GLOW

Oh Saint Monica, patron saint of difficult marriages, disappointing children, victims of adultery and unfaithfulness (too good, right...look it up), I didn't think it would be this way. As a writer, and someone who has a rather difficult time living in the moment, I have a confession to make. I often have an idea of what I am going to say about one of my destinations before I even go. Never was this truer than with GLOW. I was prepared to give A+'s across the board. I mean it combines three of my favorite things- the beach at night, installation art and walking outside with an alcoholic beverage.

The first and only other GLOW was two years ago, and it was extraordinary. Conceived as an all night, interactive art festival featuring local artists tightly spaced on and around the Santa Monica pier, my friends and I were among the thousands who marveled at glowing orbs in the water, a tower made of glow sticks, florescent tunnels one could run through and conceptual pieces performed by fantastical creatures on stilts. It captured the magic and mystery of the shore and the city on the shore. My friends and I thought we had died and gone to a heaven filled with Gatsby's elusive green lights. Apparently the city of Santa Monica thought it was more like a Fellini-esque hell filled with rollers, drunkards and trippers.

So this GLOW ended at midnight and had the stifled, corporate feel of a half empty municipal art museum that just happened to be on the beach. The pieces were spaced ridiculously far apart (wet sand+food and drink=exhausting) and designated by great white lampposts. Many of the works were lackluster, appearing to have been designed by a committee of landscaping drones. Something called "the battle of earth and the moon" turned out to be two hippie dudes dancing around in head dresses while someone played a drum. Another exhibit was just a light shining on the water.

A car's headlights would achieve the same effect.

Children running around thrilled to be up late were a charming sight, and there were a few lovely works. There was a giant white orb high in the sky that projected a participant's face so that he or she became the man in the moon. Of course, one man in the moon proposed to his girlfriend. There was an architecturally precise bridge of light one could walk through that looked like a ship leaning towards the water, and a mass of bubbles frothed out of a pale blue lifeguard tower. Another piece used a projector to magnify participants' hands and arms in full color across the sand.

So there were some impressive experiments, but the joie de vivre, the anarchist spirit of the first festival was missing. Instead, there were orderly, looooonnnnngg lines to actually get to participate in anything and cops policing, some on horseback, at every turn. The best thing about the night was the communal joy of sitting in the damp sand, bs-ing with friends while waiting to meet or find other friends. No matter what the occasion, that always seems to be the thing that makes me glow the most.

P.S. Note the orbs all over my photos. I know it is light pollution, but the southerner in me thinks it's lots of art world ghosts with a few lost sailors and surfers thrown in for good measure.

Travel: D (parking was a nightmare).
Ease: D
Content: B-
Subjective Coolness: C+
Overall: C

Directions: At the Santa Monica Pier (who the heck knows if they will even do it again).
Parking: Just had to find it, cost anywhere from $10-$30.
Hours: 8pm-12pm.
Price: Free, besides the soul disappointing disappointment.

Autry National Center

Hadley's newest hit,
WENT TO THE AUTRY MUSEUM
only available on Please-give-me-a-book-deal records.

(to the tune of Gene Autry's "Back in the Saddle Again")

Went to the Autry Museum
Wax statutes of cowboys with big chins
Indian baskets made of grass
Fake towns that are a gas
Went to the Autry Museum

Wanted to ride the fake horse
You say that's for kids, I say of course
Heritage center just for tots,
where they can touch clay pots
Went to the Autry Museum

Dirty-drinking ho's
kind of white washed, I suppose
Went to the Autry Museum.

Feces-covered dudes
not so stoic, I presume
Went to the Autry Museum.

Lots of neat western curious
tiny cards, golden scales, mementos
Guns abound for boys
for girls, suffragette toys
Went to the Autry Museum


Tough saloon girl I'd like to be
just hope I don't die of dysentery
Made me want to play Oregon Trail
and get some cowboy tail
Went to the Autry Museum

Travel: B (dang Los Feliz Blvd. trail)
Ease: B
Content: A- (Surprising, I know)
Subjective Coolness: B
Overall: B+

Directions: Take Los Feliz Blvd. and turn on Riverside (right before the 5), take all the way through Griffith Park and you will see signs. Actual address:

4700 Western Heritage Way

Los Angeles, CA 90027
Parking is on site and free. Across from the LA Zoo.

Hours: Tues.-Fri. 10-4, Sat. and Sun. 10-5
Price: $9 adults, $5 students and old uns, $3 chillins.

Classic Car show at Bob's Big Boy

Usually when I say that something is so suburban or totally middle American, I am paying that thing a nostalgic and heartfelt compliment full of secret admiration and quite open city girl self loathing. In fact, in the nine months that I have been writing this blog I cannot think of one time where I in anyway disparaged the great tyrannical majority. I like malls... I like perfectly manicured lawns... I like kids playing sports... I loooovvve men playing sports...

But I have learned that I hate men at car shows. Men at car shows remind me of the worst men in bible yielding, gay bashing red states. The men at this car show were almost all three of four things- old, mustached, fat and/or sexist. Be they leaning over car hoods or sitting in folding chairs with their posse, be they beefed up Tom Selleck types or pale flabby geriatrics in bowling shirts, they all craned their necks for a good look. Many made comments, and some of these comments were disgusting and made by those years older than my long departed granddad.

The classic car show has been held for years in the parking lot of Bob's Big Boy, a 1950's car hop chain famous for the statue of a devious, dip-cone colored, burger wielding toddler that guards it. Every Friday night, from five to ten, the aforementioned creepsters, along with some women, many of the biker persuasion, join together to show off old cars, sell old cars, drink inconspicuously (your loose lips and red noses give you away boys!) and sit...they do lots of sitting.

I get it. There is no greater heaven than sitting somewhere scenic, b.s.ing with friends you love in the early evening. But they have to be your particular crowd or else it is boring and uncomfortable as hell, and the classic car and fried food set isn't exactly my cup of tea. The actual lot is pretty small and filled with about 30-50 cars, a few spiffed out beauties, a great many older models that I could discern nothing brilliant in. But keep in mind that the only brilliant thing I ever notice about a car is a brilliant color and a hot owner.

But if I am trying to have an expert's eye, I would say I have seen much cooler cars at countless state fairs. Unless you are really a car aficionado, a quick one minute walk through on your way to tuna melts and a shake is probably all you'll need. Cool idea though. Cool idea, wholesome theory...but like some of America, pretty scudzy in practice.

Travel: C(rush hour, 101, Friday night...need I say more?).
Ease: B-
Content: C
Subjective coolness: C-
Overall: C

Directions: From Hollywood take the 101-N to the Barham Blvd. exit. Turn right on Barham. After about a mile continue on West Olive. Turn left on North Pass, turn left at West Riverside. Bob's will be on your right at 4211 West Riverside. Ironically, it's street parking only, because the parking lot is filled with...cars!
Hours:Every Friday 5-10pm.
Price: Free, excepting your female dignity.

Griffith Park Pool

I used to think everyone in California had a pool. You live in SoCal, you drive a sports car and boom, a deep, sparkling pool is permanently attached to your svelte, tan hip. It only took a couple months of living out here for me to realize the secret- only rich people have pools. If you live in a lowly apartment you are more likely to be psyched by underground parking than the occasional tiny, greenish, fenced in pool sometimes found in older buildings. This is a bummer on many levels, especially since young contemporaries the nation over seem to pay half the rent we Angelino's do for complexes that include outdoor/indoor pools, saunas, wine and cheese cocktails- you name it.

Public pools in LA are generally not much better. They are usually teeming with sweaty, screaming children and often tagged within an inch of their life. This means many people are all gooey about their gym's pools, but I have found mine at 24hour Fitness is often an over-chlorinated retirement home, that stings my eyes and smells like b.o. But I still go because I loooove the water, and I love to swim, and yes the beach is only theoretically 20 minutes away, but let me tell you traffic makes it more like 2 hours and often once you get there it is chilly and overcast.

This is why the Griffith Park Pool is so refreshing. It is one of the cheapest things you can do in LA- only $2.50 for an all day pass! It is a public pool with an adults only section, a beautiful if fading art deco bath house and an area outside perfect for picnics or buying ice cream from a vendor. However, NO SOCCER, according to many posted signs. The water is clean and the lifeguards are nice. It is perfectly located in Los Feliz right by the 5 and the children there are well behaved and happy. It feels like a dusty summer camp.

Even the many downsides are surprisingly charming and old school metropolitan rustic. The schedule is beyond confusing and handwritten on poster board. There are no chairs around the pool so you have to sit on the cement or lean against the chain link fence when you are not in the pool. The showers are kind of icky, but with the old fashioned ticket counter and the high beige walls surrounding the pool and me in my hot, pin -up girl one piece bathing suit, I kept waiting for Philip Marlow or Sam Spade to walk in and ask me about some dame's sexy disappearance.

The saddest thing about the pool is that it is seasonal. And the season ends on September 5th- so this is your last week to try it out until next June 26th when it reopens. I strongly suggest you go. There is nothing like watching children swim with their fat little bellies stuck out with abandon in this town full of sucked-in stomachs. It makes you feel like a kid again, and in this town of grown up traffic jams and soul crushing rent, that ain't such a bad thing.



Travel: A
Ease: A
Content: B+
Subjective coolness: A-
Overall: A-

Directions: 3401 Riverside Drive. Heading north on Los Feliz Blvd. right before the 5 take a right on Riverside Drive and left into the parking lot (free parking!).
Hours: Only god and parks and rec know. Here is the schedule: http://www.laparks.org/dos/aquatic/pdf/poolPrg/griffith.pdf.
Price: $2.50. $2.00 with library card (how cool is that).

Jumbo's Clown Room

When I was nine years old my mother took me to a book signing to meet her idol, Gloria Steinem. It was at the old Intimate Bookstore in Chapel Hill and the line was sooo long. But Mama made me stay with her and by the time we reached the front I was super bored and absolutely itching to go find the newest Babysitter Club book. Finally, we were next! Ms. Steinem smiled at us, very pretty and friendly and as my mother fumbled out a greeting I tugged at her hand.

Me: "Can I go now?"
Mama: (Stammering an apology for my rudeness, a not uncommon occurrence.) " I...sorry she..."
Gloria: (Totally awesome and sincere) " I understand, more important places to go!"

That brief brush with a second wave feminist deity must have had quite an effect on me because I have a very non-my generation, non-third wave feminist confession to make. I hate strip clubs. I in no way think they are empowering. I have been to several and I do not find them funny or hot, even though true pole dancing is an art and an athletic skill that I certainly do not possess as several facebook pictures demonstrate.

What I had heard of Jumbo's Clown Room was not positive. Opened in 1970, it is legendary in part because Courtney Love stripped there. It's in a strip mall on Hollywood Blvd. and it was where old, tired strippers often end up. And Courtney freaking Love stripped there. I like to laugh at a lot, but snickering at a woman baring her flesh to try and make a living is not one of them.

So I was pleasantly surprised and strangely touched by what I found. Jumbo's is in a dirty strip mall, but once you get past the bouncers (no cover) you enter what looks like a tiny dive bar. And as you may know, I love nothing more than a rockin dive bar in a strip mall. The space is tiny and there is only one stage with one pole. Hipsters mill around drinking (cheap drinks!) and sit at tables while the women perform. Everyone I saw was engaged and respectful and trust, my critical eye was watching out for that.

The women on stage were not freaks, but interesting, slightly older pro's who all had their own look and their own dancing style ranging from punk rock to soft, faded belle to alternative pixie. They get to pick their two song sets, and there is no DJ or Emcee, so the dancers really set the tone. It's almost like watching a piece of modern dance minus the pretension. At the end of each set the dollar bills trickled (one stripper taught my friend how to flick a bill) on stage.

I found myself starting to have fun in spite of myself. But then returned the shades of gray.

One of the performers struck up a conversation with us. Fueled by alcohol we told her how in awe we were of her splits, her style, her sexy. She was the soft faded belle, and she was enthusiastic, sweet, a little drunk and getting drunker, which is her right. She was appreciative of our compliments but it didn't stop her in her search for another drink. That was a definite trend- the women's second and third sets all seemed a little more brash, sloppier, angrier. I was leaving as a g- string clad woman walked on all fours on stage grasping at dollars. I'm pretty sure my mom and Gloria would have would have been glad I did. By the way, that book signing was for "Revolution From Within: A Book of Self-Esteem ."

Travel: A
Ease:A
Content- B-
Subjective Coolness: C-
Overall: C+

Directions: 5153 Hollywood Blvd. between Kingsley and Winona.
Hours: 4pm-2am.
Price: Free parking, no cover, cheap drinks.

The Reagan Library, Thousand Oaks and Simi Valley

I, Ms. border-line socialist princess of the cosmopolitan coasts, had a thoroughly middle American, straight-edge Republican day. And all in the same amount of time it takes to drive to Malibu, that Streisand/Geffen vortex of the liberal elite. My good friend Shannon took me to her hometown, Thousand Oaks (T.O. in locals' lingo), a shiny, desert suburb about 30 miles up the 101-N. We stopped by her lovely grandma's flag lined neighborhood, had lunch at a family owned BBQ chain and tried on padded bras at Victoria's Secret. It was a suburban mom's dream and I couldn't have been better prepared with my neck brace and Vicodin prescription, thanks to a recent car accident.

Gated communities abound in the Calabassas/Thousand Oaks/Simi Valley area. So do man made lakes with little motor boats, strip malls fancied up with heart shaped shrubs and plaster statues and perfectly paved, almost empty roads, filled with regular looking people living seemingly normal, regular lives. The local schools have their lockers outside and everyone is friendly and casual. It was so fun and relaxing- the perfect area for our most relaxed President's shrine, grave, institute or whatever a Presidential library is exactly.

The Reagan Library sits on top of a rather ugly mountain in an under-developed part of Simi Valley. It is designed very much like a sprawling, wild west ranch and the view from the top of the mediocre mountain is sweeping and awe-inspiring, which I am trying to tie into some metaphor for America...nope can't do it. The Library includes a replica of the Oval office and there are jelly beans everywhere, including the gift shop (CAPITALISIM!). On the grounds are President Reagan's very impersonal grave, a really pretty piece of the Berlin wall, and a rose garden payed for by the Reagan's close friend, Merv Griffin (HOLLYWEIRD!).

A lot of the Library is under renovation right now in preparation for Regan's centennial in 2011. But there are two exhibits so cool that they made the $12.00 entrance fee more than worth it. One is a real Air Force One, retired in 2001, in a giant glass pavilion on the side of the mountain so that it looks like it is about to take off. It is smaller than you would think, shiny with beautiful blue accents and inside it is very dated, 80's chic. Very nice, elderly docents tell you little factoids about each section. Also in the pavilion there are limo's and tons of motorcycles, as well as a pub called "Ronald Reagan's" that for some historical fact that escapes me is an actual pub the Reagans visited in Ireland.

My favorite thing by far, and the perfect thing for any little girl tourist you need to entertain, is the insanely detailed dollhouse of the White House. The main house, the west wing and the east wing are all shown in minute, glorious detail...from the microphones in the press room to Bo Obama sniffing around the First Lady's dressing room. There are also re-creations of FDR's war room, Lincoln's Oval Office and a model of muti-culti workers chaotically building the White House while drinking ale and starting fires.

When we were still in T.O. Shanon took me to meet Wally, her old piano teacher who has a rustic old store behind a scrap yard off the main drag of the now posh Thousand Oaks. Wally, an old hippie from the mountains, greeted us warmly and told us how much things had changed. "When I moved here in the 60's, this road was nothing but dirt, and it was winding. It was beautiful up here, this was the wilderness, the desert, and it was so quiet. It was magic." Well, sometimes it still is.

Travel: B
Ease: B
Content: A
Subjective coolness: A-
Overall: A-

Directions to Library: Take 101-N to CA-23N. Take Olson Road exit. Keep right and merge onto Olson Road, continue on Madera. Turn left on Presidential Drive.
Hours:10am-5pm, Monday-Sunday.
Price: Adult-$12.00, Seniors-$9.00, 11-17-$6.00, 11 and under-free. Free parking at site.

The Magic Castle

Once, I went on a date with a much older guy who asked me out after hearing me sing one of his grandfather's songs. On the date he brought along HIS MOTHER, who glared at me all night with pursed coral lips, and smoked like a chimney. At the end of the night when this bespectacled Dana Carveyesque man asked me on another date, I almost said yes. I almost said yes because he lured me with his membership to THE MAGIC CASTLE.

The Magic Castle is legendary in LA lore. It really is a castle where an association of magicians perform and there are shows all throughout the night. The rules for admission are strict. You have to be a member or invited guest, men must wear jackets and women must wear cocktail dresses or "fancy pants suits". No photography or cell phones are allowed. So when Maureen hooked it up that we could all go, let's just say I was titillated beyond measure. It's always nice to feel part of the in crowd.

Once you enter the castle and pay a $20 cover, you are directed to a bookshelf. "Open sesame" you say to the bookshelf and the thing opens, and you enter a strange Victorian labyrinth filled with gilded bars, artistic curiosities, card tables and hidden seance rooms fashioned in heavy wood. Older, strange looking people (late in life Orson Welles..), some with long white beards, many fat and all dressed in their raggedy finest, sit at tables teaching each other card tricks while younger folk gawk with their mouths hanging open and a drink firmly in hand . There is a lot to gawk at- a restaurant, several bars, a museum filled with Edgar Bergen's and other ventriloquist dummies and a locked library containing all the secrets of the trade. Turn the wrong corner and you will be all alone staring at yourself in an upside-down mirror, or hearing a ghostly woman's voice ask you for a drink.

There are several shows going on at all times in different areas of the castle. As a guest you can go to them all, although dinner guests get preferential seating and I HIGHLY suggest you get a dinner reservation- if not you may end up feeling like a second class citizen because the employees at the castle all act like snobby butlers protecting the family silver. Since it feels like you are in a Miss Marple miniseries, or at least an episode of Scooby-Doo, all the guests are polite to each other and sociable and put on their elegant faces and voices. There is nothing better than seeing so many of my friends who I usually see wearing jeans and slouching on the couch, poised like ballerinas in their chairs and flowers in their hair. And of course, there is nothing better than men in suits.

And then there are the shows. I have always thought magicians were weirdos and placed them at the end of the show-biz food chain just above stand up prop comics. But lord was I wrong. The shows are amazing, particularly the main show which starred the very handsome and punnily named Justin Kredible. A woman danced with glow sticks and hula hooped at dizzying speed, a man turned cards into metallic flowers with lightning quick grace, and Mr. Kredible did all sorts of fancy tricks including making a woman's wedding ring somehow go from an envelope her husband was holding to being pressed in her bra. "I still can't figure it out!" the husband told us later. "I felt the ring!".

I was awestruck like a little girl and kept letting out an involuntary "WHAT?" throughout the show. And I think that's the true magic of the Magic Castle. In this city of dreams and illusions, one doesn't feel very much wonder at all. Not with the endless concrete, the flat temperature and cynical career moves. I was sincerely delighted and amazed multiple times, no more so than when the player-less piano (supposedly manned by a ghost named Irma) in the downstairs bar played every song I asked for with a whimsical sense of humor. The first song I requested was "The Way We Were." First it teased me with "Memory" from Cats and then launched into a rendition of my song. I could have stayed there all night, pretending to be someone lovelier, requesting songs and shaking off all the stark realities of the everyday.

Travel:A
Ease:A
Content:A+
Subjective coolness:A+
Overall:A+

Directions:7001 Franklin Blvd. One block north of Hollywood Blvd. Between La Brea and Highland.
Hours: 5pm-1am and Saturday and Sunday brunch.
Price:$8 for valet, $20 cover, and whatever you spend on dinner and drinks.