BabyQuest unfolds at Disneyland

Charlotte on her first trip to Disneyland in 2010. In 2007, when her mother was
undergoing fertility treatments, we took a trip to the Happiest Place on Earth. 

Editor's note: My husband and I went to Disneyland this weekend for his birthday, so I wasn't able to write a new column. Although right now it seems like Charlotte has been with us forever, at one time she was just a wish and a hope. This column originally ran in the Antelope Valley Press on Sunday, March 25, 2007

Biology is a mysterious thing.

Ask any woman. They’ll tell you women indeed have “biological clocks” that create subconscious impulses that they may or may not be aware of.

The day I realized that I had stopped noticing good-looking guys in the mall in favor of tiny people in strollers was the day I knew my body had turned traitor.

I was pregnant less than a year later. I think that my biological clock is making me exude “grandma” vibes right now. I spent Sunday at Disneyland with my daughters where I had close encounters with children, whom I generally try to avoid.

Sitting on a fence outside of the Frontierland fort, I was giving my aching feet a rest when a little girl clambered up alongside and looked up at me expectantly.

I noticed that she had a fancy “princess” hairdo many young girls were sporting that day — created at some Disney Princess location in the park I can only assume was secret, because I never found it.

Looking down at her “do,” I noticed that she had rows of hair twisted back to the crown, where each row was accented by a small silk flower, and the rest was caught in a bun.

“Your head sparkles,” I observed, noting the multicolored glitter hair spray.

“I know,” she beamed, patting her rows carefully. Then she began playing with my hair, pulling ringlets out as far as they would go, then letting them snap back.

“I want hair like yours,” she said wistfully, as every last ounce of my cynical reserve melted.

I should explain that “The Happiest Place on Earth” was serving as the backdrop that day to what I like to call “BabyQuest 2007.”

My oldest daughter is trying to get pregnant, which necessitates trips to the reproductive endocrinologist at intervals dictated by her body, not convenience.

Not only did we have to make a trip to Thousand Oaks before we could go to Disneyland, we had to smuggle in a syringe and a vial of something so she could give herself a shot in the stomach if necessary.

The lab test took three or four hours, and the doctor said he would call either way, so we waited. She finally got antsy and called him, but cell reception is spotty in New Orleans Square and she was agitated by getting disconnected while on hold.

It turns out she didn’t have to use the syringe, but we were all very careful what we said lest the overload of hormones spin her off into emotional orbit.

Later that night at California Adventure I was listening to my iPod, waiting for my kids to get off a ride when suddenly I noticed a short person in front of me with his mouth moving.

I jerked out my earbuds, and said, “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

I still don’t know what he said to me first, because the chatty little boy with the shock of black hair was on to the next thought — something to do with dinosaurs.

He imitated the T-Rex on his T-shirt, curling his little fingers into claws, making a “Rawr” noise, accompanied by a fierce face.

I told him he’d better stop or I’d have nightmares. He told me he had four grandmas and four grandpas, showing me on his fingers how many four was. His father at the end of the bench laughed to himself when his son described one of the grandpas as “bad.

“He never remembers my name. He always calls me someone else’s name, not Matthew,” he said indignantly.

I asked if he went to school. He said “Yes.” I asked him how old he was. He showed me four fingers again. “Oh,” I said, “you must go to preschool.” His eyes widened and he gasped, “How did you know?!” as if I were a magician.

“What do you learn at preschool?” I asked.

“My ABCs. Wanna hear?” he said, launching into the song.

Bring on the grandkids. I’m ready.

Celebrating America....sort of.

People out on Lancaster Boulevard for the Celebrate America festival on
the tenth anniversary of Sept. 11. Intermittent rain didn't dampen spirits.

I could barely walk when I woke up this morning.

My bad knee and my sciatica were screaming from walking around on high heels. We had planned an evening at the Fashion Institute of Design & Merchandising; they were having a reception for their new show "Fabulous! 200 Years of Fashion History, 1800-2010."  That would have involved minimal walking.

A faux drive-in in front of Lancaster Performing Arts Center.

But then we got on the freeway and it was bumper to bumper beginning at the Antelope Valley Mall, so we abandoned the plan. Little did I know what a mess the southbound freeway was, and that Sierra Highway was flooded.

We were dressed to the nines, and I had spent an inordinate amount of time on my makeup. I wasn't going home after all that. So we ate at Giovanni's and headed to the BLVD for the Celebrate America street party. 

What had been Plan B turned out to be a great evening: friends, music, cars, and even a little dancing. (Who knew you could do the rhumba to Steely Dan's "Peg"?) And, a lot of walking.

A thing of beauty: the Hudson.

There were Abe Lincoln, Benjamin Franklin and George Washington impersonators, as well as Frank Sinatra and Elvis Presley. Having a beer in the Lemon Leaf, I overheard a woman enthusing about the "Ol' Blue Eyes" ringer. According to her, he had the whole package: looks, moves and voice. Oh, and the hat, too.

And what could be more American than cars? Some of the best of Detroit was on display, with lots of muscle cars and high -performance autos in evidence: Camaros, Mustangs, GTOs, Dusters and Road Runners.

In addition to American cars, there was an MG TC, too. Unfortunately, I didn't get a photo of it, but it was gorgeous!

The Santa Clarita rock band, R5, playing on the Leaf Stage
 at Celebrate America.

On the stage next to Lemon Leaf were a teen band called R5. Ranging in age from 14 to 19, they are a very tight quartet, and lots of fun to watch. Cute boys in pink shirts playing guitars, and a fetching sister on keyboards playing a mix of original material and covers from the All American Rejects and Rick Springfield, among others.

Their website says that they have been performing since they were one to six-years old, and it shows. They are very professional.

Four of the five are siblings, and they have a great time on stage. If they've been performing that long, it's clear there were parents being puppet masters, so I hope they aren't compelled to participate longer than they want to.

One of the boys is an upcoming Disney series, "Austin and Ally," and Riker, the bass player, is in "Glee" playing one of the Warblers, and just came off the Glee concert tour.

Two knights in shining armor. The one on
the right is spoken for, sorry.

We stopped in to say "hello" to Chris and Dennis Calaba, and Rena and Vijay Patel at the Graphic Experience. One of the BLVD pianos is in front of their store, and people just wander up to it and play. Of course, while we were there, no one with any talent happened by, but it's a fun concept. The framing store owners say sometimes they are serenaded by people who really do know how to play.

It really did feel like a old-fashioned event. The skies opened up while we were sitting on a bench in front of Chris and Rena's store, so we stood under the green and white striped awning, and it felt like every meet-cute in a musical comedy.

The fireworks went off despite the inclement weather, and they were spectacular. There's another fine American institution: colorful exploding munitions.

But underlying all the frivolity was the reason for the street fair: Patriot Day, the day of remembrance for those killed on Sept. 11, 2001. And therein lies the rub for any columnist: do you ignore the obvious elephant in the room and write whatever you want, when your column appears on 9/11? Or do you add your voice to the multitude of people looking back, pontificating, and analyzing?

This car show entrant evokes the by-gone era
 of the the drive-in movie with a speaker stand.

What could I possibly say about 9/11 that would be of any interest? I wasn't there; I have no survival story; and the ways it impacted me are the same ways it impacted all of us: a loss of freedom, two wars, billions of dollars spent to "keep us safe," and the bursting of the never-been-attacked-on-our-own-soil bubble.

Whatever unity the Sept. 11 attacks fostered has long since dissipated, as anyone who takes the slightest interest in politics can see. Our country is so polarized we can't carry on a civil conversation anymore, and I'm so sick of it all, I'd like to throw all the bums (of any party) out.

We've got a whole generation graduating out of college into a job market where 14.9% of 20 to 24-year-old are unemployed, according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics. Replacing all our elected officials with young people ought to put a dent in that number. From what I can see, they couldn't possibly do any worse.

Considering that people currently in office have obsene retirement packages, we don't need to shed any tears for them. It's not like they're doing their jobs anyway. Only a tiny fraction of them are having town hall meetings over the summer break, probably because they don't want the grief of actually listening to constituents.

I try not to let the current state of affairs get me down. I muddle through, hoping to one day have a full-time job for me, my recently graduated daughter, recently laid-off friends and everyone else who is under-and un-employed.

And now you know why I rarely write about politics: it just makes me depressed.

Setting sail with Noah

Inside the ark at the Skirball Cutural Center's interactive children's exhibit.

The Skirball Cultual Center has taken the "interactive" concept to new heights.

Usually, a museum considers an exhibit interactive if you have to pull out a drawer to see an answer, or open a cupboard for a different view, maybe listen in on a phone conversation. But in the wildly popular Noah's Ark exhibit, kids can create the entire story for themselves.

Charlotte and Auntie Lynn create lightning
 in a tube. Next to it they can flood a tank
to see the ark rise and float.

First, they can create the storm: turn a handle fast enough to make leaves fly, make it rain, puff up gales of wind, and coax lightning to show itself in a tube.

 In what looks like an giant ant farm, there is a mountain range that visitors can flood enough to float the ark lodged between two hills.

Children are encouraged to help build the ark. Slats of wood can be fitted between the ribs of the ship to finish the boat. Then you can load the animals; simply fit the foam creatures into a conveyor belt. 

Two by two, or all alone, turn a big wheel and the animals climb up the side of the ship, then tumble down the other side into a basket to wait for the next lucky person to play.

Pass by the wooden camels sitting sentry on the gangplank, and enter the ark. Here there are tables and chairs to sit on, rubber poop to clean up with child-sized mops and brooms, and scads of animal puppets to play with.

Charlotte sends animals to the ark on a conveyor belt.

As you might expect, animals are everywhere: snakes are draped over rafters, languidly drooping; a lion sits majestically (or as regally as he can with a raffia mane); a mountain sheep peers down on visitors.

 Every so often, a museum worker comes by with an animal marionette: a huge raptor with moveable wings, or a shy fox that gradually becomes bold enough to interact with the kids.

My granddaughter Charlotte decided the fox looked sleepy, and brought him some straw for a bed. Maybe he wanted a nap, I don't know. I certainly could have used one.

There is a hanging swing in a corner for weary parents, but alas, we were not alone in thinking, "oh my God, I've got to sit down right now."

A zebra and an elephant make of recycled
materials guard the entrance to the exhibit.

The thesis of the exhibit, demonstrated quite clearly in the introduction by a hyperactive docent, is that everyone has to work together to survive the storm. Since this is a Jewish cultural center, it is easy to see that rain, wind and flooding might not be the only storm they have in mind.

The concepts that everyone has a job to do, and that we have to live in harmony with animals and nature are all over the exhibit. Wherever possible, the animals are made of recyclable material. A life-size zebra near the entrance has a musical keyboard for a mane, and roof-top heat extractors for haunches.

In fact, for adults, recognizing all the disparate parts of the menagerie might be the biggest joy in all this. Kids just see the beast depicted, we can see the fly-swatter wings and rubber floor-mats used as elephant ears.

An alligator made of a violin case, a violin neck, and an old tire.
A leather glove holding a glass eye forms the  creature's head.

My favorite was the alligator made of a a violin case, with the violin's neck forming the tongue, an old tire making the body, and a black leather glove holding an eye to create the head. It was ingenious.

All around the second floor inside the ark, runs a platform that kids can climb up to on a rope ladder. Charlotte is too small to climb up there, so she didn't get to go. We sat on a packing crate and watched the "little savages," as my friend Lynn calls them.

A mother and daughter have a tea party
on the ark, while other kids runs round upstairs.

Lynn and I have sat side by side a few times and watched the weird dance of socialization that children do, the Lord of the Flies hierarchy that takes no time to develop. My daughter Megan looked around the floor and said, "There's not as much poop on the floor as there usually is. The big boys on the top floor are hoarding it."

Shy retiring kids get toys taken from them, and those at an awkward age, like Lotte, unsuccessfully try to fit in with groups of older or younger children.

Don't be disappointed if that daughter or granddaughter you hope will be the first female president of the United States grabs a broom or mop. Turns out that kids just like to be helpful, just not at home.

Who knew the domestic arts could hold such endless fascination?

A word to the wise: unless you are deaf or don't mind the din of scores of children, book the earliest entry time you can. They start letting people in at noon, and add more each half-hour. Your entry time allows you two hours in the ark, so you do the math.

Yes, that is Lotte, who we hope will be the first PhD in
 the family, cleaning up poop in the ark.
Better they learn humility at an early age.
Behind her is the rope ladder to the top floor.

By one o'clock, more children had arrived than had left, and the noise level rose alarmingly. About the time six boys, ages 6 to 11, came pounding into the exhibit, I was looking for an exit.

Another tip, bring a change of clothes for your kids. Outside is the "Rainbow Fountain" which is basically misters making a rainbow over a stretch of sidewalk. Kids love to run back and forth through it until they get soaked, and it could be a long, wet ride back home.

Tickets are $10 for adults; $5 for those age 2-12; $7 for seniors (65+) and full-time students, and you need to book them in advance to get a reservation for Noah's Ark. There are a limited number of walk-up reservations, but that could mean arriving at noon and having to wait until 2:30 or 3p.m. to get into the ark.

Thursdays are free for every one, but you can't make reservations, so arrive early.

The current show is Masters of Illusion: Jewish Magicians of the Golden Age, and the ongoing Visions and Values: Jewish Life from Antiquity to America, which has some quite nice interactive displays for children.

Worrying about Irene

AccuWeather map showing the projected path of Hurricane Irene.

If people were to fully comprehend the level of anxiety involved in parenting, they might think twice.

Having children involves near-constant worrying that having older kids doesn't diminish. In some respects, it gets worse because the stakes get higher. Touching hot stoves and riding bikes into the street pale in comparison to teenagers driving, the temptation of drugs and alcohol, and all-round risky behavior. It's crazy-making.

Let's not forget natural disasters.

My younger daughter, Allison, just rode out Hurricane Irene in Long Island last night. She's okay, just a brief power outage, some scary wind, and downed trees and branches, but yesterday, I was a wreck.

Part of the anxiety is the lack of control. If I were where this was happening, I would take every precaution, because I'm just wired that way. But my kid? I don't know. We talked on the phone, in-between her trips (some unsuccessful) to find flashlights, batteries, canned food and water.

Okay, so my kid was right, and the storm
damage in her neck of Long Island wasn't so bad. This time!!

All the while, she kept saying, "I really don't think it's going to be that bad."

Allison got a taste of the ugly side of panic when she waited on the wrong side to get gas, then realized the hose wasn't long enough and had to cut into the other line at the gas station. The whole station erupted in fury, and one charming New York man yelled at her the entire time she pumped.

"You'd think that people would pull together and be understanding in an emergency," she said. Ah, my pet, that's Left Coast thinking. You're dealing with New Yorkers now, who routinely scream at one another for breathing.

A block from the station, she burst into tears. One day, she'll assimilate, turn to the screaming man and tell him to shut the eff up, maybe do a little yelling herself. Then I'll know I've lost her to the East coast Dark Side.

Since I wasn't there to protect her, my advice was to get out of Dodge. Her in-laws live in Rhode Island, so why not weather the storm in safety there? But her winemaker husband had to batten down the hatches at the winery on Saturday, so that meant fleeing was impossible.

Flashlights were sold out, so she bought candles. But then I read online that you shouldn't have any open flames, so that was out. She couldn't get bottled water, so she was going to filter what she could and fill containers. I advised her to fill her bathtub to use for flushing toilets.

Some storm damage in Allison's complex.
They got lucky, minor damage and no flooding.

It's a whole different thing from earthquakes, preparing for hurricanes. I have prepared innumerable earthquake kits only to raid them when I ran out of toilet paper, tuna fish or petty cash. It's like preparing to get old: you know it's going to happen eventually, but it seems so far off.

Then, even when an earthquake does come, it destroys rather selectively. But hurricanes are different. You know when it's coming, you have time to prepare, including getting the hell out of there.

Obviously, not all places get the same amount of damage, but everyone gets wet. Just because your roof didn't fly off doesn't mean your basement won't flood.

On the other hand, this photo from the Los Angeles Times
 shows what happens when a real tree comes down.
This is Brooklyn Heights in NYC.

Once the storm preparations are done, you wait. And watch the destruction the storm wreaks elsewhere before it gets to you, making you ever more fearful.

But with earthquakes, you walk around feeling like it won't be you, until one day it is. Which is what I feared with this storm, that my daughter would think about all the times we prepared for emergencies that never happened, like the family fire drills where the kids popped out their screen and climbed out of the bedroom windows.

But when you see the mayor of New York City evacuating huge chunks of the city and shutting down the public transit system, you get a little freaked out. As Mayor Bloomberg said: if he prepares too much, they'll accuse him of of overreacting; if he doesn't do enough, it will be his fault that things are so screwed up. It's a no-win situation.

So now that I know that my daughter is okay, I have a new worry: that next time she won't take the severe storm warnings seriously enough, because she escaped Irene relatively unscathed.

What can I say? I'm a mom.

Sunday night update: We spoke too soon about the power. The complex's generator gave out and they are cooking by candlelight and hoping the electricity comes on soon.

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.