturbed she was when my two-year-old granddaughter Charlotte was handed a stack of snapshots and swiped her fingers from one side to the other trying to make the photo change, like she does on her daddy's smartphone. We are becoming technology dependent at younger and younger ages now.

But the Lion upgrade only cost $29.99, so it was a whole lot of fun for not much money. And seriously, Apple, haven't you exhausted the whole big-cat naming thing? Tiger, Panther, Leopard, Snow Leopard, now Lion. Aren't lions the kings of the jungle? What tops them?

What tops inexpensive software is free software, and Spotify is just a music-lover's dream. It is free now for unlimited streaming, but after six months, the free version will only give you a certain amount of hours before you have to pay the $5 a month charge or the premium $10, which allows you to play the songs on your iPod or smartphone.

It isn't so great for discovering new music; Pandora is still better at that. Pandora lets you pick a song or a band, then creates playlists with music that complements it using the Music Genome Project. Then it plays the list like a radio station, and you can click your "like" or "dislike" or each song and it adjusts itself by eliminating that type of song from your playlist. The pay version eliminates the ads.

With Spotify, you can pull up an artist and see practically their whole catalog and play it. It integrates your iTunes and Facebook, so you can see what your friends are listening to and send them messages and links to songs you like.

For Baby Boomers, the best part of Spotify is being able to listen to artists you loved as a teenager without having to buy yet another greatest hits CD or download. For some reason last week, I was longing to hear Jackson Browne, my favorite artist in my moody teen and early 20 years. I bought a greatest hits from iTunes and burned it so I could hear it in my car.

Before long, I realized why I haven't listened to Jackson in years: Holy Cow, is he depressing! And those songs I loved? He's singing about the apocalypse! No wonder I was unhappy all the time. If I had Spotify then, I could have gotten my nostalgia fit out of my system without spending money.

Also, I have been finding old stuff, like the Martin Denny lounge records my dad used to have. It brings the early 1960s right back. No wonder the 1990s lounge revival picked up on him. But some of it is just bad: "Hawaiian War Chant" was used in way too many Bugs Bunny cartoons to be taken seriously.

I love "Chinatown" like jazz with heavy saxophones, and was told that the Jackie Gleason Orchestra was just the ticket. I found it on Spotify, and they were right. And now I can test out old Charlie Parker and Mile Davis songs to find out what I like before I pay good money for it.

I kept testing Spotify to find old things, and I wasn't disappointed. Yes, they have "Ogden's Nut Gone Flake" by the Small Faces, and Moby Grape's first album, so go nuts. They don't have the Beatles, but don't we all own all those in multiple formats anyway?

I keep running into people who say they miss my column and didn't realize I have taken it online. And some people who say they forget to read the blog since it isn't on their breakfast table on Sunday morning. I have a wonderful suggestion: Google Reader.

If you have Google Reader, it will aggregate all the websites, blogs, newspaper sites, etc. that you read all in one place. If you stay logged into it, anytime you are on a site and see the RSS bug, merely click it and it will add it to your Reader. You can make Google News Alerts, and they will be there too.

For instance, I have one for Richard Branson, because he interests me and he does fascinating things. So every time he is mentioned on the web, the news alert finds it and emails me a list once a week. I also read Heather Armstrong's blog, and it appears in my email program under "RSS feeds."

I made a minutes-long screen capture video with Jing for a distance learning class that explains it all, so if you are interested in how to set up Google Reader, you can watch it here.

If you set up Google Reader, you should be able to subscribe on my blog site and the link will show up in your email program every Sunday as well as on your Reader page. If you go to a lot of different sites daily, it might save you some time.

Out on the streets of Los Angeles

A car painted by the late artist Keith Haring, on display at the Geffen Contemporary in Little Tokyo.

I am a child of suburbia.

I have always lived in the suburbs. I got my driver license at 16 and never looked back. I even lived in San Francisco, where parking spots are like mythical beasts, and only took public transportation during a dark period when my car was broken and I couldn't afford to fix it.

So I am unused to trains, buses, taxis, and subways. But I'm learning.

My husband, a seasoned traveler, always takes public transportation, and I have learned so much from him. The first experience was a Friday night when we were battling traffic on the 405 to get to the Wiltern Theater. He opined that it would be faster if we parked the car in Universal City and took the Metro.

Dresses by Adelle Burda, Monica Lhuillier,
and Chan Luu —all FIDM alumni —at
FIDM's Little Black Dress exhibit.

I was skeptical, but I didn't want to miss Fountains of Wayne, so we did, and it was great. No parking hassles; we just popped up out of the station across the street from the Wiltern.

Little by little, I have ventured out alone, taking the Metrolink and the Metro to my job in downtown LA. But I decided to go all out for the mad German psychic's birthday. Barbara was feeling the need to get out of the Antelope Valley, so I planned a surprise outing.

We drove to the Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising in downtown Los Angeles for our first stop, parked, and ventured the rest of the way by Metro, Dash and bus.

"LBD (Little Black Dress): An Homage to Breakfast at Tiffany's" is a great little show, with designer black dresses against a background of Tiffany blue. There are dresses from designers like Lagerfeld and Chanel, as well as contributions from FIDM alumni.

Givenchy, who dressed Audrey Hepburn for the classic film, did a line by line recreation of the iconic dress she wears while wistfully staring into Tiffany's window with a cup of coffee and a pastry in hand.

On one wall are drawings by current FIDM fashion design students, with their renderings of how they imagine the LBD for today, complete with fabric swatches. Those drawings are particularly interesting, and demonstrate the creativity of these students. Admission to the gallery is free; follow the link above for more information.

The birthday girl, wearing her new necklace from FIDM,
across the street from El Cielito Lindo, home of the killer taquito.

The museum gift shop is full of Audrey Hepburn things, as well as lots of books, jewelry, home goods, and cards. Barbara found beaded jewelry on a sale table and went wild. In fact, all day, she was buying things and putting them on, so her look had completely altered by the end of the day.

The second stop was lunch, which we reached by taking the Purple Line from 7th and Hope to Union Station. Olvera Street is right across from the beautiful train station, and at the end is El Cielto Lindo, home of the best taquitos in the world. We had two taquitos smothered in guacamole sauce, with beans and a tamale.

The transportation gods were smiling on us; we tried to board a bus going the wrong direction, but had the wits to ask, and the right bus came within minutes. Over the course of the day, we had to ask a lot of questions, but everyone was very friendly. They probably thought we were tourists.

"Help me, Boo Boo!" Outside the Geffen Contemporary.

Barbara wanted to go to the Museum of Contemporary Art, which isn't as simple as you might think. There are three locations. We were on our way to the MOCA Grand, and there is one on Melrose, and the Geffen Contemporary in Little Tokyo. The Grand Ave. location has lots of abstract expressionists: Jackson Pollock, Mark Rothko, and Franz Kline, as well as pop artists.

If you show your Metro ticket, you get two-for-one admission, which is good for all three locations. We had a great afternoon for $10, and the exhibit is free on Thursdays from 5 to 8 p.m.

MOCA Grand is showing Andy Warhol's soup cans, which didn't thrill me, but the photography was wonderful. Robert Frank's black and whites of street life from his 1959 watershed book "The Americans," were transportive.

We really wanted to see "Art in the Streets" at the Geffen Contemporary, so we moved on. One docent told us that there was a shuttle bus that would take us, but apparently that only runs on weekends, because the Dash bus doesn't. So we had to walk to the corner and catch the "A" Dash to Little Tokyo, which cost 50 cents.

A tile piece from Invader, a French street artist.

My husband and I had just watched Exit Through the Gift Shop, about street artists like Banksy and Shepard Fairey, so it was wonderful that the first thing I recognized was a tile Space Invader from the French artist "Invader" looking over the room.

Between the restrooms, the long-legged signature character of Monsieur Andre was spray-painted in black. I highly recommend the film, by the way; it is very entertaining and thought-provoking about the business of art.

There is just so much energy radiating from this exhibit. The space is huge, and in some places carved into smaller rooms to provide more wall space.

One of the first things is a huge wall make up of doors depicting in black and white what looks like dead birds and rats, things you would see lying on a city street. But the wall is interactive and when you move the doors, the interior of the animals can be seen in color.

There is so much going on in the building, that I didn't even see it all. There are Keith Harings: a painted car as well as chalk on black construction paper. On intersecting walls are hundreds of landscape-shaped snapshots of subway cars and trains graffittied with names.

Ultima Suprema Deluxa, A 1961 Cadillac
by artist Kenny Scharf, done in 1981.

A 1961 Cadillac has been turned into a multimedia wonderland: a pink apatosaurus with radio tubes glued to his back rides proudly on the hood, while the back deck is crowded with plastic monsters, space creatures, mythical creatures, Indian teepees and more dinosaurs.

Giant gag toothbrushes are affixed to the windshield wipers, and candy-colored designs are everywhere. I could look at it for hours and feel like I didn't see all the details.

My favorite section of the exhibit recreates an urban landscape: narrow streets, a junkyard with taggers standing on top of a van, a mini-mart, do-it-yourself open-air tattoo parlor, check cashing place, and the Church of the Open Tab.

Interior of the Church of the Open Tab, where it is always 5:07 pm. 

The graffiti-marked streets wind around, and above them is a profusion of signs, just like the ubiquitous billboards in poor neighborhoods. But instead of advertising Hennessy and Black Velvet, these are Day-Glo with a variety of messages, some uplifting. My favorite was " "I paid the light bill just so I could see your face." Quite romantic, no?

The Church of the Open Tab has a jukebox instead of an altar, the floor is littered with empty Tecate cans, and the clock is permanently set to 5:07 p.m. The back wall is made of stained glass.

This urban landscape is multi sensory: Banda music plays from cracked speakers tuned up so loud that they distort, just like on Broadway and 6th.

A hoodie-clad tagger prays in front
of stained glass graffiti window.

I leave it to others to discuss the importance of the show, or street art itself, for that matter. I don't think anyone still equates art with beauty. Is this show glamorizing vandalism? Maybe, but it also shows how art will out; how artistic impulse bubbles up from under poverty, grime and despair like plants forcing themselves through cracks in asphalt to make itself known.

"Art in the Streets" was wonderful, but we were getting a little worried about beating rush hour, so we abandoned a small portion of the show to get back to our car. I was already making mental plans to come back.

Outside, we realized that our middle-age bodies were done walking, and my smartphone was telling me that a bus ride back to FIDM involved changing buses, so we caught a cab. In a white shirt and tie, the man was the best dressed cabbie I'd ever seen, and Barbara was impressed that his car smelled "like candy."

So, all in all, I think I did pretty well. I didn't get us lost, and we spent the day exploring without having to worry about finding and paying for parking. It helps that Barbara is a world-traveler too, and uses transit everywhere (except LA).

Roadside attractions and other summer thrills

A view of the Reptile Gardens parking lot outside of Rapid City, S.D. in 1957,
about six years  before I went there. I was surprised to learn that this roadside attraction
has flourished and is now a respected reptile and amphibian zoo.
www.reptilegardens.com

Stepping into a blast furnace every time you open your front door. Feeling like a baked potato as you slide behind the wheel of your car. Endlessly turning your pillow over in a vain attempt to find the "cool" side.

All indicators say that summer is here — with a vengeance — and when I was a kid, that always meant "road trip." 

My dad took us to national parks all over the west, which you can read about here. My brother, sister and I saw some amazing things, developed an affinity for nature that we've never lost, and became a family. What we didn't do, because my father wouldn't allow it, was stop at roadside attractions.

A view of the Reptile Gardens today,
complete with the Sky Dome on the right.

I can't blame him— he lived through the Depression on a farm in Vermont, and had to leave school in the eight grade to work and help support his family. He wasn't a tightwad — if it was worthwhile, he spent the money — but he knew what was a waste of his hard-earned dollars.

Dad would take us to a state fair or the Ice Capades, but we avoided the Midway and weren't allowed to play games, or buy plastic gimcrack souvenirs. 

So — entrance to national parks, well worth the money; paying to see snakes in the Reptile Gardens outside of Rapid City, S. D., not so much. Dad took us to Carlsbad Caverns in New Mexico, even buying us the rather pricy boxed lunches in their underground cafeteria, but our entreaties to see the Trees of Mystery near Klamath, CA fell on deaf ears.

It wasn't until I traveled alone with my grandparents — Mom-Mom and Pop-Pop— that I was able to visit  places like the Reptile Gardens, Wall Drug, and Dinosaur Park. Yep, grandparents are pushovers, and they were driving me back to California after I spent a fun-filled summer in New Jersey with them. We were in some huge early 1960s car without air-conditioning.

Pop-Pop had found some weird contraption that you filled with ice and plugged into your cigarette lighter. A little fan blew air over the ice and was supposed to keep you cool. It didn't work so well in the Badlands in August, but it tried. Those were the days when you had to plan to cross the Mojave desert at night because practically nobody's car had air.

A radiator bag common in the 1960s. You filled them with water,
saturated the bag, then hung in front of your radiator
to keep the engine cool. When the car overheated anyway,
 you used the water in the bag to replace the water. Then repeat the sequence.
http://10engines.blogspot.com/2009/05/radiator-water-bag.html

As near as I can figure, we had driven Interstate 90. It was a trip filled with Burma Shave signs, lots of stops for ice cream, and the ever-present radiator bag.

These bags hung in front of your radiator to keep it cool. They were flax or burlap-covered rubber bags filled with water that you soaked first.

They often had ads on them, which made them cheap. Yes, Jackson Browne fans, bags just like the cover of his first album, often mistakenly called "Saturate Before Using."
That was an instruction for use, not the title.

Jackson Browne's eponymous first album.

Along with radiator bags, travelers often had bumper stickers slapped onto their cars advertising whatever roadside attraction (or "tourist trap," as my father called them) they had stopped at. When you got out of your cars, workers came out and plastered your car with stickers front and back, and you were a rolling advertisement.

Our family made many trips across country, and over the years some states must have made this practice illegal, because the attractions started wiring them on so they could be easily removed, should you care to.

You would see roadside signs starting about 100 miles away, and then you'd notice the bumper stickers. That's when you starting begging, even though it knew it wouldn't do you any good. Out family sometimes got to stop at Howard Johnson's for lunch, but never a Stuckey's, that home of the Pecan Log Roll.

So the trip with the grandparents was great. I got them to stop for lunch at Wall Drug, in Wall, S. D. still in business today. According to their website, the owner were devout Catholics who moved their business to Wall because from a smaller town because they wanted to go to Mass every day. They hit on the idea of luring people off the interstate with offers of free ice water.

It grew into a tacky tourist spot of epic proportions, with signs starting about 500 miles out, and the bumper sticker brigade not missing a car with their "Where the heck is Wall Drug?" stickers. The place has a stunning collection of jackalopes, as you can see on the site, as well as a giant one you can take your picture riding. During lunch, I hid my retainer under a napkin, so it wouldn't gross out fellow diners. Fifty miles down the road, I realized that I had left it behind, and we had to return for my expensive dental device.

I was not my grandparents' favorite grandchild that day.

A snake show in 1949 before the concrete snake pit got put in.

We went to Mt. Rushmore, and the Reptile Gardens. At that time, it was a small set of cinderblock buildings. On one side, giant tortoises roamed among agates and other rocks strewn about a stretch of desert you could walk through and take home, for a small price.

Inside the reptile house, you could look down into a huge cement square hole in the ground. Inside  was a platform where a man stood with scores of snakes crawling all over him and the enclosure.

The man had a shepherd's crook, and when the snakes crawled too high up the wall, he would use the hook, and flick them off. It was a little disconcerting to see venomous snakes hightailing it up the wall towards you. In a photo on their website from 1949 shows the same idea: a square of people with snakes in the middle.

By the 1960s, they had made it a little safer, probably at the request of their insurance company. I'm not sure what it looks like today. I hadn't thought about the place in years, and was rather shocked to see how it had grown. I'm sure there are parts of the trip I've forgotten, but rattlesnakes climbing a wall is indelibly etched into my memory.

I learned plenty of things from my father, but not stopping at tourist traps is not one of them. I lived in Simi Valley and used to ride my bike to spend time with Grandma Prisbrey at Bottle Village. I loved that place like no other, and was thrilled that it was right in the closest thing I have to a hometown.

And just like my grandparents, I have little resistance when it comes to my granddaughter Charlotte. If she wants to stop to see giant gunnite dinosaurs or the world's biggest ball of string, I'm going to stop the car.