Talk about San Francisco and the first thing people mention is the Golden Gate Bridge. Actually, the first thing they say is usually: “Gays! Pink! Being camp! Pumping disco tunes!” Then something about the bridge.

Golden Gate Bridge

As landmarks go it shouldn’t be that impressive. It is essentially a massive bridge painted a certain colour.

But you can take anything to pieces if you don’t play along: the Mona Lisa is a boring picture of some frigid cow; nothing happens in Hamlet (a genuine complaint from some… isn’t that the whole point?!)

Sometimes you just have to go with your gut instinct: it’s cool as fuck.

The bridge had something of a troubled birth. It was a time consuming and expensive project; one that succeeded thanks to the will and vision of Joseph Strauss, and others involved in the conception.

Still, people complained and doubted. It’s a sad fact of human nature, the resistance to change. And now the bridge, in its International Orange glory, is an architectural wonder and dominates the city’s aesthetics. A triumph for imagination and ambition!

My plan was to walk across the bridge, unlike the other members of my travelling party (that sounds over-formal, but the alternative is: “the lads” which suggests the four of us in matching t-shirts, chanting rude songs and chucking bottles of WKD into the sea).

Anyway, the lads decided on a bike ride, taking in some of the coast and the bridge. I couldn’t go as, ahem, I can’t ride a bike (thanks a lot, childhood lack of self-confidence.)

I readied myself for the stroll… then stopped; someone had passed me a camera. I obliged with a quick snap and a polite nod; then readied myself for the stroll.

…five cameras later, and still readying myself for the stroll, I began to wonder if I’d ever get to step off the island.

On the other hand, I was enjoying my new role of official holiday photographer. To begin with it was just a case of trying to fit the tourists and the scenery into the shot – harder than you think, considering the size of the bridge (and the size of some tourists – ha ha ha potkettleblack ha ha…)

Golden Gate Bridge

With a bit of practice I was angling the picture from the floor; playing with the zoom function; casting the scene in an evocative sepia filter. “Look fierce for me! Yeah! Very scary, baby, very scary!”

Finally I stepped past the first tower. Thus began the longest journey I’ve ever taken (on foot on a bridge). The sides of the walkway are surprisingly free; this is perfect as the views of the city and the sea are fantastic.

As the journey continues, you begin to realise the scale of the thing. It’s a fair walk across – not in a, “I’m fookin’ knackered…” way, crawling the final few metres.

More in a psychological sense: “I’m sure I’ve passed that bit before… Haven’t that Mexican family already moved out of the way for me…? I better not be in a bloody time loop!”

At one point a jogger passed by. I decided to use her like a boomerang (by which I mean I’d judge the remaining distance based on her return; not that I’d snap her spine and throw her into the air with a particular wrist movement).

There followed an action movie moment, as when the hero drops a wrench into a chasm and waits for the clang… and waits… and waits…

Of course, the waiting point (chill out zone?) at the end of the bridge skewed the calculation. That area was surprisingly free of souvenirs and refreshments and, well, anything apart from toilets and a water fountain.

I did meet a couple of friendly chaps, who asked me to take their photo (they’d obviously heard about my competitive rates). They were on holiday and talked very fondly of San Francisco.

It was hard to tell if they were friends, family or lovers – and I thought it best not to ask. (“How dare you suggest that? If he was my brother, I wouldn’t be bumming him, would I?!”)

The return walk was just as pleasant. It was the same walk but in the opposite direction: there’s not a lot that can go wrong there.

With less of an impulse to check the view, I had the chance to indulge in another past time: imagining you’re in competition with the other walkers, in a kind of human-F1; with a snatch of commentary when you approach a rival (“He prepares to overtake,”) and that person’s face appearing on the screen below as you pass them.

Come on: we all do it.

Erm... Golden Gate Bridge

Just two things intruded on my thoughts of racing triumph. The first was a familiar face, a young Asian guy; leaning against the barrier on the water-side.

He was my first photography subject – and here he was, posing for somebody else; some stranger’s fingers pressing his buttons. My heart shattered. Was it my technique? Did I say too much; or not enough? I can change, if only…

But no; it was too late.

The other sad note was a sign for crisis counselling. It’s quite well known that Golden Gate Bridge is one of the most popular suicide spots in America (second only to Disneyland).

It makes sense I suppose. There aren’t many locations more grandiose and symbolic. That’s the trouble with man-made structures: if you build it, they will come… and throw themselves off it.

So the crisis notices, and the phones to ring a helpline, were bittersweet: reminding you of those who’ve lost their lives – and those who have been talked down.

With such high stakes, they probably didn’t appreciate my own call:

“Hi, yeah… I’m fine, fine… It gets a bit higher off the ground than you expect in the middle, doesn’t it? No, I’ll be okay… It gets windy though, eh? Really blasts into you… Not a problem, of course…

“And those lorries flying past, they really rattle the ground. And there are no barriers on the other side, so you’re basically unprotected…

“And I tripped and stumbled and got quite close, and my arsehole opened a bit and…

“Get me fucking down from here!!”

From the ridiculous to the sublime: an evening tour of Alcatraz is one of the greatest, not to say spookiest, visits one can make in San Francisco. But first we had to navigate the horrors of Fisherman’s Wharf.

It promised so much...

Why do seaside destinations encourage the lowest common denominator? Do they think the natural beauty of the waters in enough, excusing them from any effort?

Like a man with a huge penis who refuses to practice foreplay, thus becoming a terrible lover? (Note: this isn’t why I hate seasides.)

More importantly, what is it about being there that makes people want an “I <3 SF” bumper sticker or fridge magnet? Is there laudanum in the salty air?

TOURIST: (Loud inhale) I must have a crudely printed t-shirt that’ll fade in a week.

Don’t even get me started on the “Irish” shop. (Except about the big map outside which included the six Northern counties as part of the one entity – presumably leading to some interesting conversations…)

The outlets are all housed in purpose built gift shop complexes: the plastic-y, toy-town kind that look like they belong in a theme park; minus the crucial factor of having the bloody Nemesis racing around above them.

The main streets are different, and hardly more appealing. You can probably picture the classic seaside shop: open front; no decoration inside; haphazard piles of objects; not even a sign or name or trace of identification above the door.

It’s almost as if the purveyor of fine ware is looking you in the eye and laughing: “It’s astonishing that you’re handing me money right now.”

To redress the balance a little, I have heard that Fisherman’s Wharf is one of the best places in the country to find seafood. Unfortunately, I’d rather eat shite than fish.

Obviously that’s not true. I’d rather eat fish than shit. Any suggestion otherwise would just be stupid. Nevertheless, I hate fish.

In general, the place just seems a waste. Fisherman’s Wharf is such a great name: it’s old world and evocative, potentially ghostly: ships appearing out of the mist. It also sounds like a stage or area from a Zelda game.

Escape to Danger

They call it The Rock, for some reason

The boat ride out to Alcatraz is impressive in its own right. We had a great view of the cityscape at sunset.

As it diminished, with the other bay still in the distance; nothing near us but deep water and the unforgiving island – you already get a sense of the isolation.

(As a side note, making a similar trip back home would seem like the start of an episode of Casualty. I don’t know what that says about our collective cultural reference points and / or my imagination.)

We were greeted off the boat by a steward, who gave a little introductory speech (i.e. the same info as featured in the onboard leaflets) and pointed us up the hill to the main complex.

It would be more exciting to have complete freedom to roam, but, on a rock in the middle of the sea with no real security, I’ll admit that’s probably a recipe for disaster. (“If you knew he was a paedo, why did you let him on the boat?!” Etc)

The main tour is narrated via an audio headset: another de-socialising factor which helps you to appreciate the loneliness.

The story is pieced together from interviews with real guards and criminals who served time on the island. This is a masterstroke: it avoids the cliché, sentiment and, well, cheesiness that so often afflicts guided tours.

Again, there’s something ghostly about hearing the voices while you process through the empty cells. And dispassionate champions of savage “justice” and capital punishment could do with hearing these articulate, reasonable and sympathetic men.

The tour is also remarkably well timed. I was expecting at least a couple of occasions where, for example, I’d step into the Warden’s office while somebody explains: “Here you are – face to face with Al Capone’s diarrhoea bowl.” But it was inch perfect.

Help! Let me out! I'm innocent! Etc!

It seems lazy or careless not to explain little details: the size of the cells; the texture of the walls; echoing footsteps through the corridors. But most people will have visited a prison (on holiday or “business”) or at least seen them on TV.

The crucial difference is, of course, the island. It’s not until you step back outside, about three-quarters through the tour, that you truly appreciate this. It’s not just the isolation. It’s having the city so near and so far.

They talk about hearing sounds and voices carried by the wind: people enjoying themselves on a Saturday evening, at the cinema or a dance. It’s there, always taunting you.

The main tour ends, leaving visitors with numerous optional presentations by the island’s guides. Entertaining curious tourists in authentic evocative surroundings seems like quite a nice job, really.

The guides were certainly aware of their heritage. One presentation allowed a young man to explain his inordinate pride at the role Alcatraz played in breaking Al Capone’s spirit.

It was interesting to hear how the crime boss, who had come to take his authority for granted (even in landlocked prisons), suddenly found himself trapped in a circle of enemies.

Though there’s more than a suggestion that Capone’s syphilis contributed more to his despair. Not that the guide used that word: detailing the Valentine’s Day Massacre in gory detail is fine, but sex? No. (He could have asked me for some euphemisms: dick-stick-brain-sick?)

Where is he?

Similarly, the famous escape from Alcatraz; immortalised onscreen in, erm, Escape From Alcatraz. The guide (a different one; otherwise we may have just been unlucky to meet the world’s most vindictive man) made it very clear that investigations were still underway.

It’s been forty years – let it go.

So, an entertaining job, but one with the potential for frustration: there’s only so many times you can field questions like: “Is Clint Eastwood on the island? Which cell was Clint Eastwood in? When Clint Eastwood was in Alcatraz, what kind of exercise did he do?”

And, when it’s time to pack up and head home, somebody must, must always take it upon themselves to caution: “Ooh, don’t miss the boat!”

We didn’t. As we sailed back, these trivial thoughts cleared and I remembered again the words that took me through the cells. Jailors and criminals: opposite ends of society’s spectrum, brought together with more in common than differences.

-

Thanks to Daniel McCarthy and Paul Walsh for the pictures – they’re good peoples.

]]> http://shannonphilpott.com/2009/11/21/california-dreaming/ Sat, 21 Nov 2009 15:31:12 +0000 sphilpott http://shannonphilpott.com/2009/11/21/california-dreaming/ http://blogdorochinha.wordpress.com/2009/11/20/california-dreaming-tocada-por-um-pia-de-merda/ Sat, 21 Nov 2009 01:09:02 +0000 Rochinha http://blogdorochinha.wordpress.com/2009/11/20/california-dreaming-tocada-por-um-pia-de-merda/

Esse pía está possuído….

As the old saying goes: “I know a tiny bit about art: not enough to talk knowledgably about it, but just the right amount to act as a social lubricant; and I’ve got a vague idea of what I like – but I’m open to suggestion.”

Galleries are always a priority when I visit a new place. But rather than giving an impression of the host city they often seem to exist in their own space: as if all the buildings are portals to the same zone: the art dimension.

Marilyn Monroe, New York, 1957

(It would at least explain why, wherever I go, the Duchamp Toilet seems to be there: if someone’s trying to feed me a, “your life’s down the shitter,” metaphor, couldn’t it have been a bit more subtle?)

So it is with the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. The featured exhibition was a Richard Avedon retrospective.

Avedon began as a fashion photographer, on magazines such as Harper’s Bazaar and Vogue; before moving into acclaimed fine art.

His subjects are usually depicted in monochrome, often against stark or blank backdrops; usually alone. It’s complete exposure, leaving the subject with nowhere to hide.

Where the portraits are of ordinary people or well-documented celebrities (various Beatles and politicians), the results are charming, offering an insight that never feels voyeuristic. It’s a prime example of how setting “limits” can bring forward truth and honesty.

(The pictures of Brigitte Bardot and especially Marilyn Monroe, by the way: Phwoar! I know, I know: next I’ll be telling you the world is round. But I’ve grown up taking them for granted – it’s nice to know what all the fuss is about.)

Where the subjects are less-recorded famous figures, the results are fascinating. Seeing W.H. Auden, Truman Capote and Samuel Beckett in fresh poses makes them seem more tangible; it also adds to their mystique, like watching a lost Doctor Who episode or the Kennedy assassination from a different angle.

One wall is taken up with a panorama of Andy Warhol and his Factory gang. It’s a great picture: the scale and space makes it seem as if it’s happening right before you. Again, it reveals a truth – this time not as appealing and certainly not as cool:

They seem like a bunch of arseholes: pompous, arrogant, self-obsessed, ignorant, and really, really pretentious. Even if that was partly the point, and stubborn aestheticism was built into the myth, it was just unignorably annoying.

WH Auden, New York, 1960

(Did I mention most of them were naked? Wankers.)

Avedon’s In the American West work was the only slight disappointment. The pictures themselves were good, capturing unusual and intriguing faces: the deep-lined, sun-ravaged drifter was particularly evocative.

But the notes explained the use of empty white backgrounds to portray the South-Western desert wastelands and heat.

This might have been convincing, had we not just strolled through five rooms full of figures against stark blank backdrops.

It left me wondering how Avedon would have handled other commissions:

EDITOR: I’d like a series of photos which recreate the lush, verdant surroundings of the Garden of Eden.

AVEDON: Okay – I’m going to use a white background to evoke to sense of purity before the Fall.

EDITOR: We’re going to fly you to Monte Casino for pictures to accompany our reports on the battle.

AVEDON: The white background represents the flash of the artillery; and the totality of war. And Heaven, where some of them are now.

***

Besides the Avedon exhibition, one memorable work was a double-room video installation. The first room had an arc of screens showing snippets from films where Hollywood actresses talk about motherhood. It was interesting, if ruined by my puny, distracted man-brain trying to remember the names of all the movies.

The other room had large screens showing various figures singing the Plastic Ono Band album, song by song, acapella. It was certainly powerful: but so would big screens with people declaiming the Poddington Peas theme tune at you.

I take the point about the unity of the chorus, set against the sad, lonely lyrics. It’s the constant deification of Lennon that annoys me. No, “annoys” is the wrong word: it’s just boring.

“I don’t believe in God… I don’t believe in Beatles.”

***

Another of my favourite holiday activities is visiting the public library. (Galleries and libraries… ladies, control yourselves!)

I'm actually inside there...

San Francisco’s main library was a bit of a let down. I was expecting a microcosm of the city: slightly shambolic, with lots of hidden treats dotted around; stoned arty types sprawled over ragged cushions; randomly selected but unique architecture; with a big hill in the middle. But it was fairly plain and plastic.

However we did discover another photography exhibition: this time local pictures depicting the West Coast punk scene of the late 70s and early 80s.

Californian punk seems a peculiar concept to me: built-up, fast-paced metropolises, London and New York, fit the ragged, agitated music much better than sunny beaches and blissed eccentricity. But some pressures, authority and staid conformity, are universal.

The images of hectic gigs and shambolic artistes posing in graffitied bedsits captured the visceral thrill of the era. Enthusiastic labels written by the photographer give a nice authenticity.

It’s bittersweet though. A culture founded so strongly in vibrant youth: more so than the understated mods, the compromised hippies, the lotus-eating Brit-poppers and today’s ironic ravers; punk seems meaningful. And now’s it’s pickled, crystallised; relegated to history.

The exhibition at least reminded me that I could never be part of a movement or fashion trend: I’d never have the conviction to enter into it fully, in case it was the wrong bandwagon and I ended up looking stupid.

It’s a familiar spectre: however much I like punk from a distance, the chances are that, had I been alive then, I’d have been into disco music, like all the other dicks.

My porcelain doppelganger

It may have been sensible to open this section with a general description of San Francisco: first impressions; the look and feel of this fresh landscape. But when have I ever played by the rules? Well… usually.

Nevertheless, I think vignettes are the way to go. (You may also have to disregard the blog’s original “people” “watching” brief: Place Observation or Thing Doing just doesn’t have the same ring to it.)

So, where better to throw ourselves in than with the baseball: beloved of Americans; to the rest of the world, as puzzling as a dog in a top hat.

A statue of Willie Mays

AT&T Park at Willie Mays Plaza is the impressive home of the San Francisco Giants (if they’re giants they must be the best.)

That night they were squaring up against the Arizona Diamondbacks. (Not, as we initially thought, the Phoenix Drawbacks; sadly.)

Our experience began at the Box Office with a friendly, welcoming Californian. With an undisturbed breeze blowing past his window, there was a hint of the forgotten soldier about him.

I wondered if his cheery demeanour was just the happiness of company; that is, until we met friendly, welcoming Californians every single day for the rest of the holiday.

He advised us on the best seats to take; then gave a quick outline of the stadium; then suggested the quickest way to get downtown; then used the bones of Willie Mays in a marionette show about the history of baseball.

There was a note of caution in his description of the previous game’s free-scoring, high octane action: a polite way of saying: “we get one exciting game a year and you just missed it, mother-suckahs.”

He also warned us that the event wouldn’t be as rowdy as the soccer games we’re used to. His knowledge of European football came mainly from a daughter in Holland. Daniel, a fellow traveller, bristled: he once witheringly punctured the myth of supreme Dutch support: “they just sit there in orange.”

So, having promised we wouldn’t kick anyone’s head in, punch anyone’s lights out or remove our cocks and shake them all about; we took the tickets and headed into town, to return for a 7pm start.

7pm

That was quick.

Mounting the epic stadium steps, full of romance, I let the landscape stretch out before me; and it was… erm… full of fast food stands, merchandise stalls and computer games booths. The crowd generated a wall of sound… somewhere, I think: it might have been playing through the stereo.

It was a bit like someone jumping in front of you and shouting: “Fun!!!!!” You know, proper screaming it; so that little blood droplets spray out from their gaping mouth: “Fun!!!!!”

(When Garry Cook’s had his way, all football stadiums will look like this.)

We found our seats. Or, more accurately, our bench. But frankly, for $10, I was expecting to be sat on a splintered, three-legged stool, or a giant mushroom or something.

The view was impressive too: it didn’t feel removed from the action, and I could see everything. Plus the furthest fielders were just about in slating distance.

One fan unleashed a stream of invective: I couldn’t hear a word of it, sadly, but it went on for ages: he’d decided to bypass the predictable, “You suck!” preferring to put forward a carefully constructed argument identifying exactly how and why the guy sucked.

If anything we had the best atmosphere. A younger man sitting near the front frequently turned around to orchestrate the singing / chanting: “Let’s-go-Gi-ants!” I’m reliably informed that this, and its counterpart “(Insert team name) sucks!” are pretty much the only chants in American sport.

So that’s: “Let’s go” + x = Positive; y + “sucks” = Negative.

Then again, x + y is always lesser than or equal to: “USA! USA! USA!”

Home of the San Francisco Giants

We did get a shock after an hour or so, when the police arrived and approached the chanter. This seemed: I’d like to see how they’d deal with a fat, tattooed football bastard, beer and pies stretching out his replica top.

Actually, they’d probably just shoot him; which doesn’t sound so bad after all.

Enough about the crowd, I hear you crying: what about the game? Firstly, calm down: you’ll give yourself piles. As for the game: it was great, of course!

Most good sports are pretty easy to get into, at a superficial level. Then there’s a big leap to the next level; a comfortable grasp of tactics and jargon (“bottom of the fifth”; “pinch-hitting”; “super-spin-dizzy” – someone might have been winding me up with the last one.) But that’s doesn’t take away the thrill.

It was fascinating seeing a game that’s configured completely differently to what I’m used to. It’s so fundamental as to affect the stadium design: three big stands (or one curved one) surrounding the inner end of the diamond; and almost an open space opposite.

The format dictates the way you experience the game. With nine innings you’re less preoccupied with seeing every single second. And the lack of an interval means there’s no build up of pressure; no focal point: not even the final innings, if the game is clearly (if not mathematically) beyond one side.

This may sound like a passive experience; it can be, if you want it to be, and many people were there as a social gathering with friends. Otherwise, it means the high drama and spectacle appear unannounced, perhaps even in retrospect. Seems fitting for chilled-out San Francisco, anyway.

Baseball also differs from other sports in terms of the… how can I put this delicately? The levels of athleticism required to participate. Now how can I put it crudely: look at the fat bastards wobble around the field!

You can imagine an interviewer trying to prompt some testament to physical perfection: “Do you have a special diet? Do you put in extra hours at the gym; go running for hours each day?”

“No – I can just hit a ball really far.” For a triumph of the everyman, look no further.

In other news: I’ve taken up baseball.

The game ended 4-1 to the Giants. As we filed out, a cameraman hovered, filming extreme close-ups of the passing fans.

It suddenly occurred to me how televisual the whole thing is: most of the batters had unique theme tunes to introduce them; the big video screen meant that gaps in play were still advert breaks; you can leave your seat at any time for a wee or a snack.

"Ooooooh!"

Most onscreen sport is a poor or, more charitably, a perfunctory representation of the live experience. This was like a real life version of the TV version of real life baseball.

Maybe diehard fans and students feel this loop distances them from the game. For me, it helped to make sense of the gimmicks and accoutrements; the extravagant grandstanding; and only reaffirmed the sense of Fun!!!

Man of the, erm, Game: Juan Uribe

For no other reason than, for the first half of the match we thought he was being booed. Then we realised people were shouting:

“Ooooh!”

The start of a call-and-response chant, followed by:

“Ree-bay!”

All together now:

“Ooooooooooooooooooooooooh!!!”

-

Photographed by aenimation

… ovviamente flickr ritocca i colori come vuole lui, ma amen.

questa è carina solo qua -> big!

– License

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I’d like to apologise for the delay.  We’ve experienced a few technical difficulties, but we’re about ready to get this journey started.”

Pilots are among the finest specimens our society has to offer: accomplished, professional and unfailingly polite.  Yet if they utter the slightest bit of bad news… “I’m gonna march into the cockpit any second, and punch that kinky hat right off his head.”

Most people assume the horror of flying long distances is being stuck in the air for hours on end with nothing to do.  These days that’s not true: with an entertainment system full of surprisingly good films (and The Proposal) and music (if you like Supertramp and Tears for Fears… I’ll take that as a yes); plus whatever books, magazines, iPods and sketchpads you’ve brought; not to mention more food than you would normally eat in seven hours.

This was supposed to look more like Indiana Jones...

If anything, I do more on flights than normally.  That’s the reason they’re so exhausting – every time I want a rest, somebody thrusts a Game Boy into my hand or a warm ham roll in my mouth.

(I could also have made a cheeky reference above to the “mile high club”, but I can’t imagine anything less erotic, comfortable and, frankly, hygienic than shagging in an airplane loo.

A quick nosh, on the other hand…)

The first leg of our journey to San Francisco ended in Philadelphia, home of Will Smith, cream cheese and AIDS.  Unfortunately, the technical delay was significant: it seemed unlikely we’d make our connection.

Our cause wasn’t helped by a supremely fastidious immigration officer.  He looked a bit like the main villain from the Star Trek film (also, you guessed it, on the entertainment system.)

He scrutinised my passport as if he’d never seen one before.  “So this thing lets you leave the country…?”  I could almost see the talking horses and floating islands in a thought bubble over his head.

Finally, he waved me through; shouting: “Don’t travel too far or you’ll fall off the edge of the world!” as I raced to the next bit of red tape: security checks.

Joining that massive queue was probably the moment we lost hope of making the second flight.  But, unlike any side chasing the Premier League title apart from Man United, we didn’t give up while it was still mathematically possible.

Having seen an older couple shepherded past the main line, we asked the security guard for similar treatment… which we received…

By bribing him.

Don’t think badly of us.  We weren’t sure of the situation until it was too late to back out; and things are different with adrenaline flowing.  I’m certainly not proud of it (though I’m grinning as I write this, so I’m not contrite either.)

Lovely place, probably

The amazing thing was how normal it seemed.  It happened out in the open, in full view of everyone.  What must the guy’s colleagues think?!  Do they just laugh and shake their heads: “Oh, Bribey Joe’s up to his old tricks again.”

Then his boss marches in – and cracks up too.  “What am I going to do with you, Joe?”

Despite our illicit advantage, we still fell short of making our connection.  Luckily, there was room on the next flight to San Francisco – via Las Vegas.

Transatlantic flights are the big money-maker; cross-country, despite being about the same distance, is the poor, spotty, fat-arsed relation.

To make matters worse, I was sweating from the airport sprint: squeezed between two strangers, fearful of giving it the full Pepé Le Pew, I sat with my arms clamped to my side.

Eventually, with little by the way of entertainment (come back Sandra Bullock and Ryan Reynolds – I love your metronomically plotted comedy-romance stylings really!) I resorted to the old fashioned practice of having a conversation.

Joe, in the seat next to me, is a postal worker from Vermont; travelling to Las Vegas to meet his wife, whose trade union holds their annual conference there (take that, Bob Crow!)  We shared a love of New York (his home town); second-biggest sports teams in cities; and, best of all, writing.

I won’t discuss Joe’s ideas here, partly for confidentiality, but also because I’m still not 100% sure who Babe Ruth is (he smoked a lot of cigarettes, or something?)  They sounded fascinating though and I’ll be keeping an eye open for his name in the future.

Oh, and he likes How I Met Your Mother, a sure sign of good taste.

So, the journey wasn’t all bad.  As we approached Vegas, the glittering city appearing from the desert is a visual treat.

Of course it counts!

We stepped off the plane to stretch our legs.  A guy in his early twenties caught my eye as I passed, drawling: “You guys were in the chatty section.”  It was such an American thing to say, I was overjoyed; missing the subtext: “You’ve just ruined four hours of my life, you big-mouthed bastard.”

Soon enough we were back in place for our third take-off that day.  (I’m still claiming Las Vegas as a “visit” though, under the rule of half-an-hour-is-long-enough-to-say-you’ve-been-somewhere, or-however-long-it-was-we-were-actually-there-for.)

It’s fair to say I just couldn’t be arsed with another flight.  But it was mercifully short, with a lot more space on the place.  And, expecting to be tired, I felt instead a kind of utter relaxation: like my mind had left my body was floating hundreds of miles in the sky.

It was dark outside.  The Shock of the Lightening was in my headphones.  The ground looked like fairy lights or a circuit board, channelling electricity.  It was kind of magical.

By Sergio Quintana

The tag line for the “California Dreaming” dance competition offers a brighter variation on the 60’s Mamas And The Papas ballad: “All the leaves are brown and the skies are Gay.”

The ballroom dance-off gives amateurs and professionals the opportunity to show their skills… but in a same sex setting.

“It’s something that’s barely breaking the surface, I just feel it’s really important that everyone has a chance to dance with a partner they like,” event judge Chris Beroiz said.

Beroiz is also a choreographer for ABC Television.  He says he’s served as dance judge at several same-sex ballroom competitions across California.

“California Dreaming” is one of three major same-sex ballroom face offs in the state.

Event co-producer Jeff Chandler says the Bay Area is often the anchor of the ballroom universe on the West Coast.

“Prior to this… this competion has happened twice before, and it’s been in the East Bay in Oakland,” Chandler said, “and we really wanted to bring it into the city, and this is the first year we’ve done that.”

More than 150 competitors, some from other states, converged on the Landmark Hotel Whitcomb.   The day’s events include dozens of dance competions in several different ballroom styles.

“Everything from Waltz, Foxtrot, Tango, Quickstep, Samba, Cha Cha, Rumba,” Chandler said, “everything they do on ‘Dancing with the Stars’, we’ll do here.”

Among the competitors is amateur dancer Le Truong.  He’s been dancing for five years, and for this competition he’s paired with professional dancer Heintje Soriano who has been dancing for more than fifteen.

Truong and Soriano have spent most of their dance careers paired with women.

“Same sex competions, I’ve done only one other one,” Truong said as he prepared for his heats.

The two have only been working with each other for a month.  Soriano says he’s spent much of his career teaching female competitors.

But he says same sex ballroom is actually more difficult than opposite sex competitions.

“In same sex competition it’s different because you basically switch leads and follows,” Soriano said, “so you have to find a partner who knows everything and knows what they’re doing.”

Chandler said these competitions offer dancers and audience members a chance to be who they really are, and get recognized for skills they may have taught others, but never got to celebrate in other settings.

“The same sex thing, I mean it’s so stark in Ballroom Dancing, you know the Fred and Ginger type ideal, ” Chandler said, “and to see two men do a beautiful Waltz, or two women do a romantic Rumba, it really strikes home for a lot of people.”

I want to tell you about the launch of the world’s first twitter art auction coming up soon. 140 Hours of Fame:  http://www.140hours.com/ The master mind of this event is Gary Brant and he has included my piece “California Dreaming” in the auction. Check it out by clicking on the photography section.

I am jazzed because I received several of my photos today from the imaging company I’ve contracted to print my work. Outstanding. It is so good to see my work in a large format…. makes me all the more dedicated to my California series.

Len

Piece in the 140 Hours of Fame auction

Tanya Roberts

 

Tanya Roberts (born Victoria Leigh Blum; October 15, 1955) is an American actress best known for her roles in Charlie’s Angels, The Beastmaster, A View to a Kill, Sheena and That ’70s Show. Roberts was regarded as one of Hollywood’s most popular sex symbols during the early 1980s.

Roberts began as a model in television advertisements for Ultra Brite, Clairol and Cool Ray sunglasses. She played serious roles in the Off Broadway productions Picnic and Antigone. In between TV ads and theater gigs, she supported herself as an Arthur Murray dance instructor. Her film debut was the 1975 thriller Forced Entry. This was followed in 1976 by the comedy The Yum-Yum Girls.

In 1977, as her husband was securing his own screenwriting career, the couple moved to Hollywood. The following year, Roberts participated in the drama Fingers. A role in the 1979 cult-movie Tourist Trap followed. Also in 1979, she appeared in the films Racket and California Dreaming.

Roberts also featured in several television pilots that were never picked up: Pleasure Cove, the 1978 comedy Zuma Beach and Waikiki (1980).

In 1980, Roberts was chosen among 2,000 candidates to replace Shelley Hack in the television series Charlie’s Angels for what would be the last season of the series. In the show, Roberts interpreted her character Julie Rogers as a streetwise fighter who used her fists more than her gun. She was featured on the cover of People magazine (February 9, 1981) and offered more ambitious projects.

In 1982, she played Kiri in The Beastmaster. She appeared in a nude pictorial in Playboy to help promote the movie, appearing on that issue’s cover (October 1982).

In 1983, Roberts filmed the little-known adventure Paladini-storia d’armi e d’amori (“Paladins—the story of love and arms”), based on the medieval novel Orlando Furioso, in Italy.

She played the role of Velda, a buxom secretary to private detective Mike Hammer in the television movie Murder Me, Murder You, the first of two pilots that spawned the syndicated television series Mickey Spillane’s Mike Hammer. Roberts declined to continue the role in the Mike Hammer series so she could film her next project, Sheena: Queen of the Jungle. The 1984 film was based on a character adapted from a Will Eisner’s comic book. Dressed in scantily clad costumes, Sheena also introduced a new blonde hairstyle that Roberts would keep for the rest of her career. The movie became a box office disaster and was mauled by critics. Her subsequent appearance as Bond girl Stacey Sutton in A View to a Kill (1985) provided many scenes with Roger Moore as an articulate and educated geologist.

After a brief break, Roberts career took a downturn. Her films included Body Slam (1987), an action movie set in the professional wrestling world. Roberts closed out the decade with Purgatory, a movie about the life of imprisoned women.

Her 1991 film Inner Sanctum became one of the biggest hits of the genre and was successful on video rental shelves. In 1992, she played Kay Egan in Sins of Desire.

Roberts also appeared on the Hot Line (TV series) (1994) and the video game The Pandora Directive (1996).

In 1998, she became familiar to younger audiences when she took on the role of Midge Pinciotti on the television sitcom That ’70s Show. In an interview on E! True Hollywood Story discussing That ’70s Show, Roberts said she left the series in 2001 because her husband had become ill, but gave no details of his condition.

In 2008, Roberts wrote the foreword to the book, The Q Guide to Charlie’s Angels by Mike Pingel.

Amazon Specials!

Can you tell the difference? The Candyman can’t! By the way, I love candy!

The results are in, and over 80 of you voted! (That’s more votes than I got in high school when I ran for student body parliamentarian!) Anyway, 38% of my faithful readers believe that I deserve to be the next congressman from AZ-5 because I just moved here!!! Apparently, my fresh perspective and absolute ignorance on all things CD-5 makes me the frontrunner in this campaign. Furthermore, my enormous experience in following someone else’s lead and spending other people’s money puts me head and neck-rolls above my competitors… I mean, think about it. I won’t have to learn a whole lot when I get to the halls of the Peoples’ House. Spending taxpayer dollars will be second nature to me and I will just do whatever my leadership tells me to do.

So for all you naysayers out there, just take another look at my poll. I’m obviously better than you. I’m Jim Ward! Hooray!

My favorite song by this group. I came from California and you never stop dreaming about it.

I am officially better than myself! I knew it would happen someday, but who knew it would happen so soon?!? Big thanks to my 164+ followers on Twitter. This is just the first step in my eventual total-galaxy domination. At least I won’t be called a carpetbagger since I’ve spent more than 27 days  in this galaxy.

Anyway, please continue to vote in the poll below. I need to work on my message a little bit… It’s ALMOST awesome.

CL’s arriving tonight.  She’s never been to LA.

To say I’ve planned a bevy of activities would be an understatement.

We should see Hollywood, The Hollywood Hills, Santa Monica, Manhattan Beach, Venice, East LA, Beverly Hills, Melrose, The Sunset Strip, Sherman Oaks, The Grove and at least two spectacular sunsets / sunrises.

Here’s the plan (just between you and me): I’m trying to make her fall in love with California.

It’s going to be more than a little awesome.

Mackenzie Phillips says she had sex with her dad

The Mamas and the Papas, from left to right: Michelle Phillips, John Phillips (in tube), Denny Doherty, and Mama Cass Elliot. The sixties pop rock band is remembered for its sweet harmony and enchanting melodies.

Father and Daughter, John and MacKenzie Phillips, in 1998.

Associated Press

Wed Sep 23, 12:37 pm ET

CHICAGO – Former child star Mackenzie Phillips said Wednesday her father, John Phillips, who was a leader of the 1960s pop group the Mamas and the Papas, raped her when she was a teenager and that her sexual relationship with him later became what she termed “consensual.”

Mackenzie Phillips writes in her new book, High on Arrival, that she had sex with her father on the night before she was to get married in 1979 at age 19, according to People magazine.

“On the eve of my wedding, my father showed up, determined to stop it,” writes Phillips, who was 19 and a heavy drug user at the time. “I had tons of pills, and Dad had tons of everything too. Eventually I passed out on Dad’s bed.”

“My father was not a man with boundaries. He was full of love, and he was sick with drugs. I woke up that night from a blackout to find myself having sex with my own father.”

On tour: Mackenzie (left) on stage with father John (centre) in 1982 with the New Mamas And Papas after their sexual relationship had become consensual

She told “The Oprah Winfrey Show” in an interview that aired Wednesday that her siblings “definitely have a problem with this.” Winfrey also read a statement from Genevieve Waite, John Phillips’ wife at the time of the alleged abuse and Mackenzie’s stepmother that said he was “incapable, no matter how drunk or drugged he was, of having such a relationship with his own child.”

At far right, MacKenzie Phillips from a publicity photo for the 80s TV sitcom, "One Day at a Time." MacKenzie Phillips is best known for her roles as an emotionally troubled and rebellious teenager.

Phillips, who starred on TV’s “One Day at a Time,” said the sexual relationship with her father lasted a decade and ended when she became pregnant and didn’t know who had fathered the child. She had an abortion, which her father paid for, and “and I never let him touch me again.”

Phillips told Winfrey that she first tried cocaine when she was 11 years old. Her father did drugs with her, taught her to roll joints and injected her with cocaine. Phillips said she’s been clean for a year after pleading guilty to possessing cocaine and entering a drug treatment program.

Phillips said the sexual relationship, although she believes it became consensual, was “an abuse of power” and “a betrayal” on her father’s part. She said she forgave John Phillips on his deathbed.

“I can’t be the only one this has happened to,” Phillips said. “Someone needs to put a face on consensual incest.”

Here is a video of the Mamas and the Papas singing “California Dreaming.” MacKenzie Phillips’ father, John Phillips – “Papa John” -  plays guitar, wearing a fur hat. The other band members are Michelle Phillips (at the time, John Phillips’ wife and MacKenzie’s stepmother), Mama Cass Elliot, and Denny Doherty.

 Click here for more on the wild and reckless lives of John and Michelle Phillips.

Planning your vacation for September? If you planned late in the summer to try and beat the heat, think again—for most of the U.S. the heat doesn’t break until well into September, if not later in October or even November. If you plan on taking your vacation to someplace that’s still hot, you’ll want to make sure that you have activities planned that will keep you cool—waterparks, indoor museums, casinos, and other places loaded with cool water or cool a/c. Here are some examples:

Fun Things to do in DC—Washington, D.C. can stay hot and humid through September, but luckily, you’ll find no end to the number of museums in the area. You’re also not too far from Maryland and there are a ton of places to visit in Baltimore and surrounding areas, like the Allentown Fitness & Splash Park in Fort Washington or Gaithersburg’s Water Park at Bohrer Park. You should have no problem having fun in the sun if you choose, or seeking shade indoors, if you’re end-of-summer vacation is planned for our nation’s capital.

1. Fun Things to do in San Francisco—Nights will be cooler these days in the Bay Area, but the days can still be hot. Bay Area entertainment flourishes at the end of the summer and Bay Area tourist spots stay heavily populated…pretty much all year round. Museums will provide solace from the sun, as well as fantastic San Francisco restaurants. Raging Waters Water Park is the biggest waterpark in the area if you decide that being in the sun is where you want to be.
2. Fun Things to do in Manhattan—Humidity plagues Manhattan through the bulk of September. Need indoor ideas? The Museum of Natual History and the Metropolitan Museum of Art are enough to keep you busy for a few days, as well as indoor rock climbing in NYC, New York City entertainment (Broadway shows, talk show screenings, concerts, etc.), and tons of air conditioned places to paint your own pottery. Eager to brave the heat? Have a picnic in Central Park or head to New Jersey’s Runaway Rapids Water Park for some last-minute summer splashes.
3. Fun Things to do in Southern California—It’s always summer in sunny Southern California, but it’s not nearly as humid as it is back east. With Disneyland not to far away and a ton of water parks, you should have no time planning a late summer vacation and finding places to visit in Los Angeles, San Diego, Long Beach, and Santa Monica.
4. Fun Things to do in Florida—Unless you spend your time in the water at the beach or at a waterpark, you’ll want to be indoors during your Florida vacation—that is, if you plan on heading down to South Florida. The northern parts of Florida can be quite nice in September. To stay cool, visit museums, casinos (there are great casinos in Daytona, Florida and Orlando casino cruises), and indoor waterparks.

If you are reading this too late, check out this fall foliage post or this fall foliage blog or just go to a shopping mall, like Battlefield Mall Springfield or Smith Haven Mall

• Hudson Valley spas
• Coastal Massachusetts
• places to visit in colorado
• Long Island Getaways
• Map of Southern California coast
• Sightseeing Blog

I’d like to take a minute of your time to fascinate you with my tale of karaoke, country music, and bikers.  It all happened one fateful Wednesday night, when I and several of my co-workers met up at a very interesting country restaurant at the heart of the Northland.  It was a typical grill and bar, much like 54th Street Bar and Grill, only instead of pictures of 50’s celebrities adorning the walls, it was mostly an unholy shrine to Dale, Jr.  We entered with the intention of performing mediocre karaoke.

Before I continue with the story, let me give you a little history of karaoke.  Webster’s dictionary defines karaoke as, “singing to music, from the Japanese word for ‘publicly humiliating one’s self’”.  I am personally a karaoke enthusiast, but it’s hard to find a place that does karaoke without it being in some seedy bar hopping with lowlifes and malcontents.  This was not such a place, and I was happy to have found it through a friend’s recommendation. The Japanese have a long, proud history of overworked businessmen singing Michael Jackson songs well out of key while consuming liver-damaging amount of alcoholic beverages.

Well, we did neither.  I had practiced literally all day to sing my ballad, Elton John’s “Rocket Man”.  I had all the timing down pat, and was ready to impress whatever crowd may be inside.  That is, until I walked in to see a table of patrons who just happened to be enormous biker-types.  Nothing makes you re-think singing Elton John like 300-pound bikers staring you down from across the room.  Everything inside me said “run away”, but four co-workers restraining me from bolting out of the building said “stay here”.  I killed about 30 minutes making careful song choices, hoping the bikers would simply go away.

Finally, they did, and I could breathe deeply again (because no one was holding me down any more) without the threat of being beaten to death with a tire iron by bikers.  The remaining crowd was people who were just plain “country”.  Some were classy, like Tiny (which is a misnomer, because he was 6′4″ and 300 pounds), who had a voice like an angel, if Tim McGraw were an angel.  There were also those who you could tell had spent many years in seedy bars, but did not have the strength any more to exist in such an establishment.  They had given up on trying to impress equally “country” suitors, and have settled into a quiet routine of entertaining themselves at karaoke night in a country-style grill.  These are what most theologians and historians call “regulars”.  We’ll see some of these folks in the video you’ll be watching momentarily.  Oh, the stories I could tell you about a woman named Sue, who must be around 60 years old, still wears belly shirts, and has a navel ring.  Sadly, you will not see her in the video, because the very sight of her would cause your medulla oblongata to melt, slide down your spine, and form a gelatinous pool in the soles of your feet.

I apologize in advance for the poor quality of singing, and the low light environment of the karaoke area.  Most of all, I apologize for the clip in which country music is sang.  I am not responsible for the absence of meaningful lyrics found routinely in country music.  Try to keep small children, those with pacemakers, and any family pets away from the screen while watching this.

Many thanks to my co-workers who helped me face my fears (bikers).