We skipped our usual burger and wine before going to the Pantages last night. Tired of spending $70 to split a marginal burger and fries and drinking inexpensive wine. Hollywood Blvd. really needs to get more restaurants around the Pantages. I know the pandemic closed a lot of them but it’s time to move back in. The city even cleaned up the worst of the homeless encampments so it’s not as scary as it used to be. Anyway, we went to the Pantages to see Beetlejuice. It’s not great theater, you won’t come out humming the tunes, but it’s lots of fun. What a remarkable change! Entertainment! The sets were original, the actors are all good, and the book worked to support the story. For a good time, call Beetlejuice–three times. Or at least buy a ticket.
One thing I forgot to add: it was opening night last night so the people watching was wonderful. All the pretty models and actresses came dressed to the nines (whatever that means). Gordon almost lost his eyes when a lovely young woman sashayed by in a super short skirt. Well, she had the legs to pull it off. But, boy, did I feel old. That’s life, ain’t it. It was also a big cosplay night. Lots of black & white striped dresses and shirts. I didn’t have any gorgeous guys to ogle. Damn. And I got stuck behind two Shreks so I had to bob and weave to see the show. I should carry a phone book when I go to the theater. I need something to sit on. Of course, nobody has phone books anymore. See above comment about getting old. I’ve got an idea! Why don’t producers book movie theaters? Stadium seating would really help me out.
We’ve been royally entertained lately. Last week we went to Into the Woods at the Ahmanson. Wonderful production. It was a touring company, so the sets were fragmented but that worked better than productions I’ve seen with huge sets. When you’re dealing with storybook characters, why not let the imagination run wild? No point in dragging everybody down to earth–unless you’re a giant, then it’s a plot point. Four of the cast members were from the original Broadway cast that won Best Revival (I think). The baker and his wife were a real-life married couple, and they worked wonderfully together. The young man who played the Wolf and Prince Charming was delightful. The Sondheim score is demanding but the cast had no problem with it–and they were all superb comic actors. It’s the best production of Into the Woods I’ve seen (haven’t seen that many but still…). It might be enough to save the Music Center. The Taper is being closed for the near future due to lack of money. The last program director spent all the money on political shows. We finally cancelled our subscription to the Taper because we couldn’t stand the hatred and politicization anymore. I remember a play, starring Mary Louise Parker, that was written by an Englishman. Midpoint in the play, apropos to nothing, Parker screams out, “I hate Republicans!” Don’t think it was in the script, she just adlibbed but that sort of thing became common. In What the Constitution Means to Me, the actor/writer declaims that the electoral college should be abolished because it interferes with Democracy. I guess she never read US history. The rural states would never have ratified the Constitution without the electoral college. They wanted to be protected from the populated states. If the Left is allowed to destroy the electoral college the Red states will have no choice but to seceded for their own protection. But if you believe that you’re bigot or a racist…some sort of ‘ot’ or ‘ist’. When we went for a glass of wine at the Plaza before the show last Wednesday, the signs were blaring that the last four performances of Transparency the Musical had tickets available. I didn’t see a soul around the theater. It looked dead. I guess they couldn’t give tickets away. And when you can’t paper a theater, you have a real problem. Anyway, the new director is searching for money…and plays people want to see, presumably. They’ll have a hard time getting me back. Once bitten, twice shy. I’m tired of paying to be called names and patronized. I’d rather watch I Love Lucy reruns. They’re more entertaining and a lot cheaper.
Last night we saw Tina at the Pantages. It’s a juke box musical about Tina Turner so they used her famous songs. The book was okay, but I liked the movie better. All the singers were great. Either Naomi Rogers or Zurin Villanueva, not sure which, did a nice turn as Tina (turn, get it?). The program lists two women in the part. Maybe they take turns just to save their voices. That would make sense. But whichever woman I saw had a great voice. She belted for two hours. I liked what she did, but I saw Tina perform live. And there’s only one Tina. I imagine the actress will develop her own style–if she hasn’t already. Anyway, it was a pleasant way to spend an evening. I think the show is moving on in a week because we have Beetlejuice tickets next week. So much fun….
We had breakfast then loaded the Bus and climbed aboard. I found the best way to do it was to put my right foot on the step, grab the frame handle provided with my right hand, and swing myself up. It was like mounting a horse backwards and upside down. But it worked for me. We left Moab’s Hampton Inn for another national park. Canyonlands is spectacular. All the vistas are grand and VAST, but you can’t really take it in with a phone pic. We stopped at lots of viewing areas and wandered a little. The country is amazing; I recommend visiting, especially if you’re into hiking. We’re a little old for it–or maybe we’re just not that into hiking–so we enjoyed the stops and drove on to Capital Reef National Park. We were puzzled by all the fruit trees, so we stopped at the ranger station to learn about the area. Apparently, Mormons had tried to settle the area. They planted all the trees, built a school, and did their best to make a home. It was just too far from any other settlements, so the area was abandoned. The fruit trees continue to thrive. They were in bloom when we were there, so it was lovely. We stopped to view the petroglyphs left by a native colony that disappeared before the Mormons came. The story is they went to the stars. Maybe they were abducted by aliens, who knows. But nobody could make a go of the place. So now it’s a national park. I’m glad the area is being saved.
We’d had enough parks by that time, so we drove another 3 hours to our next stop. We stayed at a Motel 8. It was the best of the available hotels at Aurora (I think that was the name of the town) but it stood in stark contrast to the Boulderado and the Hampton Inn. It was clean (I think) but the chemical smell was overpowering and unpleasant. I wonder what germs they were trying to kill. It was Sunday night so no restaurants in town were open. Those Mormons take that Day of Rest advisory to heart. One other thing that was different about Utah was the fact that you can have a beer or a glass of wine with dinner, but you can’t see it being poured. They call it the Zion Curtain. Hey, their place, their rules. Anyway, the only place to eat was an Arby’s at the truck stop so we ate with the long-haul truckers. It reminded me of my youth when a truck-stop Arby’s was fine dining for me. Not only were the dinner order numbers being called, shower numbers were yelled out. That was new for me. Truckers take a number for their turn at a shower. After smelling the Motel 8 room I understood why truckers prefer to sleep in their cabs. But it was just for one night. We had coffee and fruit the next morning and set off in The Bus for Salt Lake City.
We had reservations at the Peery Hotel, an historic downtown Salt Lake City hotel, but we couldn’t check in until 3. So, we wandered. We tried to get into the train depot, but it was closed for renovations. We finally found a visitor’s center and the lady there told us if we hurried, we could make the noon organ concert at the Mormon Tabernacle. We ran over and were in time to slide in the back. The organ is HUGE. And the organist was gifted. It was a lovely concert. We walked over to a small auditorium for a short service afterward and listened to a pianist play Clair de Lune. Music is a huge part of the Mormon service. A trainee gave a short sermon which relied solely on the bible–not a peep from the Book of Mormon. Then there was more music. It was a pleasant way to spend an hour. Afterwards, we drove to the capitol building but didn’t go on a tour. We’ve both been there before. We had Thai food down by the old trolley center then decided we needed a nap. We gambled that we could check into the Peery early and won. They checked us in at 2:30. We took a nap then investigated the hotel before looking for someplace for dinner. I love these historic old places with their fine wooden staircases and lovely ceilings. I’m glad Hilton took it over. We went across the street to have a beer. I was suffering from “It’s almost time to go home and I’m sick to my stomach”. I had a locally brewed beer and Gordon had chili as we watched the Lakers get swept by the Nuggets. We had an early night.
The next morning, we had the “free” breakfast provided by the hotel. It was great–much better than the Hampton Inn buffet. We had some time, so we went out to the Great Salt Lake. We were told that it’s down by almost a third. The water that used to end up in the lake is now being diverted for agriculture. There seemed to be some sentiment to change that, but the West has been in a drought for years. Think we all need a wet cycle.
We caught our plane and flew home. Maggie was happy to see us. She survived all by herself. Our neighbor came over and spent time with her, so she didn’t get too lonesome. Thank God for good neighbors. But it was good to be home. I was glad we saw some amazing parks and Gordon got his ‘road-trip’ jones off. Maybe next time we won’t have to horse a bus around.
Canyonlands. Vast. I wanted to include a picture of the petroglyphs, but it didn’t come out.
Gordon and I felt the need to get out of town, so we decided to tour some national parks. We’d been to Zion and Bryce, so Arches National Park in Utah was next on our list. Unfortunately, it’s hours away from any major airport. We flew into Denver because we wanted to see an old band and high school buddy of Gordon’s, Bill, and his wife, Dawn. We’d taken a Baltic cruise with them and wanted to talk about an upcoming Viking Christmas cruise. Dawn invited us to a six o’clock dinner and we planned to drive to Boulder and check into our hotel before driving to their house. We were scheduled to land in Denver at 3:30 so we thought we had plenty of time. As usual, we planned and God laughed. The flight was half an hour late because we had fly around a thunderstorm. Ok, still so far so good. We managed to flag down an airport van and beat the crowd to the car rental building, 15 minutes away from the terminal. Then Gordon stood in line as I guarded our luggage. He stood in line for half an hour. We were lucky; other people who caught a later van were stuck in a snake dance that took an hour. When Gordon got his turn, he was told that, despite his reservation, all the sedans had already been rented. We could wait 3 hours for a sedan to be returned or we could take a Chevy Suburban. We opted for the Suburban even though it was HUGE. We could have invaded a small country in that thing, but it had lots of room for luggage. And we were tired of waiting. The size of the Surburban didn’t bother Gordon. He spent his formative years driving school buses so the Suburban didn’t scare him, thank God, but it only got 20 miles per gallon. I was not happy, but we were running so late I didn’t bitch–much. We got caught in Denver’s rush hour, of course, so I finally just relaxed and endured. We were going to be late whatever we did. Thank God for cell phones; we kept Dawn apprised of our whereabouts. We checked into the Bolderado Hotel (I declined the bellman’s offer to take our luggage–too slow), got changed and took off for Billy and Dawn’s
I’d never been to their house before so I was curious. There were lovely trees outside but the backyard was spectacular. Dawn has filled her home with lots of collectibles. It’s charming and fanciful. And dinner was delicious. The only disappointment was that they had to cancel the upcoming Viking cruise. Billy has some medical issues that make travel inconvenient right now. We hope those issues are resolved so they can take the Athens/Venice cruise coming up.
We took time to inspect the hotel when we got back. The Bolderado is historic and gorgeous. Our room was stuffed with antiques. We took a pre-breakfast walk around Boulder and enjoyed looking at the mansions and historic downtown. We took one last look at the hotel, had breakfast, then got in The Bus (my name for the Suburban) and took off for Moab.
We considered staying at Grand Junction for a night but I’m glad we decided to drive straight through to Moab. It was a six hour drive but I never got bored. We went from a mountain climate, to prairie, to desert. I particularly enjoyed Highway 128. It curled through an almost Martian landscape. It prepared me for Moab.
We checked into a Hampton Inn. Gordon’s points got us up-graded to a suite; that was nice. The next day we tried to book a river rafting trip, but they were sold out. We finally decided to take a 4×4 ATV tour. I’d taken an ATV tour in Alaska and enjoyed it. We’d gone up hill and down dale, bumped over some rocks, and saw snowshoe hares. It was pleasant. The Moab tour was nothing like that. The guide gave us our instructions (“Keep your hands and feet inside the cage, hang on, and trust the machine”) and we followed him to the hills. The engine labored so loudly I thought we were burning it up, but the guide said it always sounded like that. When we got to the starting point, he told us to put our ATV in low gear and leave it there. And we went up the rocks. The first 20 minutes were sheer terror for me. Gordon gunned the ATV up the rocks. When we got to the top we couldn’t see anything. We took it on faith that the guide was ahead of us and zoomed over. We almost rear-ended him. I kept saying, “Jesus”, over and over. I don’t know if it was an epithet or a prayer, probably a little of both. Gordon got good at staying an appropriate distance from the guide but we almost tipped over into a ravine twice. At least that’s my opinion. I could feel the ATV tipping and I stamped my feet and butt up and down and hung on for dear life. It must have worked because we stayed upright. After about an hour of this I put my trust in the machine (and Gordon) and started to enjoy the adventure. It was fun but it’s not for the faint of heart. At the end the guide asked me why I didn’t scream. I told him I didn’t want to distract Gordon. He was the only thing keeping me alive. The guide laughed but I was serious. We survived 2 1/2 hours of jolting over boulders then had a light lunch. My stomach was a bit touchy. We had a nap then took our drive through Arches (you need an appointment, LOTS of tourists). It has spectacular scenery. When we went to dinner that night, an Australian mother and son who sat next to us commented that they’d been to Maine, driven cross country, and were now in Moab. They were impressed by how diverse the United States is. They also asked for advice on tipping. I guess they don’t do that in Australia. From his tone I think the son wanted to emigrate. He loved the place. Well, I can’t blame him; so do I. We went back to the hotel early. We’re getting a little old for so much adventure. And we had more parks in investigate the next day.
The ceiling at the Boulderado Hotel
Gordon in downtown Boulder. Don’t know if the city is named after the rock.
This is us in our 4×4 helmets…and the rocks we surfed.
Gordon’s optical illusion. He wasn’t really falling.
Two weeks ago, Bucky beat us out the front door. We didn’t worry much. He’d beaten us before and always came home safely. At nine that night I was in the backyard, calling his name and shaking the treat cannister. He roared around but refused to come in. I had a headache, so I went to bed early. Gordon tried to get him in at eleven, but Bucky refused to come in. Even treats didn’t work. We gave up on him and went to bed. We didn’t seriously worry about him. He’d done this before. We left the cat door open so he could come in when he wanted. We even put some treats down but Maggie ate them. She was perfectly happy to stay inside with the old folks.
The next morning there was still no Bucky. We didn’t seriously start to worry. Maggie had disappeared and missed breakfast. I called in her micro-chip number and reported her missing. She came tearing into the house at about noon. We speculated that someone tried to catnap her (she’s a gorgeous calico) but she got away. I notice she stays mostly in the back yard now. I called in Bucky’s number and reported him missing hoping we’d have the same result. No such luck. Tuesday morning, I searched the neighborhood, looking for a body. I checked the backyards and easements of the two houses to the right of us and the three houses to the left. I figured if a coyote got him, I’d find something. But there was no body or any evidence that there’d been a fight or a killing. I wondered if Bucky had been catnapped. It’d happened before to a cat we had named Fosdick (he was fearless and friendly and loved people). Fosdick was gone a month and we’d given him up for dead when he came tearing across the street and into the house. And he never went near people again. I’m still hoping that Bucky is trapped somewhere. I was disturbed when I put up fliers with a picture of Bucky and our phone number and they were immediately taken down. Who would do that unless they didn’t want Bucky found? But I don’t know. ..
So, I checked the local shelter and made sure they had his microchip number listed as missing. I don’t know what else to do.
We miss him. Maggie has to play with us and we’re not much fun. Bucky spent more time with Gordon than he did with me. He helped Gordon work and go to the bathroom. Bucky was involved. He played tag with me. I called it “Bucky, Bucky” and chased him around the house.
Bucky was probably the smartest cat we’ve ever had. We were so pleased that we provided the food and medicine that made him healthy. I still remember the shelter people advising me not to take him. They didn’t think he’d survive. He grew up to be gorgeous and personable. We miss him.
We’ve talked about getting another companion for Maggie. I don’t like to leave her alone when we travel. Our neighbor spent time with her when we left for 6 days but we can’t ask him to do that. He has enough in his life to do.
We looked at the available cats when we looked for Bucky at the shelter. I thought a yearling male would probably be best for Maggie, but Gordon thought two kittens would be best. Gordon loves kittens. We’ll see. I’m going to wait until July before making a decision. I still hope Bucky will come home–if he’s alive. I know he was probably killed by coyotes but without a body…who knows. He could still be alive. I hope so. But I’m prepared for the worst.
Gordon and I went to the Pantages last night to see Six. We wanted to go to our favorite restaurant in the W Hotel, but it was being renovated. We were sent to the 12th floor–and it was great. Wonderful views. Enjoyed my glass of wine as we split a burger and fries (we never like to eat too much before a show; we tend to go to sleep). I didn’t know what to expect from Six. I knew it was about the six wives of Henry VIII. I wasn’t sure how they’d fit in the usual anti-American theme, but I was sure the creators would come up with something. That seems to be the thing in theater these days. Personally, I’m tired of it and I was ready to cancel our subscription. I’d rather watch I Love Lucy reruns than that crap. Boy, was I surprised when there wasn’t a hint of anti-American bile. Of course, it’d be hard to fit it in. Six is an all-woman show about a competition among the wives to see who suffered the worst when married to Henry. Each wife got to tell her side. And the actors were all great; all triple threats. Not a dud in the group. Kelsee Kimmel stood in for Khaila Wilcoxon, but I’d never heard of either of them, so I didn’t care. Kelsee was great as Katharine of Aragon. Storm Lever sang Anne Boleyn’s story (very sassy), Natalie Paris played Jane Seymore (the only wife who loved Henry, according to her), Olivia Donalson played Anne of Cleves (absolutely hysterical), Courtney Mack was a sexy Katherine Howard, and Gabriela Carrillo played Catherine Parr (great pop voice). Six is a pop/rock musical and the 4-woman band was terrific.
Not only was I not pissed off at the play, but this was the best night of theater I’ve spent in years. Great show. Go see it.
We went to 1776 at the Ahmanson last night. I was dreading it. After that awful version of Oklahoma I was sure this was going to be some anti-American butchering of what was once a wonderful musical (“It’s all white men! It’s evil! It must destroyed!”). I was at the point where I wanted to cancel our Ahmanson subscription. They can do any horrible thing they want to; I just won’t pay for it. Gordon talked me into giving them one more chance even though they’d move us back a row (I suspect because we gave them an honest opinion about Oklahoma; bad, bad, bad).
Well, the cast was all women but they didn’t trash the country. They didn’t change the dialogue or any of the music, they made the point that even though history just names the white men, all sorts of people were involved in our Revolution. The cast included a transexual, lots of black women, and a Native American woman (she had a great voice too). They added one line that I appreciated said by Abigail Adams, “Don’t forget the women, John.” And something to the effect that men would be tyrants if allowed. I thought they’d go nuts over the slavery issue which is a big part of the play but the woman who played Ben Franklin (black woman, by the way) pointed out that if the slavery clause wasn’t removed, the South would leave. And it was more important to start a new country even if the start wasn’t perfect. History proved that the slavery issue was finally resolved 90 years later–at tremendous cost to the country.
What I’ve always appreciated about this show is the pragmatism. We had to start somewhere and it proves the old saying, “The perfect is the enemy of the good.” This country has never been perfect. But the miracle of the United States is that we keep trying. Nothing is etched in stone. It took a while but the slaves were freed. 160 years later women were allowed to vote. We’ll probably never be perfect but we bumble along, doing our best. That’s why I get so disgusted with so much of the rhetoric these days. My God, in very few places in the world is change even possible. The USA is one of them and we lead the way in many issues. This version of 1776 respected that position. And I appreciate that.
The sets were fragmented, of course; you have to be nimble with a traveling show. The voices were incredible. Tiesha Thomas who played Abigail Adams, and Connor Lyon, who played Martha Jefferson, really stood out for me. But the showstopper was “Molasses to Rum” sung by Kassandra Haddock. It’s a compelling, terrible song which points out the sins on both sides. Haddock was compelling yet wonderful in her interpretation and she was backed by interesting choreography. Also liked Joanna Glushak who played Rutlidge. Oh, they were all wonderful. One problem I had was the lack of characterization. The movement was stylized so all the actors were constrained within those limits. The woman who played Ben Franklin broke loose every now and again but it’s hard not to play that part broadly. Took some of the fun out of the show.
This was an interesting take on a beloved musical. I noticed a lot of empty seats after intermission. Have no idea why. But I didn’t walk out. And considering how I felt going in, that says a lot. I read in the paper that a new director of the Music Center has been appointed. His says his main goal is to get butts in the seats (paraphrasing). The theaters are going broke. Even the LA Times commented on the figurative tumbleweeds blowing in the plaza. If they didn’t paper the theaters there’d be no audience at all. They might consider commissioning plays that people will actually pay to see. Quit proselytizing and try entertaining for a change.
Haven’t posted in a while so here’s chapter two of First Year. Hope you enjoy.
Chapter two
Saturday, I got dressed up in a casual gray jacket, black slacks and running shoes, and parked in the Music Center garage. I checked my make-up in the rearview mirror, smoothed my hair, admired the effect, and walked up to the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. Rob Anderson was standing on the steps outside the doors, scanning the crowd. I didn’t remember him being so tall. He looked big and a little forbidding compared to the people around him. I also didn’t remember him being that good-looking, I mused as I trudged up the steps. He was positively dapper in a suit and tie, and I was positively underdressed compared to him, I noted uncomfortably as I waved to get his attention. His eyes lit up and he ran down to meet me.
“Have you been waiting long?” I asked.
“No, I just got here myself.”
We stood, smiling and nodding at each other, a little stupidly. The difference in our heights was even more daunting when we were on the same level. Maybe it was because I was wearing flats, but I had to lean back to look up at him.
“Six foot three. Why?” he said when I asked.
“No reason,” I replied and mentally vowed to wear heels from now on—or start learning the lyrics to Follow the Yellow Brick Road. “Well, should we go in?”
“Oh! Sure.” He pulled two tickets from his jacket pocket. “I don’t know how good these seats are. I got them last Wednesday.”
The usher directed us to the fourth floor, second balcony. Our seats had absolutely no legroom. It was like flying coach—the only thing missing was peanuts. And we were so high up the pigeons were worried about us. We could see the orchestra, but it was basically a black blob in the distance. These were not great seats.
I tried to cross my legs but quit when I kicked the woman sitting in front of me. I finally splayed my feet out so I could keep my knees together without getting a cramp. Rob was even worse off because he was roughly twice my size. He hunched his big shoulders around his knees and smiled at me weakly.
“Do you come to the symphony often?” I asked. I wasn’t trying to be sarcastic; it just came out that way.
Rob smiled ruefully—he had a whole repertoire of smiles to take the place of words—and said, “Not on Saturday. Look, this is terrible. If you’d like to leave…”
“Oh no, we’re here now. I might as well see what it’s all about.”
The orchestra started out with a weird little ditty by somebody I’d never heard of. It was all clanks and tinkles; there was no recognizable melody, and you couldn’t dance to it. The audience was so full of coughers it sounded like a TB ward. I huddled in my seat wishing I’d never come.
Then they played Beethoven’s Emperor Concerto. It started off slow and soft and then turned into a party. No music I’d ever heard made me feel like that, almost exultant. At the end I had a silly grin plastered on my face. I turned to Rob who’d been watching my reaction. “How come I’ve never heard that before? It’s wonderful!” I exclaimed.
Rob said, “I’m glad you like it. I grew up with Beethoven. My mother played it every night before we went to sleep.”
We smiled at each other delightedly. Conversation be damned, contact had been made. We didn’t even fight over the armrest during the second half of the program. Rob gallantly volunteered to hold my hand—-if I had no objection, of course. I didn’t. My arm fit snugly inside his. He wasn’t huge anymore, just big enough to fit comfortably around me.
After the concert he offered to buy me a drink. “It’ll have to be downstairs,” he said apologetically. “I took the bus because it’s such an expensive hassle to park here.”
“I’ve got my car if you’d rather go somewhere else,” I offered.
“Tell you what,” he said, “how about if we go to my place and pick up my car. I can lose this tie and get into something more comfortable. Then I’ll take you to a piano bar in Old Pasadena. How’s that sound?”
I’d spend my formative years in the Valley, so Pasadena sounded like an adventure to me.
“But we take my car, okay?” I stipulated. I wasn’t about to get trapped with someone I didn’t know very well without wheels. The fact that he was big enough to knock me on the head and take the car and me didn’t filter through my little brain.
I followed his directions and in ten minutes we were at his Echo Park apartment. I’d never been in this neighborhood either. Funny how you can spend your whole life in a city and not know much about it.
I hesitated when he invited me in while he put on a sweater, but curiosity won out over caution. You can tell a lot about a person by how they live. He seemed to sense my distance and the reason for it because he was careful not to crowd me. Which was hard in his tiny studio.
I stood in the doorway briefly taking stock. Rob Anderson was either in training to be a Spartan or a monk. The whole apartment consisted of three rooms: a tiny bathroom, a tiny kitchen, and a tiny living area. In the living area were a desk and chair, a couch (a hide-a-bed, I assumed), a tiny color TV, and a monster stereo system perched on a brick and board arrangement. He had one floor lamp by the couch and a table lamp on the desk. Two ties hung off the doorknob of what turned out to be a closet. Everything was so small I felt like Gulliver. I can’t imagine how someone his size tolerated it.
I sat on the couch and looked around some more as he rummaged in the bathroom. He had a CD collection of half classical music, half rock & roll. A large pile of magazines was right next to me on the floor, so I ruffled through them: Time, Stereo Review, National Geographic, Playboy (on the bottom), and Car & Driver.
There was a portrait on the desk that showed an unsmiling couple in their sixties. All they needed was a pitchfork to be a reasonable facsimile of Grant Wood’s American Gothic.
Rob came out of the bathroom and grabbed the jacket hanging on the desk chair. I gestured to the picture. “Those your parents?”
He grinned. “Yeah. We can’t get them to smile in front of a camera. It makes for a depressing picture.”
“It does look like a mug shot,” I agreed then gulped. He just laughed, thank goodness.
I surveyed his cell again trying to think of something charming to say. “You’re so neat,” I commented gamely.
Rob laughed again. I seemed to delight him. “It’s not much, is it,” he said, “but it’s cheap. Let’s go. You know how to get to Old Pas from here?”
I didn’t, of course, and since he’d earned a measure of trust by not immediately jumping my bones, I offered to let him drive my Miata. “But only if you know how to drive a stick,” I warned.
His face lit up at my suggestion. “Stevie, just give me the keys,” he said confidently.
It was a wild ride up the Arroyo Parkway. I don’t mean to imply that he took unnecessary chances, but he put the car through its paces. He wound it out in every gear and took joy doing it. Compared to him, I drove like a little old lady. I sat in the passenger seat, white-knuckled, through the curves. I guess he noticed I was a little pale around the gills. “Don’t worry,” he shouted over the whine of the engine, “I’ll get us there in one piece.”
He whipped into a minuscule parking space, led me to the bar, and ordered me a gin-tonic. The exhilaration of the drive had worn off his shyness and I didn’t have to work hard at all to pry information out of him. I found out that he did in fact work for the City of Los Angeles as an engineer and specialized in hydraulics. He told me that he was 27 years old, had grown up in South Dakota, and had been in the Marine Corps.
“The Marines?” I interrupted, unsettled. Weren’t they supposed to be the gung-ho psychotics of the armed forces? “Why’d you join the Marines? Did you want to like…kill people or something?” I asked with an uncertain smile.
He returned my smile, amused. “I spent most of my time as a clerk,” he explained. “I needed money for college. And the discipline didn’t hurt either.” He continued with his recitation. He had gotten his bachelor’s degree at South Dakota State University and was working on a special water project for the City of Los Angeles. He was a registered Republican (“A Republican!?” “I know; it’s not politically correct.”) and had never been married. His parents and three married older brothers still lived in South Dakota. He was a real solid citizen; not the type that I’m normally attracted to—probably because I’d never met one before.
He sipped his beer. “I don’t usually talk that much. Your turn. Tell me about you.”
Usually I didn’t listen that much, and I wasn’t sure where to start after all that.
“Well, I’m a Democrat,” I began.
He blew that off. “I figured. Are you originally from California?”
“Yup. Angeleno born and bred,” I said.
“You must like it here.”
“I guess so. I’ve never really spent time anywhere else, so I haven’t got anything to compare it to. Well, I lived in Texas because I have relatives there, but I was only there about a month because I couldn’t stand…” I broke off because I didn’t like getting this personal about myself. “Never mind, it’s not important. What else do you want to talk about?”
He seemed faintly surprised at my abruptness, but he obligingly switched topics. “So, tell me what you do.”
I told him about my MFA in theater, my part-time teaching job at a community college, and the trials and tribulations of a struggling actress. He looked impressed.
“I thought you looked familiar. I bet I’ve seen you on TV,” he said with a pleased smile.
“Probably. I’ve done some commercials.”
“Have you done any movies?”
“Small parts in lousy films.” I shrugged. “I call them lousy because I ended up on the cutting room floor.”
“It sounds exciting. You must like it.”
I swirled my drink around. “I thought I would. You know, when you’re in college you do great theater, plays by Tennessee Williams or Eugene O’Neill. You get to be a person. But that’s college. The movie parts I get sent out for are either prostitutes or mommies. They’re all one-dimensional characters, mostly all victims, and they’re all supposed to get naked. It’s pretty boring. And I won’t strip so I don’t get cast a lot.” I sipped my gin-tonic.
“Why don’t you do theater?” he asked.
I smiled wryly. “No money. And I have the same problem with professional theater. The stuff that’s being produced these days, at least in Los Angeles, has to be cutting edge, which means nudity. Apparently, it’s in the writer’s handbook that if you have a woman in a play, she has to spend a certain amount of time prancing around in the buff. And let me tell you, those stages are cold and drafty. You could get pneumonia up there. But to be fair, the current theater scene has become an equal opportunity exploiter. Everybody has to take off their clothes, not just the women. I almost feel sorry for the men with their whozits hanging out. One of those cold drafts hits them and their genitals shrivel up like a chicken neck and two acorns. Not very impressive.” I surprised a yelp of laughter out of Rob, and I grinned impishly. “I hope you’re not shocked.”
“Maybe a little bit. But it’s funny.”
“Well, I always say if you can’t laugh about things, you’ll probably end up jumping off a building. But really, I hope I didn’t offend you. Sometimes my mouth takes off before my brain engages,” I apologized with a droll look.
We smiled companionably at each other until Rob found another subject that interested him.
“That’s a great little car,” he started. “But it seems sluggish. When’s the last time you had it tuned up?”
“Tuned up?” I asked blankly.
“Yeah, tuned up.” He looked at me narrowly. “You know what a tune-up is, don’t you?”
I find that sort of question condescending and chauvinistic and I was going to reply tartly that, of course, I knew what a tune-up was—except I really didn’t. I’d heard about them on TV, of course, but I had no idea what was involved. This was the first car I’d ever owned, it had taken me forever to learn how to drive it, and I hadn’t gotten around to reading the maintenance section of the owner’s manual. I knew all the catch phrases so I could talk a good show but that was about it.
I was still trying to think up a good response to the tune-up question when he interrupted with, “When’s the last time you had the oil changed?”
From the expression on my face, it was obvious that I didn’t have a good answer for that little chestnut either.
“It still runs,” I muttered defensively.
“How long have you had the car?” he asked incredulously.
“About a year. I don’t know what you’re getting so excited about. I wash it every other week.”
I got a brief lecture about car maintenance. Not taking proper care of your car, in his opinion, was analogous to not taking care of your body and could have the same disastrous results.
“Okay, okay,” I capitulated, “I’ll take it to a mechanic when I have time.”
“Tell you what,” he said patiently, “I’ll come over some weekend and do it for you. As it is, I’ll worry about you being stranded on the freeway.” And he shook his head.
Part of me was irritated at his assumption of command because he clearly thought I was incompetent. Another part of me was starting to hum “Someone to Watch Over Me”.
“Whatever,” I said and checked my watch. “Wow, it’s getting late, and I’ve got a long way to drive. We’d better go.”
He drove back to his place slowly like he wasn’t in a hurry to say goodnight. I was getting set for the wrestling match I was pretty sure was ahead of me when I tried to get my keys back. When Rob parked in front of his apartment, I briskly jumped out of the passenger seat and ran around the car. I stood with my arms crossed loosely in front of my chest and was smiling coolly, ready to fend off any unwanted clinches as he unfolded from the seat.
“It was fun tonight,” I said pleasantly as I held one hand out expectantly for my keys.
“Yeah, it was,” Rob agreed and handed the keys over without a quibble. “I’ll call you about the tune-up,” he said and held the car door open for me.
This man was a revelation. There was no chance of him getting in my drawers, I was borderline rude, and he was still a gentleman. Maybe decency wasn’t dead in the world after all.
“I’d like that,” I said. What that my voice? I hadn’t sounded so sweet and dewy since I was sixteen.
“Good.” We shared an awkward pause. “Well, goodnight then.”
I got in my car, he closed the door firmly, and I drove off. In my rear-view mirror I saw him standing there, watching me, and I grinned goofily. Warm fuzzies were cuddling in my stomach, which is distinctly uncharacteristic. Cynicism, anger, contempt; these were all familiar emotions for me after dates, but warm fuzzies? The Iron Woman in me felt a patch of rust coming on.
All the next day I waited by the phone expecting to hear from Rob. Nothing. Monday, still nothing. Tuesday, I got distracted by a callback on a beer commercial, which I took as a great compliment. Beer ads specialize in pretty women, and I was flattered to be considered in that light. My feminist side scolded me for allowing myself to be used as a sex object; I should insist on being appreciated for my mind. But let’s face it, honey, I told my feminist self, ain’t nobody paying cold hard cash to admire my mind. I find a mild case of schizophrenia common in most women my age.
Wednesday, I was notified that I had the beer job which shot on Monday and Tuesday of the next week. I still hadn’t heard from Rob but by then, I’d given up on him. I scolded myself for allowing myself to get so goofy. I’d been alone for so long I was probably imagining virtues in Rob Anderson that he didn’t possess. If he didn’t call again, I’d survive; he was just another man who hadn’t followed through. Life could be worse. I had my classes to teach and my laundry to do. My agent wasn’t being snotty with me, I still had Leslie to play with, and Pudgy helped keep me warm at night. I went to the library and checked out some bodice-rippers.
Sunday the son-of-a-bitch called. I was pleasant but cool after he identified himself. Rob could tell that all wasn’t as it should be.
“Am I interrupting something?” he asked.
“Not really,” I said loftily.
“Maybe I should call back later.”
“Depends on what you called about,” I replied, undercurrents rippling through my voice.
“Are you mad at me?” he asked cautiously.
“Me? Mad at you? Why on earth would I be mad at you?” I said with my best Noel Coward airy laugh.
“Perhaps I called too soon. I wasn’t sure when a good time would be. I know you’re busy and I didn’t want to bother you.”
What we had here was failure to communicate. I’d been pissed off because he hadn’t called soon enough, and he was just trying to be polite. I thawed considerably.
“I’m sorry, I guess I expected…” How was I supposed to finish that? That I expected him to be on my doorstop with concert tickets last Sunday (that he didn’t have my address was beside the point); that I expected my condo carpeted with roses; that I expected him to battle a dragon for me on a white horse; that I expected a damn phone call much, much sooner?
“…nothing,” I finished lamely.
“I was hoping you were free sometime this week,” he continued.
“This week?” I dithered. “Well, I’m shooting a commercial tomorrow and Tuesday…”
“Really!? What for?”
I told him the brand of beer, that I actually got a few lines and that if it played nationally, I could earn megabucks. He crowed and congratulated and made much of me. And if that doesn’t cause your kidneys to flow into your pantyhose, nothing will.
“Let me take you to dinner Tuesday to celebrate,” he suggested, and I graciously accepted. We made arrangements for him to pick me up at home—yes, I gave him my address and directions on how to get there—and we regretfully parted to pursue other aspects of our respective lives.
I immediately called Leslie. She listened to my excited babbling calmly. “I don’t want to pop any bubbles,” she said, “but I don’t understand all this excitement. You told me yesterday that you’d probably never see him again and now he calls and you’re all nuts. What’s with you anyway? You hardly know the guy.”
That stopped me. What was with me anyway? In the cold light of Leslie’s rationality my reaction was inappropriate. I didn’t know what to say.
“Shut up!” I mumbled and went to bed. I’d worry about my lunacy later. I had a long day ahead of me.
The shoot went smoothly. I was in a buoyant mood and didn’t even object to my costume of T-shirt and short shorts. The only bad moment came when the director asked the costumer if they couldn’t get a padded push-up bra, so I looked like I had ‘something’. I had ‘something’ all right, I mentally snarled, they just weren’t of zeppelin proportions. But I rose above it. I didn’t even get mad when the costume lady asked me if I’d ever considered installing implants. Installing—what a word for it. It sounded like she was talking about putting two washing machines on my chest instead of silicone sacks. I politely told her ‘no’ and she tsked tragically like I’d rejected chemotherapy. You gotta love the business.
I paid particular attention to the actors on the set. If my response to Rob Anderson was the result of mere neediness, I’d probably go bonkers over them, too. They were handsome young men, not particularly bright, but very charming. We had some laughs, but nothing went twang. Curioser and curioser.
Tuesday night I got home in time to switch from heavy camera war paint to street make-up, change clothes, and feed Pudgy. Rob rang my bell punctually which was good; it’d been a long day and I was hungry. Rob looked impressed when I let him in—not with me, with the condo. My townhouse was a two-story, three-bedroom, two-bath place. It had a fireplace, formal dining room, and a breakfast nook in the kitchen. It was light and airy and even had a small yard.
He looked around in appreciation. “How can you afford the rent on a place like this?”
“I own it,” I said.
He looked surprised. “You must be more successful at acting than you let on.”
“Maybe I’ll explain over dinner. Let’s go, I’m hungry.”
He led me out to his car—an eight-year-old Buick sedan. My gallant knight was going to whisk me away in the chivalrous equivalent of an oxcart. Now, most twenty-something men I knew didn’t drive family cars. I don’t consider myself a snob—all right, I’m a snob—but a Buick sedan went right on the debit side with Republican membership. I was disgusted with myself for wasting a week being in such a stew over this man.
I am not a well woman.
Then he opened the passenger door for me, got me settled, and shut my door before going around to the driver’s side. My opinion of him did another whipsaw. Not only do most twenty-something men not open the car door for you, you’re lucky if most parts of you are in the car before they take off.
“I thought we’d go to the Charthouse unless you’d rather do something else,” he said.
“Fine with me,” I agreed, and we putted off in the Buick.
“You’ve kept your car in good shape,” I commented, attempting to be charitable.
He glanced over at me and smiled teasingly. “It runs. I bought it from my dad two years ago when he got a new one.”
He bought his father’s old car. What was I to make of this new information? This could mean a) he was poor, b) he was cheap, c) he had weird taste in cars, or d) none or all of the above.
“Oh?” I said encouragingly, hoping he’d tell me more.
He stopped at a red light and turned to look at me. The amused look in his eyes told me he knew perfectly well what I was getting at. “I’m saving my money to go back to school,” he explained.
I hate getting caught in my finagling. “You must think I’m awfully nosy,” I apologized.
“I’m flattered that you’re curious about me, Stevie.”
We exchanged a smile. I decided to sit back and let him unfold in his own sweet time. He seemed to have broken the sound barrier, so it wasn’t up to me to poke and prod and pry. Besides, I was tired.
Shooting a commercial doesn’t look difficult but keeping your energy level controlled and up, take after take after take, takes a lot out of you. It felt good to sit back and sip a glass of cabernet. Rob was attentive but not intrusive, capable but not overbearing. I was relieved that my initial positive impression of him had been correct.
He asked me about the shoot, and I rambled on about that until our table was ready. He asked me questions about my teaching, my MFA—just general stuff. He was a great listener which is terrific because, even tired, I’m a great yakker. He laughed at my silly stories, admired my initiative, and seemed interested in me generally. Which was a real departure for me. Most of the men I’ve dated want me to flatter and listen to them. It was fun being on the other side and definitely good for my ego. We were having coffee when, looking a little uncomfortable but determined, he said, “I know it’s none of my business, but this has been on my mind since I saw where you lived. How do you come to own such a nice place? And your car isn’t cheap. Teachers don’t make that kind of money, especially part-time ones, and you said that you didn’t earn all that much acting. So, tell me; how can you afford it all?”
“Why? You want to ‘borrow’ money?” I asked with a side-long look at him. “Most of the men I meet at least wait until the third date to try to get cash out of me.”
He seemed shocked. “I would never ask a woman for money!” he declared.
That’s what they all say. I sipped my coffee and stared at him. “Just wondering why you want to know.”
He met my eyes levelly. “I was curious. Now I’m sorry for asking. Would you like an after-dinner drink?”
Okay, the man wasn’t after my fictional millions. He just suffered from perfectly normal curiosity. If I could pry, I guess he could too.
“You know what? Since you’re driving, I would like another glass of wine. And to pay for it, I’ll tell you the whole silly story,” I offered.
I flagged down the waitress and ordered. He had more coffee. We waited until she brought the wine and I started.
“She must have been a beautiful woman,” Rob murmured.
“She was,” I agreed, smiling. “And my father, I think but I’m not sure, was an illegal immigrant from Northern Ireland. Anyway, my mother’s family were good traditional, Catholic control freaks who had Mom’s life all planned out for her. They disowned Mom when she married some poverty-stricken nobody like my dad and left home for California. Which doesn’t seem to have bothered her much. She always went her own way. I guess Dad must’ve gotten legal when he married Mom because I don’t remember any trouble with the INS. But I never had any contact with any extended family either. Anyway, Mom and Dad had a bar and grill out in the Valley. Dad ran the bar—figures, doesn’t it? Irish and all that? —and Mom was in charge of the restaurant. They owned that property, and we had a nice little house. I was an only child and, boy, did I make out. I remember Christmases, Mom and Dad would…”
I found I was having a hard time talking.
“Throat’s dry,” I said gruffly to Rob and turned my head away. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t try to grab me and moan over me. I mentally blessed him for his restraint.
“Listen, we can talk about this some other time,” he said quietly after a moment.
I sipped some wine and said, “That’s all right. I’m told it’s good to discuss this sort of thing. Of course, the people who say it usually feed off other people’s misery, but I suppose it’s possible they’re right.”
He nodded so I plunged on.
“See, my parents were killed in a car accident when I’d just turned sixteen. Drunk driver. It’s sort of ironic. They were on their way home from closing their bar. I got the call at four o’clock in the morning.” I had another sip of wine. “Well, to make a long story short, they both left good-sized life insurance policies, the business, and the house. I sold the real estate, bought the townhouse, and invested the rest. I paid for the Miata out of my own earnings. I’m not rich but I’m doing all right.”
I smiled cheerfully, trying to lighten the atmosphere, but he still looked puzzled.
“But you were only sixteen, didn’t you have a guardian?” he asked.
“That’s another ugly story. The authorities contacted my mother’s family in Texas. They weren’t interested until they found out how much money was involved; then they took me in. See, the idea was to turn me into a good tortilla-making incubator while I “contributed” toward my upkeep with the cash. I lasted one month with them then ran back to California and petitioned the court for adult status. The court allowed me my freedom as long as I agreed to their choice of school and assigned an attorney to be trustee of the estate. For a fee, of course. But I figured better the attorney than the familial sharks. The attorney turned out to be pretty honest and only took what was legal. When I turned twenty-one, the bulk of the estate reverted to me and you see me as I am now, educated, in possession of a condo and a car, and struggling the rest of the time to make ends meet. I learned long ago not to touch the principal. So, anything else you want to know?”
He pushed his coffee cup around. “What do you do at Christmas?”
“Have dinner with whatever friends don’t have family obligations. Or Jewish friends. Christmas doesn’t mean much to them. I’ve even just gone to a movie and had dinner with my cat. Have you met Pudgy yet? She’s a great cat. We’re each other’s family.”
He pushed his coffee cup around some more. “You’ve really had it tough,” he said finally.
“Just for a couple of years. Don’t waste pity on me. There’re a lot of people who’ve had it a whole lot worse.”
“What do you do when you get sick or in some sort of trouble? You don’t have anybody to fall back on.”
“Sure, I do. That’s why God made friends…and money. You’d be surprised how independent that makes you.”
He obviously didn’t believe me. “No downside at all?”
Sympathy was nice but this was getting a little ridiculous. This was a date not a sensitivity session, so I looked him right in the eye and said, “Not really.”
He backed off, thank God. “Sounds like it works for you.”
“It does.” I finished my wine. “Well, it’s been a long day and I’m tired. Are you ready to go?”
“Anytime you are.”
He paid the check and we left. We talked of inconsequential things, like traffic patterns, on the way. I was priming myself for a goodbye scene. I know, I know, he’d been a perfect gentleman at the symphony, but this was the second date. Time for a big move. My gut feeling about this man was that he was decent, but my experience warned me…Well, in my experience the act at the front door involved some heavy-duty maneuvering, particularly if the man paid for dinner. The quid pro quo seemed to be satisfactory sex, at least on the man’s part, a shower, and possibly breakfast if the man found you worthy. I was tired, over-fed, owly, and emotionally drained from my stint in the confessional. Besides, I’d made it a policy not to part with sexual favors after one dinner. I’ve read that some prostitutes command $300 per session and I’ve never had a meal that cost anywhere near that.
He parked on the street and walked me to my door.
“You’re quiet,” he observed.
“Just tired,” I said, mentally girding myself for the whining and guilt-tripping when I didn’t invite him in. It takes a lot of concentration to shut a guy down without ending up with a broken jaw. I could evade the Roman hands and the tongue thrust down my throat like an undigested oyster, I encouraged myself and checked my mental focus. Yeah, I was ready. I had my keys out, ready to unlock and run. Rob appeared thoughtful during the short walk up the sidewalk.
I unlocked the door and turned to him, all defenses up. “Thank you for dinner, Rob, I enjoyed it.”
He put his hands on my shoulders, looked into my eyes, and said, “So did I.” He leaned forward and kissed my mouth firmly but briefly. Then he stepped back and asked, “Can I call you again next week?”
Wait a minute. He’d done it to me again. Where was the clutching, the oyster, the whining? You get your mind all prepared for something awful and when it doesn’t happen you feel like you’ve stumbled. I was so flummoxed all I could do was nod and mumble, “If you really want to.”
He tipped my chin up, kissed me again, and said, “I want to.” Then he walked to his car.
You know, he could have tried a little harder. Dammit, now that I didn’t have to kiss him, I wanted to. On the spur of the moment, I called out, “I thought you were going to fix my car.”
He stopped and turned back to me. “How about Saturday?” “It’s a date,” I said. By God, he’d get some kissing then.
Barb: As usual it’s been a year of ups and downs. Last March my cat, George, died. He was 16 ½ so it wasn’t unexpected, but it was a wrench. You get really attached to a pet after 16 years. But what really hurt was the death of Gracie. She was only 6 ½ when she was killed by a coyote. She must have been caught completely by surprise because I’d seen her fight off coyotes before. At least her death was quick but I still miss her. She was special. The only bright spot on the pet situation was the fact that we’d adopted two kittens a month before because we didn’t want Grace to be alone when we went on trips. She hated the kittens until the day she died. We had to protect them from her; they were so small we were afraid she’d kill them. So I guess she wasn’t as sweet as I remember her. When told of Gracie’s death, the neighbor who fed her sort of rolled her eyes when I lamented how sweet Gracie was. She’d had to clean up all the dead critters Gracie brought in to eat at her leisure. Gordon commented that maybe this was Gracie’s karma for all the gophers she’d killed and brought to bed. But I loved her. And I still miss her.
This is not to say I don’t appreciate the kittens—well, most of the time. When we went to the shelter to pick out Gracie’s future friends, I told Gordon I wanted a calico. We’d never had one before, so I picked the only available one and named her Maggie. We got the second kitten because Gordon got snagged by a tiny little black-and-white male who played ‘paw’ with him. Turns out they were littermates and Gordon decided we couldn’t separate the two. Kittens are like potato chips for Gordon; he can’t get just one. The shelter wouldn’t let us take the kittens home that day; I had to make an appointment to pick them up five days later. Gordon had a business meeting, so I picked them up myself. As I filled out the paperwork, the staff member told me they didn’t think the little male would survive. “He won’t eat,” he said. “You can bring him back if he gets worse.” The calico girl was small but the male was so mal-nourished that when Gordon picked him up that he night he said, “My God, it’s like picking up a baby bird.” We named him Bucky. He was nothing but eyes and worms, but he was ours. I think he must have been younger than the 8 weeks the shelter claimed because I don’t think he could chew hard food. We gave him canned food and he ate non-stop. We got both of them to the vet and got all their worms and parasites killed and that’s all they needed. Our de-crittered messes are growing up to be big and healthy and look to have long lives—unless I murder them. Which I threaten to do on a daily basis. They consider rules as suggestions and disregard all of the restrictions about counter crawling. And they’re so fast they can snicker and run when they hear an anguished “Bucky, no!” or “Maggie, dammit!” So, I dug out an old super-soaker squirt gun I bought years ago. Works like a charm. Each of them got a blast in the face and they run when they see me grab it. It’s got tremendous range and shoots a lot of water so even if I miss a cat, I clean the floor. It’s a win-win. I’m the fastest squirt gun in the West.
We finally got to take the Baltic cruise we paid for three years ago. St. Petersburg was off the itinerary, but Viking replaced it with Oslo, Berlin, and Gdansk. I’d never been to those cities before, so I was happy. We still had to follow COVID protocols which included spitting in a test tube every morning before we ate or drank anything. I didn’t realize how tough it was to come up with 5 ml of spit without having any water. It was gross, watching my drool inch down the side. It took forever. Then we’d put our samples in a baggie and put it outside our cabin door where crew members in hazmat suits picked it up. That did not inspire confidence. Everybody who cruised had to be tested twice before even being allowed on board so I didn’t know how anyone could get sick, but they did. A couple from San Diego had their “trip of a lifetime” ruined. Ten days into the cruise I found the husband sitting in the lobby, wearing a mask. He said his wife tested positive for COVID and had been quarantined on the third deck for the rest of the trip. He tested negative but had to wear a mask when out of his cabin. I heard that some crew members tested positive too. The third deck was getting crowded by the end. But I enjoyed this cruise more than our Rhine cruise. Then, we had the smallest cabin available, and Gordon learned from that. I get…shall we say…unpleasant when I’ve had enough fun. Actually, it must be like traveling with a caged badger. This time he got a larger cabin. And I tripped over his feet anyway. Not his fault. He was keeping himself out of the way as I flung myself around the cabin. I caught a little toe on his foot and either bruised it badly or broke it. The treatment for either injury is the same–Immobilize it. Fortunately, Billy Williams, a high school friend of Gordon’s, and his wife, Dawn, were on the same cruise. He’s a surgeon and she’s a nurse so I had my own medical team but there’s not much you can do for a busted toe. I gimped my way through Berlin because, dammit, I’d paid for it, I wasn’t going to miss it. You wouldn’t think something so small could cause so much misery. There’s lots more to tell about the trip but I’ll leave that to Gordon. I’m in his space already. Or go to my blog; www.barbaraschnell.com. Have a happy and a merry etc. etc.etc.
Gordon: As you can tell by Barb’s musings, it was a relatively quiet year. We broke out of Quarantine to go sailing, and enjoyed that. My highlight of the trip was a visit to Norway’s OIL MUSEUM, where I learned that Norway is so oil-rich because a state minster couldn’t be bothered to come to the phone on a Friday. Seems Phillips Petroleum had a contract to drill 13 holes looking for oil. They’d drilled 12 dry holes and the 13th was also going nowhere, so they petitioned to stop drilling and go home. The minister told them to come back Monday, by which time they’d hit a gusher. So now Norwegians sit on a huge pile of cash thanks to that American knowhow and evil oil. And they still pay roughly 50% of their income in taxes. But the state takes good care of them. We also got to spend about three hours at Tivoli, which is regarded as the inspiration for Disneyland. It’s tiny by Disney standards, but there were lots of rides and the lines were just about as long as those at Disneyland, so we didn’t do many rides. Given Barb’s toe, it was a good thing it wasn’t any bigger.
Brookings High School Class of 1970 held their 50-plus-a-couple-years reunion, giving us an opportunity to get back to the Auld Sod, and see lots of folks I hadn’t seen in 50+ years. It was a little disappointing that the folks I was closest to were only there at the table with pictures of departed classmates, but I had fun catching up with some of the survivors, and telling tales I probably shouldn’t have. Barb and I got our SDSU Ice cream cones, Zesto Hot Dogs, Nick’s Hamburgers and Greasy Gus Pizza, so we’ve maintained our Epicurean cred.
Aside from that, some clients still call and I still take the jobs I like, but I’m not pushing it. I’m a regular doing tours for the Los Angeles Conservancy, and Barb & I sing with the Lutherans when there’s a big event at the church. The house is now a solar collector, and DWP pays me for electricity, but they get it back in water and sewer fees. And I’m still trying to figure out what I want to do with my retirement. Nice problem to have.
Hope this letter finds you all well and ready for a new year with no masks, very few sick days, and happiness to be back in the world. Until next year….best wishes, and keep in touch.
