clips
Tuesday, August 05, 2003
SUMMER: THE BACKSTORY
Midseason reflections on (yawn) boredom
* Summer's lazy days may drone on, but at their close will be a longing for idleness.
Series: One in a series of occasional stories about the rituals of the season.
Home Edition, Calendar, Page E-1
Calendar Desk
28 inches; 1015 words
Type of Material: Series
By Steven Barrie-Anthony, Times Staff Writer
The inexorable groan of the school year. No. 2 pencils and, oh, so many standardized bubbles to bubble, carpools to wait for, homework assignments to ignore and then endure. The same Tupperware lunch every, single, day. Alarm at 8. Burnt toast. Loading up the backpack.
Through it all, the dream of summer. A lust for sloth. Every morning a Sunday morning. To be nearly naked and irresponsible, too hot to move except to smile an indolent smile and sip a lime-colored cooler! To mess around, hang out, waste time, take it easy.
Then, it begins.
Alarm's off, but you wake up anyway. Too early. Too antsy. With nothing to do.
In the words of poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge, "summer has set in with its usual severity."
Television drones. Books turn into pages of unintelligible black marks.
Preschoolers whine, college students start drinking earlier than usual.
Finally, time to talk on the phone. But nothing much to talk about.
Lethargy eclipses bliss.
As aphorist Mason Cooley notes, "Even boredom has its crises."
"When university finishes, leaving me stranded without purpose or structure, despair arrives," says Shirin Borthwick, a student in Sydney, Australia. "The less stuff I do, the less I want to do, so instead of enjoying the sunshine I end up lurking in the house, haunting the halls like a creature locked in an ivory tower, all the while engaging in progressively deeper introspection."
You find yourself talking to the cat. Becoming an expert at making that creaking sound in the back of your throat. Noticing the dead fly stuck in the stucco ceiling.
"I am the nation's expert on boredom," says Alan Caruba, who runs the online Boring Institute (www.boringinstitute.com) from his home in New Jersey. It started 20 years ago as a joke but quickly turned serious.
"Boredom is an early stage of depression, if it lingers on more than a day or two," Caruba explains. And, summer being the midyear hump, boredom season, the Boring Institute has named July "the official anti-boredom month."
Caruba, by the way, is "never bored." And for only $4.95, you can beat boredom too -- by downloading the Beating Boredom guide from his Web site.
But instead of buying your freedom, you end up running your name through Google.
Checking your e-mail 20 times.
Swinging your feet onto the desk.
Studying your toes.
Remembering all the fun you had last summer, and the summers before ....
"A lot of what I did during the summers was try to reenact my younger childhood," says Aneesa Davenport, a recent graduate of UC Santa Barbara. "Which in a way made me more bored, because it was never as fun or captivating as I remembered it to be.
"Even as a child my friends and I were very nostalgic," she says. "I don't remember playing hopscotch for fun -- I only remember being about 10 and playing it because it used to be fun, and trying to go back to that time.
"When we had a lemonade stand it was because we knew that's what kids did, and we were nostalgic for the experiences we saw on reruns of 'Leave It to Beaver' and the 'Donna Reed Show.' "
Henry Miller said, "There is a time for play and a time for work, a time for creation and a time for lying fallow. And there is a time, glorious too in its own way, when one scarcely exists, when one is a complete void. I mean -- when boredom seems the very stuff of life."
A summer Monday in South Los Angeles. It's just too hot. Sweat stains spread under arms. Seat belt buckles scald. Air conditioners break.
Even worse, "the sorority houses aren't open, so there's a huge shortage of women," says Brandon Pleus, a USC cinema major.
The fraternities remain inhabited. USC's frat row, 28th Street, is melting, a lonely island. No fewer than three blowup wading pools wilt in dirty frontyards, water long evaporated, reminders of what summer might have been. Windows are broken, and beer bottles, overturned chairs and rusty barbecues lollygag on browning grass.
At 2 in the afternoon, Pleus ventures outdoors. He rubs his eyes, yawns, checks the mail. He's dressed in blue boxer shorts and a white T-shirt. His face is burnt to a tomato hue.
He looks bored. He is bored.
"But boredom isn't as bad as one might think," he says. "It's not as bad as stress or anxiety."
Instead of inventing distractions, Pleus embraces boredom. Some days he lugs a lawn chair onto the frat house roof.
"I sit and look at the street," he says. "I think about home, about sports, movies that I've seen ... what it's gonna be like to have a real job."
He watches bike riders go by, and "I wonder if they're going to the library."
At boredom's peak, "you have no conscious thought at all," Pleus says. "You are just looking -- letting your eyes be yourself."
"I would classify boredom as a mood, like joy or sorrow," says Dale Wright, professor of religious studies at Occidental College.
"From a Buddhist point of view," Wright says, "meditation is the extremity of boredom, purposefully imposed, to train the mind to see that all things are alive, that beauty and opportunities are everywhere.
"We tend to see the boring quality in ... summer, rather than recognize that boredom is in our minds."
In our minds.
In our minds.
Lying on the couch, you find yourself reading the same line over, and over, a mantra, without noticing that you're reading it over, and over.
Soon the pencils will go on sale, giant Back to School vats at Target and Costco.
There will be carpool arrangements to make. Daily planners to purchase.
Friedrich Nietzsche said, "He who completely entrenches himself against boredom also entrenches himself against himself: he will never get to drink the strongest refreshing draught from his own innermost fountain."
Who knows.
But a few months from now, you may close your eyes for a second, and remember ...
The boring season.
What a wonderful summer.
SOCIAL CLIMES
A smokin' party
Home Edition, Sunday Calendar, Page E-5
Calendar Desk
15 inches; 508 words
By Steven Barrie-Anthony, Times Staff Writer
The Grand Havana Room in Beverly Hills is packed for its eighth-anniversary bash, also celebrating the release of two documentary films, "The Fuente Family: An American Dream" and "Fuente Fuente Opus X: Making of a Legend."
Guests, almost exclusively men, almost exclusively dressed in gray or black, lounge cross-legged on lush red or green velvet couches and leather chairs, sipping mojitos and red wine and puffing on expensive cigars.
Third- and fourth-generation cigar makers Carlos Fuente Sr. and Jr. are dressed alike, in starched white shirts and Panamas. Originally from Cuba, nowadays they grow tobacco in the Dominican Republic.
Here, they are gods. Surrounded by grinning cigar aficionados, Fuente and Fuente exhale smoke toward the high ceiling, all elegance and ease.
"This is the most legendary cigar family there is," Havana Room owner Stan Schuster gushes. "The Opus X is the most sought-after cigar."
"It's got the elegance of a Porsche, the purr of a Ferrari," Fuentes Jr. agrees. He motions to Schuster and says: "We're family. This is our home."
Movie stars get second billing.
"It's so nice to be able to smoke a cigar without being bothered by all the Nazi rules in Beverly Hills," says Tom Selleck, chatting with fellow actor Peter Weller on the veranda. Both are members of the Havana Room.
"This club is a port in a storm," Weller says. "People tell me I'm very intense. I say, 'You should've met me before I started smoking cigars.' I don't know people who are violent and smoke cigars."
Grammy-winning jazz musician Arturo Sandoval sidles up to join the conversation. He is grinning ear to ear.
"Nobody plays trumpet like he does," Weller says.
"I cannot complain," Sandoval says. "I have an extremely happy life. I make a living doing what I love to do. And on top of that, I am smoking a big cigar."
Sandoval wrote the scores for both Fuente documentaries, "45 original pieces of music," he says. James Orr produced, directed, wrote and narrated.
"I did this for free," Orr interjects. "As remarkable as the cigars are, the family is even more remarkable....
"Cigars are the equivalent of peace pipes in tribal ceremonies," he says. "They bring men together, and we share stories about the hunt. And personal stuff -- innermost thoughts."
Although a novice cigar smoker, actor Jon Voight is nonetheless discussing cigars. "I just came back from Italy," he says, "and the fellow I was staying with insisted I smoke big Clint Eastwood-type cigars."
Suddenly, an alarm bell goes off. Men look up from their cigars, confused. "Just a fire alarm," somebody yells. Everybody laughs. Alarm deactivated, Sandoval unleashes his trumpet in the center of the room to rousing applause.
On the veranda, conversation meanders toward politics. Most pick Arnold Schwarzenegger, a fellow Havana Room member, as their favorite for the California recall election. If he runs.
"I'm not gonna run," says Selleck, adamantly. "I have a mortgage. I don't think people with mortgages should have to run for public office." He sucks on his stogie. And grins.
Style & Culture
A storm is downgraded to a cliche
Home Edition, Calendar, Page E-1
Calendar Desk
24 inches; 780 words
By Steven Barrie-Anthony, Times Staff Writer
"SARS is a 'perfect storm' of a disease," according to the Los Angeles Times. 50 Cent is the perfect storm of the rap world, proclaims Billboard magazine. Newsweek has designated Jayson Blair, the plagiarizing New York Times reporter, as "journalism's perfect storm."
The war on terrorism is the perfect storm of the airline industry, American recession is the perfect storm of European tourism, conservative politics is the perfect storm of public school orchestras everywhere....
And somewhere, beneath the thunder, you can hear an English professor crying.
"If you stare at a wall long enough, the wall disappears," explains Dan Fineman, a professor of English and comparative literary studies at Occidental College in Los Angeles.
Likewise, a phrase reiterated endlessly loses its original meaning -- and sometimes all meaning whatsoever. It's about "habituation," Fineman says. "Even a complex object, if it doesn't get moved around, becomes status quo."
The term has been around for years already. "The Perfect Storm," the best-selling book by Sebastian Junger, was published in 1997. "The Perfect Storm," the blockbuster movie starring George Clooney, was released in 2000. But "the perfect storm" is still gathering force. In the last year, the New York Times printed it 11 times, the Chicago Tribune 47 times, the Washington Post 54 times -- and the Los Angeles Times 65 times.
We can trace the term's origin to a certain Boston scientist, on a certain Sunday afternoon in October 1991. Bob Case, then a deputy meteorologist with the National Weather Service, gathered breathlessly with his colleagues around their instruments and computer monitors.
What they observed was a meeting of storm systems 1,000 miles out in the Atlantic Ocean. A typical "northeaster" off the coast of Nova Scotia, Canada, was on a collision course with Hurricane Grace. While both were unremarkable as solo phenomena, the cold winds propelling the northeaster, combined with moist, warm air that Grace had picked up off Bermuda, promised to ignite a Molotov cocktail on the high seas.Meanwhile, cub journalist Sebastian Junger weathered the tempest from his home in Gloucester, Mass. "This enormous storm came through and trashed most of New England," Junger says. "It was all around us. It almost blew the house down."
Having recently been injured while working as "a tree climber," Junger was considering "writing about dangerous work," he says. Then, he heard that a local swordfishing boat, the Andrea Gail, had gone down in the maelstrom. It was a -- dare we say, perfect? -- crossroads of adventure, human interest and tragedy.
Case, since retired, had spent his "entire career trying to eliminate meteorological jargon in speaking with the press," he says. Explaining science to laypeople is always, of course, a delicate balance between not dumbing down too much but simplifying technical jargon just enough. Case's biggest challenge was not forecasting and following the storm but rather relaying his findings to the press.
Junger was "just another reporter," Case recalls, but their conversations would send reverberations through the English language for years to come.
There were many situational characteristics that had to fall into place, Case explains. "Had to have the night's cold air coming out of Canada....The systems had to mesh at the right time.... The moisture had to be available from the dying hurricane. It was the combination of extremely cold air and warm air. Combined with the final kicker, all the moisture influx. Like throwing gasoline on a fire."
Neither man will take credit for what came next.
"Sebastian came up with it," Case says.
"He claims I did," Junger says, "but in my notes, he says it."
Junger's article stretched into a book. It was originally titled "The Storm." Given that people were killed, he says, "the phrase 'the perfect storm' ... seemed tasteless, but the idea of using it grew on me."
With publication of the book, the phrase came back to haunt Case. "Unfortunately, 'the perfect storm' got misconstrued," he says. He began getting calls from meteorologist peers telling him, "No, it wasn't the biggest. The storm of '62 was worse."
"But that was never the idea," Case says, still adamant after all these years. "This wasn't the biggest, wasn't the worst, wasn't the most deadly. It's not even in the top 10. It was a unique situation and took an atmosphere that had the perfect elements in space and time to occur."
When the movie came out, Case was inundated. "Everybody has their 15 minutes," he says. "I got an extra five."
Junger, too. Nowadays, "if I meet someone and they ask what I do," he says, "I can't even bring myself to admit I wrote the book. I really try to avoid any relation to it."
Gripping the Wheel
* Irwin Hearst is 95, and that's exactly why he has surrendered his keys. After driving eight decades, the word for him is 'adjust.'
Home Edition, Calendar, Page E-1
Calendar Desk
25 inches; 860 words
Type of Material: Profile
By Steven Barrie-Anthony, Times Staff Writer
It was 1922. In Montreal, Canada. Some irresponsible kids lent their neighbor, 14-year-old Irwin Hearst, the keys to their Packard automobile.
Hearst remembers it well: the ascent -- "there were step-on seats on the side of the car" -- and, of course, takeoff. "Exhilarating. I was king of the mountain."
Eight decades later, he has surrendered his keys for good. He sits shirtless in his two-room apartment, gray slacks tethered snugly to his midriff, active eyes behind large-rimmed black glasses. Hearst lives in Westwood Horizons, a group housing facility that advertises "Adventures in Senior Living."
"It's lonely being by yourself," he says. "So I moved here two years ago, when my wife passed away. They have a shuttle to the hospital, which is convenient."
Hearst still could drive if he wanted to. Ninety-five years old, he has a regular California driver's license and owns a car. He has had "no major accidents" and considers himself a "good driver."
Still, Hearst believes that "no elderly person should drive," and he is no exception. "We haven't got the reflexes. Why kid yourself?"
When he put his car up for sale, "everybody told me, 'You'll be sorry,' " Hearst says. "But I meditate and decide what's good for me. And what is good for other people. I'm ready," he says, and gestures, palms up. "Here's my car."
And then he smiles. "I've got an electronic walker now! It can turn all the way around! It was a bargain -- I got it from a lady who only used it for two weeks before she died. I'll just go on trips from here!"
The room is silent for a moment. "You feel as if your hands will be tied," he admits. "As if you'll be left alone. As if the whole world is passing you by."
"I got my first car for $200," Hearst remembers. "I was living in New York City. It was a convertible, but I couldn't put the top up." Instead, Hearst fashioned a roof of cardboard, which he used on rainy days. "I really must have been quite a sight."
Hearst spent his working life driving. He was a traveling salesman, so his car was a second home. "My car was one of my tools," he says. He would often "travel 70 miles away from my base" -- just him, his goods and his wheels.
It is fine to start slowing down, Hearst says. After living for almost a century, "the word is 'adjust,' " he explains. "I don't ever forget it." He will see friends less frequently, but one of his daughters lives close by. And Westwood Horizons sponsors activities and shows movies.
"The L.A. freeways are abominable," Hearst says, so in a way, good riddance. "And young people don't know when to stop or slow down." And "the average person is negative toward elderly drivers." As Hearst got older and drove more slowly, "people always honked," he says.
Or worse. One day, when Hearst was 85, he was driving onto a freeway onramp from Santa Monica Boulevard. Suddenly, the driver behind him started honking. "He wanted to get in front of me," Hearst says.
Apparently, Hearst didn't move quickly enough. "I heard a loud crash, and when I turned around my rear window had shattered. He had shot a gun at me," Hearst says. "That scared the hell out of me."
Hearst drove directly to the police station, but the cop on duty was no help.
"Did you make any dirty signs at him?" he asked, and extended his middle finger in demonstration. "Is an 85-year-old man going to make those signs?" Hearst still wonders.
His daughter nagged him to stop driving for some time, and although the old man is fiercely independent, her persistence had something to do with his decision.
"I used to just pooh-pooh her," he says, "tell her that I'll take care of myself." But, like the word "adjust," Hearst has taken certain life lessons to heart: "If you become stubborn, then woe is you," he says, without explanation.
Westwood Horizons holds a special "candlelight dinner" once a month. Tonight's will begin soon, and Hearst would like to attend. He rises and moves slowly across the carpeted floor to his mirrored closet. He chooses a bright yellow sweater. Dressing is a lengthy process: One hand pulls the garment down a few inches on one side, then the other hand echoes, and the steps repeat.
Hearst dons a suit jacket, and looks quite the dashing dinner date. But he walks slowly down the hallway, back stiff, bent forward.
A woman in uniform approaches, looking tired. "Irwin, your daughter wants to know what medicines you need ordered," she says.
Hearst turns, fire in his eyes. He sheds years. "I will order it!" he says, raising his voice in anger and embarrassment. "I've always done everything for myself! She better not come near me. She'll have to get a new father!"
The woman nods and speaks into a cell phone. Hearst arrives at the elevator. He drops heavily into a chair. And, gazing toward the floor, waits resignedly for transportation to whisk him to the shindig downstairs.
STYLE & CULTURE
Grabbing a fast pass to fame
* A party celebrating the release of a book on gaining instant celebrity is a magnet for the sort-of-famous set.
Home Edition, Calendar, Page E-1
Calendar Desk
28 inches; 944 words
By Steven Barrie-Anthony, Times Staff Writer
But Warhol didn't say how long it would take to get your 15 minutes.
Up to two weeks, according to Melissa de la Cruz and Karen Robinovitz's new book, "How to Become Famous in Two Weeks or Less" (Ballantine).
"Once you start telling people you're famous, they believe you," de la Cruz says.
"We should be able to slip past any velvet rope. Everybody should be able to," Robinovitz says.
All you have to do is follow their eightfold path, outlined in chapters such as "A 'Brand' New You," "There's No Such Thing as Bad Publicity, Darling," "Managing the Press Machine" and "The Schmooze factor."
The book began as an assignment for Marie Claire magazine, and it got the authors ink in the New York Post and beyond. Now they've sold the movie rights to Disney. And the Times is covering the book party at the Tracy Ross store on Sunset Boulevard.
The party is hot. Sweat beads on Joel Michaely's forehead. "Apparently they're going to tell us how to become more famous," says the actor ("Rules of Attraction"). "I have a finite amount of fame. I'm looking to become more famous."
Nearby, Jenna Lewis, from the first "Survivor" series, lounges on a black leather sofa. "I hated becoming famous," Lewis gushes, grinning, "but either you embrace it, or you become a hermit like Howard Hughes. Celebrityhood is our royalty, and," she says, grabbing an hors d'oeuvre, "I get free shepherd's pie.
"Do you know who that is behind me?" Lewis asks, chancing a quick glance over her shoulder. "That's Brennan Swain. He was on the first 'Amazing Race.' "
"I was the first 'Amazing Race' winner," Swain emphasizes. "I was a lawyer, then I ended up on the show, and next thing you know -- I was famous." Swain left his law firm. But he is far from idle. "A bunch of my buddies from reality TV series all got together, and we're starting a cable network called Reality Central," Swain says. The network will feature "lots of reruns of the reality shows we know and love." "I'm from the sixth 'Survivor,' " pipes in Alex Bell. "All I did was get on national TV and hit myself with a machete."
In a tent in the parking lot, partyers browse the Silent Auction of Celebrity Swag to benefit the Colombia Presbyterian Herbert Irving Child and Adolescent Oncology Center. Heiress and yoga instructor Anna Getty drops by to check in on her donation of "yoga tea events." She has yet to read the book but says that "there are so many ways to become famous ... go for it."
Has anybody here actually read the book?
"I love the title -- it's so L.A.," says heiress and party girl Paris Hilton. Had she perused the book, she would've come across a section titled "Why Don't You Throw Food at the Hilton Sisters?" in which de la Cruz and Robinovitz consider finding fame by doing just that.
Hilton will soon join the reality TV ranks herself: In Fox's coming "A Simple Life," Hilton will cope without a cell phone or credit cards, and she even has to work ... at a Dairy Queen. She'll become even more famous by pretending she's not famous.
The authors arrive fashionably late to the Thursday night affair. De la Cruz is in Christian Dior, while Robinovitz chose Escada and a pair of custom-made Rock & Republic jeans.
"Calvin Klein called our publicist, but we were already taken," Robinovitz says.
"I haven't paid for anything since I became famous," de la Cruz admits.
Which is apparently the case with some other attendees as well. "One woman tried to pull a switch on me," says security guy Kerry Meets of O&R Protective Services. He is wearing a black suit and an earpiece.
According to Meets, the woman slipped on a blue topaz and diamond ring that was being auctioned, replaced it with her own and walked away. Meets "grabbed her by the arm" and elicited an "Oh, I'm so embarrassed!" before she sauntered off. "That happens more in this atmosphere than in middle- or lower-class areas," Meets says, frowning.
Indeed. Later on, a certain rock star's daughter was seen helping herself to a pair of socks. "She was rummaging through a display," says an onlooker, speaking on the condition of anonymity. "She grabbed a pair of socks, took off her Ugg boots, put the socks on and ran off."
"I know who stole the socks," store owner Tracy Ross says when called the next day. "She told me she was stealing them. And I have her credit card on file.""Celebrity is almost the easy way out," says Ben Coyle, an artist who claims he's not looking for personal fame but, rather, recognition in the art world.
He is in the minority here.
"I feel famous too!" enthuses de la Cruz's mom, Ching. To keep up with their daughter, she and husband Bert "have to keep on reading entertainment magazines," she says. Bert has yet to read his daughter's book -- but he does find a moment to browse People magazine at the party.
Around 9, De la Cruz and Robinovitz try to project energy but, in fact, look exhausted.
"It's fun signing autographs," de la Cruz chirps.
Robinovitz drops and retrieves her autograph pen. "Fame doesn't fill the void," she admits, finally. "There is a difference between this and who we are at heart."
She eyes the door. "I can't wait to get back to my hotel and order room service," Robinovitz says.
As for de la Cruz: "I'm going home with my parents to Pasadena to watch our big TV."
SOCIAL CLIMES
Distinctive debut
Home Edition, Sunday Calendar, Page E-5
Calendar Desk
13 inches; 456 words
By Steven Barrie-Anthony, Times Staff Writer
Just short of midnight, partyers taking a breather from the Mountain Bar's opening festivities crowd around Arlo, the evening's hippest VIP.
Although Arlo is about 20 years short of drinking age, his cherubic mug is already a lady magnet. "He's a hit with all the girls," says mom Francis Stark, as she rocks Arlo gently on a bench in the courtyard outside.
Stark and husband Steve Hanson, the proprietor of nearby gallery China Art Objects, are part owners of the new Chinatown bar. Nearby, a second owner, architect Mark McManus, feeds quarters into a mini merry-go-round and hops on for a ride with his giggling daughter, Lilly. McManus' pregnant wife, Emily Decrescenzi, sits and watches. The third and most famous owner, artist Jorge Pardo, skipped the opening shindig for more important business in New York.
Inside, it's not your typical Los Angeles premiere. There aren't any celebrities so there aren't any cameras, there is a shocking lack of hors d'oeuvres, and instead of schmoozing and comping cocktails, the owners are lounging outside with their kids. The sum of which could be underwhelming ... but isn't.
This bar is an "accumulation of happy little accidents," says the general manager, Max Duncan. It has been three years in the making, explains Hanson, "a labor of love." Now that it's finally open, "I don't know what to think about having a bar," laughs Stark. As for the July 5 opening itself, she says, "I didn't send invitations out ... I'm a busy mom!" Arlo drools.
The crowd -- artists, architects, musicians and an insurance salesman who looks lost -- is more intent on exploring the interior than chatting up the opposite sex. Flip-flops stand next to spike heels, mojitos sweat next to colorful martinis, and everybody points at the intense red walls covered with red paint drips, at the huge hanging lamps fashioned out of wood, bent laminate and paper, at the carved wood booze cage that hangs above the bar ...
"This looks more like hell," observes Cathy Pack, an architect from Echo Park. "But you're with such happy people, drinks in hand, that it feels like heaven."
"It's sci-fi modernism filtered through baroque," offers a shy artist who declines to give her name.
Pardo -- known internationally for his "functional art" -- designed the space, once occupied by Chinatown's beloved General Lee's. Artist barhoppers say it will probably be known as "Pardo's place" rather than the Mountain Bar.
They may be right. The owners have yet to hang a sign. In fact, the only name on the building is a remnant from previous ownership: "Man General Lee's Jen Low" is painted on the inside of the door. It will stay as is, says McManus. "Because it's beautiful."
For these musicians, to air is truly divine
Home Edition, Calendar, Page E-1
Calendar Desk
41 inches; 1427 words
By Steven Barrie-Anthony, Times Staff Writer
Dan Crane plays guitar for the "faux-French '60s band" Les Sans Culottes. They've rocked Vegas' Venetian and opened for Ringo Starr. But when Crane appeared on NBC's "Last Call With Carson Daly," he didn't bring an instrument. Or at least not a visible one.
You've seen air guitar before. When your buddy at the bar jumped onto the table and tried ineptly to play along with Hendrix, resting his imagined Stratocaster on his beer belly -- that was air guitar. Wayne and Garth played air guitar, as did Bill and Ted. Chances are you've played air guitar yourself.
But it's not just you and your mirror anymore. The U.S. Air Guitar Championships were held Saturday at the Roxy on the Sunset Strip, and by the end of the night, a national air god emerged. Finally, the United States will be sending a representative to the (eighth annual) World Air Guitar Championships, held in Finland.
You laugh, but Crane is here to prove you wrong. There's "nothing funny about air guitar," he says.
Guitarists and groupies
Inside the club, afros and mullets converge. Bare-chested men go glam, in lederhosen and gold chains and tacky lipstick, as they and saunter and blow cigarette smoke in each other's faces.
The air guitarists and awestruck air groupies lounge on the VIP mezzanine. They schmooze, drink beer and grant interviews.
"I have played air guitar since I hopped out of the womb," says Jerry -- just Jerry -- from Nevada. He is wearing a furry, gray coat with no shirt, torn jeans and black-and-white checkered Keds. "I play spring break, weddings, my living room, the john....If I could play a freakin' instrument, I wouldn't be here," he admits. But still, "I think my research and development will take me to Finland. I may not be the most talented, but I will outwork you."
Jerry has two roadies named, appropriately, Veri and Berri. Both have dirty-blond hair and are showing lots of skin. "I'm old enough to know what turns me on. And that would be air guitar," says Berri. "We like it when he plays hard," adds Veri.
Standing nearby, Crane, a.k.a. Bjorn Turoque, frowns at the extravagant posturing. "L.A. is so superficial," says the Denver native. "It's filled with fake [cleavage] and fake smiles." In contrast to the competition, Crane is understated in his rainbow pants and black shirt with a yellow handkerchief tied around his neck.
Crane takes his air guitar seriously. "I'm a nihilist," he explains. "On the plane over, I read a lot of Nietzsche to get into the whole nothingness thing. I'm taking on the role of the Nietzsche Supermensch." Air guitar, he says, "is about nihilism, existentialism, showmanism and a lot of other isms."
Indeed, the Finnish Oulu Music Video Festival, which holds the World Air Guitar Championships, does so "to promote peace," reads its Web site. "According to the philosophy of air guitar, all wars would cease and bad things disappear if everybody in the world only played air guitar." Amnesty International, step aside.
Here's how the championships work: First round, the 20 contestants choose their own music. Next, five semifinalists each perform the same surprise song. The air guitarist who remains standing will go mano a mano with David "C-Diddy" Jung, the legendary East Coast champ. Winner takes all -- a real electric guitar, donated by Guitar Center, and a trip to Finland this summer.
The judges know their riffs: Nina Gordon, formerly of Veruca Salt; Tom Morello, formerly of Rage Against the Machine and currently with AudioSlave; and Roy Trakin, editor of Hits magazine. They'll score contestants based on subjective analyses of originality, charisma, feeling, technical ability, artistic merit and "airness."
"Air guitar has always been my art," says Shawn "Dick Maynard" Mason, who sells electronics in Los Angeles. He's wearing a long black trench coat, Mafioso-style. "I used to play with my dad on long car trips. I always joke with my friends that I'm the greatest air guitarist. Now I can prove it."
"It's C-Diddy!" somebody shouts. The champ has entered the building. He sports his signature Asian motif -- a long red kimono and tight red Chinese print stretch pants -- and is flanked by an actual entourage. Surrounded by would-be celebrities, C-Diddy projects the real thing. Cameras whir.
Sitting in a dark corner in his wheelchair, Ryan "Benjamin Walkin" Flynn, from Fontana, seems to shun attention. The mirrored cross rising from the back of his chair and looming over his head implies otherwise.
"I only came to represent Christian rock music," Flynn says. "We'll find out tonight if Christian rock gets the respect it deserves."
The real pretend thing
Everybody is already grinning as the curtain goes up. For an audience that just paid actual money to watch pretend guitarists pretend to play guitar, it can only get better.
The first few acts are uninspired. Then Mason takes the stage. He sheds his trench coat to reveal the glittery silver sleeves of his black shirt. As the Foo Fighters' "Everlong" begins, Mason bends his knees and slides his fingers up the fret board. He appears to be playing actual chords, not just air chords. He closes his eyes and bangs his head.
"Dick! Dick! Dick!" chants the happy mob.
The energy balloons as the night progresses, both on and off stage.
When it's time for Flynn to perform, nearby do-gooders lift his wheelchair gently onto the stage. "Praise Jesus," he tells the crowd. As the music begins, he drives his electric chair around the stage with one hand, works his guitar with the other. Then the wheelchair takes a violent turn, and Flynn spills out.
There is a collective gasp. But Flynn jumps to his feet and leaps into the air.
Appearances are no longer what they seem. All is air. At the end of his set, Flynn runs to the edge of the stage, reaches into his crotch and throws a handful of glitter at the audience -- which, judging from its deafening response, loved every second.
Good air guitar is actually more about technique than glitz and glam. The savants stand out because they are actually playing an instrument -- not a fake guitar, but rather a real air guitar. When an expert changes chords, the music jumps accordingly. When an expert strums violently, notes turn shrill and the amps scream.
Jerry strides onto the stage with all the bravado of a rock god. Veri and Berri come crawling after him, tear off his shirt and slink back offstage.
Jerry has the look -- hair falling over his eyes, a lanky physique. He has the sexpot groupies. He may even lead the rock star lifestyle. But when it comes to air guitar, he's a pretender. His fingers lag behind the music, get ahead of the music, just generally hinder the music.
In the semifinals, pure technical prowess -- on Motorhead's "Ace of Spades" -- trumps stage presence.
Gordon "Krye Tuff" Hintz, wearing kneepads and a pair of handcuffs as a belt buckle, is the last to perform. He is quiet and confident, and gazes out into the crowd as if to say, "Don't worry. I will rock for you."
His fingers dance. The beat flows through his body like electricity. And then he does something daring even for an air guitarist: He hurls his instrument upward.
The crowd screams. Eyes follow it up, up down, down ... and Hintz catches the guitar. His arms shudder and he jostles slightly, but he's got it, he caught it. His chords continue, flawlessly. He is the Ace of Spades.
It takes charisma
The dark club is humid with perspiration when C-Diddy arrives to battle Hintz for the title. The guy's got charisma. He unties his sash, pivots, and the red kimono falls open. Never before has a Hello Kitty breastplate looked so good. Never before has music seemed to bend -- to tremolo, to reverb -- at the will of an air guitarist.
The crowd goes crazy. C-Diddy plays with effortless virtuosity, a la Eric Clapton. He kneels, throws his head back, and his guitar wails. He owns the act so completely that the music seems to be emanating directly from him. "It can't get any better than this!" somebody shouts.
The judges agree. C-Diddy accepts his trophy and tells Hintz, "You have been a worthy challenger, my friend." He also accepts the real electric guitar, but looks unsure of how to handle it.
A champion crowned, the buoyant mob turns patriotic. "USA! USA!" they bellow. Finland, here we come!
Corner pleasures
* In impersonal L.A., a modest newsstand draws regulars who turn a bare strip of asphalt into a warm community.
Home Edition, Calendar, Page E-1
Calendar Desk
28 inches; 955 words
By Steven Barrie-Anthony, Times Staff Writer
They lounge on the corner of Detroit and Wilshire, as usual. On a late workday afternoon, Jay Lacharity is chugging from a gallon jug of water, blowing cigarette smoke out the side of his mouth and lunging over a chessboard. "I'm coming for you," he says in a faux-"Sopranos" accent. "Power, power, nothing but power."
A player at the next table pauses his game to yell, "No more espresso for him." Everybody laughs. Lacharity, a computer repairman, has been coming to the Miracle Mile Newsstand & Cafe almost every day for six months. And he's the new guy.
Minus inhabitants, the stand merits little attention. The square footage is smaller than its name: "Cafe" is used liberally to denote a coffee cart and a few small tables, bordered by a parking lot on two sides and the gridlock of the boulevard on the other. But the allure of companionship transcends the bald decor.
At 8 o'clock each morning, this spare strip of asphalt becomes a social oasis in an otherwise asocial metropolis. People play chess, browse magazines, listen to an eclectic mix of world music and gab over coffee. Many have been regulars for years.
"We come to study the art of chilling," explains Lacharity's chess opponent, Chorie Jenks. Jenks, a freelance camera operator, spends two or three afternoons a week here. "You wake up, you feel the sun and you come chill," he says, smiling at the traffic just five feet away.
On a recent midmorning, the corner is humming. A slight breeze, cool and comfortable, wafts through the newsstand's ecosystem. Chess players sprawl at the colorfully painted tables and converse with onlookers who stand nearby. Others casually leaf through magazines, in no rush to buy anything. The stereo spins retro for the moment -- the Housemartins croon, "Now the children of the world can see, this is a better place for us to be, the place in which we were born, so neglected and torn apart...."
Pedestrians glance curiously at the makeshift hangout and, more often than not, venture closer. You get the feeling that nobody is a stranger at Detroit and Wilshire -- at least not for long.
"If you feel like banging your head against a wall, this is the place to come," explains Aida -- just Aida. "People might come in looking like they wanna kill the world ... but when they leave, it's all smiles."
A huge bull terrier ambles toward her, and Aida squeals happily. She kneels to meet it on the pavement. "Oh, you're handsome," she tells the dog. "You must be Robinson," she says, reading from its tag.
"Uh, no, that would be me," says the tall twentysomething magazine reader holding the leash. "Ron Robertson."
Aida the cosmetology student, meet Ron the musician.
The leash jerks as the dog runs to greet two newcomers. Lilly Taggart, 18 months, strokes the beast tentatively from her father's arms. "We were in the neighborhood checking out art exhibits, and Lilly wanted to meet the dog," explains Nick Taggart.
The Miracle Mile Newsstand & Cafe was once nothing but a parking lot.
Michael Martin, who owns the place and who always seems to be smiling, didn't set out to start a social hub: "I just wondered what does this old dilapidated parking lot need?" He decided on a newsstand. When working the register grew tedious, he started playing chess to keep himself entertained. Soon he had lots of company.
Mathew Kogan, who teaches adult English as a second language, was stuck in traffic on Wilshire two years ago when he saw people hanging out at the stand and decided to quit the commute. He has been a mainstay ever since. "In L.A., you can't just go to nightclubs and expect to know everybody. You gotta make specific plans," he says. "But you come here, you see all the familiar faces."
It's a diverse crowd. From widower-retirees to students to "lawyers, engineers, architects, a carpenter and some old guy who doesn't say much, but he's so good at chess that he must be a grandmaster from Europe," Martin says.
And yes, actors too. Michael J. Pollard, an Academy Award nominee ("Bonnie and Clyde"), sips coffee and jokes around with John Kapelos, also an actor ("Auto Focus," "Legally Blonde"). Nearby, a disheveled but smiling older man does more pointing than speaking. "That's Reggie," Martin explains. "He's a homeless type. He cleans the sidewalks, and I pay him with coffee."
"Please don't put Michael in the paper," Kapelos jokes. "Everybody's gonna be looking for him."
"Yeah, now there's going to be a doorman," says Pollard.
Reggie grins.
Although the newsstand is always busy, many patrons are more intent on chilling than buying.
"We show up, but we don't necessarily spend a lot," says Kogan. "They're not making much money."
Martin doesn't mind. "When I started this place, I expected to be robbed at least once a year," he says. "But with all these guys hanging around, that never happens." The Blockbuster across the street was held up, but never the newsstand.
While other merchants are afraid of crowds for security reasons, Martin embraces crowds -- for security reasons. Community is a welcome byproduct.
For Goldsborough Purnell, the corner is a second home. Over the past three years, the Albertsons employee has spent a few hours every day here. In fact, Purnell, who lives in Monterey Hills, is looking to move closer to Detroit and Wilshire. "Rain or shine or cold, I'll be here," he says.
As daylight fades, the traffic coagulates. Frustrated commuters stare at the unlikely consortium as their cars inch past. On the corner, little changes. People chat, read, play chess. Chill. Time is no enemy. The only destination is now.
First Person
Baldness Remedies Can Make a Young Man's Hair Stand on End
Home Edition, Southern California Living, Page E-2
Features Desk
19 inches; 696 words
By STEVEN BARRIE-ANTHONY, SPECIAL TO THE TIMES
At first I told myself that it couldn't be, it was the way the light hit the cut, maybe my shampoo was too harsh, maybe, oh, I don't know, maybe it's just my notoriously active imagination.
Sitting in my dorm room watching "Saturday Night Live," I pointed and told a friend, "It's thinning." He was supposed to say, "Oh, Steven, that's ridiculous," but instead he forgot his lines and just nodded and said, "Yep."
But I still didn't believe it. At 20--no, it couldn't be. Maybe at 40 or even 30, little by little so I wouldn't even notice, after I was married and happy and secure and loved.
At home for winter break, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror. I turned on all the lights--over the sink, the dome light, in the hall--and then I opened my eyes and looked. There was no way around it. My hairline was receding. Even the hair up on top wasn't as thick as it used to be.
I told my mom. Of course she disagreed, but my dad said, "Yeah, I see what you mean."
"Look," he said to my mom, "look where his hairline is, and on the top of the head, this used to be a lot fuller, thicker." They got a picture from high school, my senior portrait. Lo and behold, I had more hair back then. Quite a bit.
Darn, I thought. This is not what I need now. In the middle of sophomore year, do I really need something to undermine my confidence? Something to make me feel isolated, different?
After a while I had to laugh. What the heck--there's nothing to do but grin and bear it. But wait a second, I thought, and made a beeline for the Internet.
It turns out that hair loss in men is usually caused by a high level of testosterone, the hormone that basically makes men men, so I guess in a way that's a good thing. I disregarded all the Web sites dedicated to wigs and hairpieces, hair implants and other drastic plastic surgeries. But a few things seemed promising.
First, Rogaine, the goop you spread on your scalp twice a day, seems to make a difference for a lot of guys. But you have to do it forever--or you lose all the hair you would've lost anyway. And being a red-blooded American with a short attention span, I didn't think doing that twice a day for the rest of my life would be doable.
There must be a quick fix--this is the 21st century, folks!
Finally, I came across what I thought I'd been looking for: Propecia. It's a new drug, a relative of Proscar, which was originally prescribed to treat prostate problems. If taken daily, it apparently grows new hair and prevents continued hair loss in most men. Wow, what a great deal, I thought--until I looked at the possible side effects. Taking Propecia may produce "decreased sexual desire, lowered [sexual] sensitivity, or decreased ejaculate ... " read the hairloss.org Web site.
Hmm, I thought, take that pill and I risk being bald and impotent.
Just out of curiosity, I followed the chain of drugs. If I took Propecia to halt hair loss, and Viagra to fix erectile dysfunction, then I'd be as good as new, right? Possibly right--probably wrong.
"The most common drug side effects of Viagra are headache, flushing of the face, and upset stomach," reads the mens-sexual-health.org Web site. Others include " ... temporary changes in color vision ... eyes being more sensitive to light, or blurred vision." In rare cases, you "may have an erection that lasts many hours."
So if I want to be totally intact, I'd have to take: Propecia for hair, Viagra for sexual function, Pepto Bismal for my stomach and Advil or Tylenol for my head. On top of that, I might be flushed, have colored vision and never, ever, be able to be confident wearing sweat pants in public. Sound like a good trade for a bit o' thinning up on top?
For me right now, a nice hat seems like the better solution.
*
Steven Anthony-Barrie is a sophomore at Occidental College. His e-mail is barrie@oxy.edu.
So SoCal / Metropolis
We Who Are About to Pop Wheelies Salute You
Home Edition, Los Angeles Times Magazine,
Times Magazine Desk
6 inches; 203 words
By Steven Barrie-Anthony,
"Fast Eddie" sails on his silver bike across Santa Fe Street, boxing-glove-and-broom-handle lance extending from his left hand. He thrusts to his opponent's chest, sending him into a whirl spin that ends on the asphalt. The crowd's roar celebrates the 23-year-old's 100th win as a "bicycle jouster." It's business as usual for the few hundred punks and pedestrians who revel every other month in live music, medieval era-inspired sports and other irreverent entertainment at downtown's 5IFTYBUCKS Gallery.
Other rites at the evenings organized by Punx of the Round Keg (P.O.R.K.) can include pie-eating contests, "flaming chariot races" (bikes dragging shovels holding flaming kerosene), skateboard jousts, raffles of punk rock paraphernalia and, of course, performances by local punk bands.
P.O.R.K. began when a group of L.A. punk veterans, including former L7 bassist Jennifer Precious Finch, decided it was time to resurrect downtown's punk rock scene. The event at 5IFTYBUCKS, Finch explains, is "meant to bring people together, both young and old--it's just fun, artistic energy."
But why all the shenanigans? Co-founder Cali Dewitt looks perplexed at the question. "It just makes intuitive sense," he says.
*
Event information: 8p.m.-midnight, first wednesday of every odd-numbered month, 5iftybucks gallery, 2055 e. 7th St., downtown los angeles. dates change and may be confirmed at (323) 663-9300 or www.porkevents.com.
First Person
Under Cover of Night: Crashing Oscar's Party
Home Edition, Southern California Living, Page E-1
View Desk
30 inches; 1051 words
By STEVEN BARRIE-ANTHONY,
Neither I nor my girlfriend, Katie Flynn, is very interested in movies or the people who make them. We'd probably have a hard time naming a dozen movie stars between us. We didn't even plan on watching the Academy Awards on TV. But the Oscars were being held across the street from USC, where Katie goes to school, and as recent transplants from the Bay Area, we were intrigued by the hype surrounding Hollywood. And so I got a phone call at 7 p.m.
"Wanna see if we can get into the Academy Awards?" Katie asked.
"Well, sure," I said.
Only problem was that I didn't have a suit, much less a tux. A borrowing spree in the Occidental College dorm I call home turned up some black slacks (too long), dress shoes (too tight) and a black jacket (too small). The only thing that actually fit me was a borrowed blue shirt, but the outfit had to do.
In the meantime, Katie had donned her baby-blue prom dress from high school and some strappy high-heeled sandals. She was just pinning up her hair when I walked in at almost 8. I was underdressed even for a high school dance, and her outfit would never pass for Versace, but we were in the mood for adventure.
We circled the Shrine in Katie's Ford Bronco, looking for the best point of entry. They say that security at the awards is about as tight as security at the White House--and they seemed to be right. Hundreds of tense-looking cops patrolled the perimeter, and private security guards flanked the entrances and exits.
We parked the car a few blocks away and stood just outside of the barrier, feeling hopeless and a bit ridiculous. But all that disappeared when a man in a gray hooded sweatshirt approached us and asked what we were doing.
"We were trying to get in there," I said, motioning toward the VIP sanctum. "Oh, that's no problem," he said. "You guys look great! Just walk right by, they won't even question you. Feel like you belong, and you will."
That's what we did. Katie looped her arm around mine, threw back her head, and we waltzed right by the cops and the security guards, laughing and talking boisterously as if the place belonged to us.
By this time, the awards were mostly over, so we opted to stand our ground on the famous red carpet outside the auditorium.
Feel like you belong, and you will!
"Can you believe he did that?" Katie asked, apropos of nothing, at one point. I smiled, played along. "What nerve!" I said in mock horror. Talking about nothing at all had never been more entertaining. We even pulled out Katie's camera and summoned an academy employee to take our picture in front of the two huge Oscar statues.
"What after-party are you going to?" I casually asked a couple standing nearby.
"I think the Beverly Hills Hotel party's dead," the bearded man informed us, "but I hear the Vanity Fair thing at Morton's is kicking."
Morton's it was. We parked the Bronco a few blocks away and walked toward the restaurant, past cordoned-off lines of gawkers who were trying to catch a glimpse of their favorite stars. Chalk it up to our inexperience, but we hadn't counted on such extensive security. Cops were all over the place along with chiseled bouncers in tuxedos who had little earpiece walkie-talkies like Secret Service agents. Even the stars had to show ID.
Once again we circled, this time on foot. Once again, getting in seemed impossible. "Maybe if we get a limo driver to drive us right up to the front, they'll let us in," Katie said.
The driver we asked smiled and declined. But just as we were ready to walk away, he offered some advice: "Try the kitchen," he said conspiratorially. "You can usually get in through the kitchen."
That turned out to be a joke. At least five security guards and cops blocked the back entrance, where maybe 20 or 30 people--all better-dressed than Katie and I--were vying to get in. We made eye contact with security, and a middle-aged cop approached us and whispered that the bouncers only make 20 bucks an hour, and it costs, like, a grand to get in here normally, "if you know what I mean."
But the truth is, we didn't have any money on us--not even a buck--and we weren't really interested in bribery.
As time ticked by, the people waiting with us seemed to become more and more desperate. A few people even made rushed attempts at the door, only to be led back outside. Finally, a guard with a crew cut, apparently the head honcho, sidled up beside us.
"Why are you guys here?" he asked.
"Actually, we don't really know why we're here, we don't have any connections, and we don't have any money, to be honest," Katie said. Surprisingly, he smiled.
"Well, thank you for that honesty," he said. "That means a lot."
Fifteen minutes passed. We stood there laughing out loud and flashing curious smiles to the (possible) stars who strolled by. We couldn't bluff or name-drop, and there was no way to hide our complete naivete.
At one point Katie, kidding around, asked the friendly guard if there was a secret password.
"Pick a number between one and 1,000," he said, hinting that he wanted us to name a price.
"784," Katie answered promptly.
The guard stifled a laugh. He must have seen that our born-yesterday appearance wasn't a charade. Soon, he pulled us aside and said in a hushed voice, "You really want in, don't you? Well, you seem like good kids. Here you go."
He handed us a blue glow stick, the key to inside. "But I didn't let you in!" he reminded us.
We scrambled past the rest of security and landed, breathless, in a beautiful room with dozens of people wearing the kinds of gowns and jewels you only see on television.
"Who's that man to my left? I swear I've seen him before!" Katie whispered into my ear. "Isn't that the Lovitz guy? Lyle Lovitz? Or is it Jon?"
Is it too unfashionable for everyone to wear a name tag nowadays?
We headed across the crowded room. At least 10 people proudly clasped statuettes close to their hearts. I lunged forward, trying to get a good look at something and bumped shoulders with somebody familiar. It was Ben Affleck, the guy from "Good Will Hunting."
Finally someone I recognized! I smiled like he was an old friend and patted him on the back. Katie chatted with Bjork, a favorite singer of hers, and then we were whisked away by the ever-moving crowd.
Benicio Del Toro, the guy from "Traffic," stood near the bar. We said hello and congrats. Around the room we were greeted by nothing but smiles.
Eventually we grew bold and asked a winner if we could borrow his statuette for a sec. He obliged and even snapped a picture of us with the golden man. With that, our film was gone. So were most of the stars. It was time for the limo to turn back into a Bronco, my suit to return to its rightful owners, and Katie's Versace gown to once again become her prom dress.
We learned a lot about L.A. in those few hours. We had always thought, in our distinctly Northern Californian way, that Los Angeles is only for the phonies, that telling the truth here isn't half as respectable to the locals as a good lie or a string of connections. We had criticized this city for being mean and cold and full of ego.
I can't say that this night changed our attitude entirely, but it certainly took us in that direction. We got into the same places as all those schmoozers and stars just by being ourselves, proving that there is still some room in this town for a little honesty, compassion and serendipity.
We followed the stars, still mostly nameless to us, out the front door of Morton's to the place where everyone was waiting for their limos. But instead of getting into one of those long black chariots, we looked at each other, grasped hands, and crossed the line, leaving Hollywood behind.
*
Katie Flynn contributed to this story
THE 73RD ANNUAL ACADEMY AWARD NOMINATIONS
A Day in the Life
Home Edition, Calendar, Page F-2
Entertainment Desk
48 inches; 1702 words
By RICHARD NATALE and RACHEL USLAN and GINA PICCALO and STEVEN BARRIE-ANTHONY and SUSAN KING and TOM GORMAN and ELIZABETH JENSEN,
An honor just to be nominated? For perhaps one day in Hollywood--the day the Academy Award nominations are announced--that's no lie. But the nominees are a mere smattering of the people whose lives, fortunes and fates are touched by the Oscars. From now until March 25, Hollywood is not just The Industry: It's The Oscar Industry. Come on in.
*
Midnight, PST: Miramax co-chairman Harvey Weinstein touches down at Kennedy International Airport from Monday night's London premiere of "Chocolat" to make it home to Manhattan in time for his annual Oscar nomination ritual: "My two kids wake me at 8:30 [EST]--I keep them out of school on nominations morning. We all lie on the bed and watch Katie Couric. And then when we get a best picture nomination, the kids jump up and down on the bed." "Chocolat" is Miramax Films' ninth consecutive best picture nomination.
*
2:57 a.m. The academy gears up for a 3 a.m. rehearsal.
*
5:38 a.m.: Actress Kathy Bates and Robert Rehme begin reading the names of the nominees for the 73rd Academy Awards.
*
5 a.m.: "My daughter gets on the bus at 8 o'clock to go to school," said best actress nominee Joan Allen, who lives in New York. "This morning, my husband took her to the bus while I showered with our pet parrot [Midnight]. I felt it would be great: He'll come home and he can blow-dry the bird and I will be able to see the nominations. But the bus was late and he had to take our daughter on the subway to school. So, I'm running around with a blow-dryer in my hand trying to dry the parrot off so she won't get pneumonia" when Allen's name is read.
*
5:45 a.m.: Inside the Samuel Goldwyn Theater at the academy building in Beverly Hills, Oscar campaign consultant Tony Angellotti sits at the rear of the auditorium looking absolutely stunned after the announcement, and--rare for a publicist--speechless. He declines to comment other than that he is "surprised and delighted." As well he should be: He advised Miramax on its strategy for "Chocolat" (five nominations, including best picture), Universal on "Erin Brockovich" (five including best picture) and "Billy Elliot" (three major nominations). Meanwhile, publicist Michael Lawson delivers the good news to his boss at MPRM Public Relations, company co-founder Mark Pogachevsky, at the Berlin Film Festival, that the announcement includes 19 nominations among the eight movies the company worked on.
*
5:45 a.m. to 6 a.m.: Best actress nominee Juliette Binoche is interviewed from London on CBS' "Early Show," as had been prearranged; she gets the news from the show that "Chocolat" had been nominated for best picture. 5:48 a.m.: Best supporting actor Willem Dafoe, who is shooting "Spiderman" in Culver City, is interviewed on NBC's "Today" show. He had been lined up since Thursday. Ellen Burstyn is interviewed on CNN at 5:47 a.m. Producer Danny DeVito is interviewed at 5:50 a.m. during the East Coast edition of "Good Morning America" about "Erin Brockovich."
*
6 a.m.: Joel and Ethan Coen, in New York, learn they have been nominated for best adapted screenplay for "O Brother, Where Art Thou?" "It was when we came into the cutting room," said Ethan Coen. "We don't get to the cutting room very early."
"I didn't realize the nominations were today," said Joel Coen. "For some reason I thought it was the end of the month when they came out."
"A few people called up after that," said Ethan Coen. "It's been a very low-key day. The Disney people called us when they woke up. It was about midday."
*
Steven Soderbergh is filming George Clooney coming down an escalator in an Atlantic City, N.J., casino in a scene for his new film, the remake of the Rat Pack caper "Ocean's Eleven," when he heard about his double directing nomination, for both "Erin Brockovich" and "Traffic."
*
6:30 a.m.: At the offices of the industry trade publication Daily Variety, Jersey Films executives Michael Shamberg and Stacey Sher are the first to call Variety managing editor Timothy Gray to talk about the nominations for "Erin Brockovich." Next to call: Ennio Morricone (nominated for the score for "Malena"), and producer David Brown ("Chocolat"), who calls from London. Variety reporter Jill Feiwell finds six voice-mail messages awaiting her when she arrives at 6 a.m. First person to reach her: Ed Harris. As Harris hangs up, Willem Dafoe is on the line, and then Javier Bardem from Madrid.
*
7 a.m.: In the spirit of corporate synergy, Sony Pictures Classics sends out Sony digital cameras to all their nominees with a congratulatory note suggesting they bring along the cameras to take photos on Oscar night.
*
9 a.m.: USA Films' marketing head Steve Flynn and President Russell Schwartz put the finishing touches on the new ad campaign for best picture nominee "Traffic," emphasizing the film's personal drama as the film expands to smaller cities. The new ad includes most of the film's ensemble cast with a centerpiece image focusing on the Michael Douglas and Amy Irving family drama.
Academy employees go home after having been at work since the previous night. (The accounting firm of PricewaterhouseCoopers delivered the final nominations at 9 p.m. Monday evening.)
*
10:27 a.m.: Designer David Cardona is busy in his Santa Monica studio prepping 40 pieces of his fall collection to show New York buyers next week, when he gets a call from jeweler Alexander. It's a brief call but long enough to build the hopes of the 37-year-old designer who is known for dressing actresses Lara Flynn Boyle and Sela Ward. "A couple of people he knows got nominated," Cardona said. "If we hit it from a jewelry end and the designer end we may end up with access."
Cardona emphasizes that it is the young and the beautiful who get the attention and not the award winners themselves. "It's harsh in the way it sounds," he says, "but we don't set the rules, Hollywood sets the rules. And you either play or get out of the game."
*
10:30 a.m: Michael Goddard, manager of the Grill, says it'll be business as usual at the power lunch eatery. "We get the heads of every studio and agency every day. . . . I'm sure that if there's a certain agent who handles Russell Crowe, they're doing more work than normal today. Or with the agent who handles Julia Roberts, they'll say to them, 'Hey, congratulations.' But I'm sure they already knew that Julia Roberts was going to be nominated and that she's going to win anyway. I mean, I'm sure she'll win. She was good. She's going to win, right? Anyway, I've gotta go because I've got four lines going here."
*
11:15 a.m: "I haven't even had a chance to see who got nominated. How can I find out?" says Pam Morton, general manager of Morton's restaurant in West Hollywood, the site of the eighth annual Vanity Fair post-Oscar party. Morton's is planning for this perennially popular event not long after the last one ends and is not affected by nomination day. "Vanity Fair is not tied to any one particular movie, unlike other parties . . . so it's great to whoever got the nominations."
"My top goal of the year is to get an Oscar party," said Julie Lawrence, director of catering at Sky Bar at the Mondrian Hotel. Although most partyers won't finalize their reservations until next week, restaurateurs say that in addition to the Vanity Fair bash at Morton's Elton John is strongly considering returning to Maple Drive for his annual benefit on Oscar night, according to the manager.
*
11:35 a.m. Movies are supposed to be collaborative endeavors--even more so when it comes to bragging rights. Sony Pictures Entertainment reps call at 11:35 to stake a claim to 26 nominations, though some are shared with DreamWorks ("Almost Famous") or Universal ("Erin Brockovich," "Meet the Parents"). DreamWorks (which can cite 21) also shares its 12 nominations for "Gladiator" with Universal, and the two nominations for "Cast Away" with Fox. Universal claims the most nominations with 28, additionally sharing a pair with Disney ("O Brother, Where Art Thou?").
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Noon: DreamWorks sends its revised advertisement for "Gladiator" to the Los Angeles Times, trumpeting the film's 12 nominations.
Kathy Stoya, owner of Mixed Bag, a gift basket business, braces herself for the next couple of days. "I'm anticipating getting bombarded. Ninety-five percent of my business is film and television industry. But sometimes they don't send baskets the day of the nominations because they don't know where the people are. Everyone is traveling around, so it happens a couple of days after."
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1 p.m.: Richard David, co-owner of Marks Garden, a flower store in Sherman Oaks that will provide arrangements for both the Governors Ball and Elton John's Oscar night party, has seen his Oscar business start already, and takes particular note of the close proximity between nomination day and the king of all flower holidays, Valentine's Day. "Today is crazy. They always seem to fall close together. We have several hundred orders going through. We were even getting requests the day before from the studios saying, 'We're pretty sure we're going to have some nominations,' so they could be ready to call first thing the next day. But there'll be even more tomorrow, after the announcements appear in the trades."
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1:23 p.m.: Stylist George Bloodwell keeps a list of the Oscar nominees close at hand all morning as he fields calls and drop-ins from publicists and designers to his airy Beverly Hills office. Of course, he says he'd love to get Julia Roberts or Kate Hudson, but for now he's too busy coordinating Joaquin Phoenix's attire. Already, Bloodwell has landed an actress from the cast of "Traffic," but he won't name names. In the meantime, Vivica Fox needs a dress for the Grammys and Bloodwell has to worry about half a dozen other award shows between now and Oscar night. Just this morning he'd spoken (fluent Italian) with the folks at Valentino, Versace and Armani, got exclusive watchmakers Audemars Piguet flying in from Switzerland and hot new clothing designer Roberto Cavalli scheduled in from Italy. "I've talked to them all," Bloodwell says, "this is no Mickey Mouse thing. This is the Oscars!"
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2:14 p.m.: Even though it is illegal to place bets in Las Vegas on Oscar winners, the Stardust casino announces, for the fun of it, that "Gladiator" is the 9-5 favorite to be named best picture, followed by "Traffic" (3-1), "Erin Brockovich" (4-1), "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon" (6-1) and "Chocolat" (8-1).
Stardust bookmaker Joe Lupo says odds are 2-1 that Crowe will win best actor, over Geoffrey Rush (5-2) and Tom Hanks (7-2), and that Roberts is an even-odds bet to win best actress, followed by Allen (7-2) and Binoche (4-1).
Best director: "Gladiator's" Ridley Scott (2-1). "Traffic's" Benicio Del Toro is even-odds to take supporting actor, and Hudson is the 2-1 favorite to win supporting actress.
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2:26 p.m.: The shared race and sports book at Bally's and Paris-Las Vegas announces its Oscar odds, and disagrees in part with Stardust's picks. Bookmaker John Avello goes with "Gladiator" (2-1) over "Traffic" (3-1), "Erin Brockovich" (4-1), "Chocolat" (6-1) and "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon" (8-1).
Avello agrees with his colleague that Crowe is a 2-1 favorite for actor, but goes with Hanks next (3-1), over Rush (4-1). Avello also gives Roberts an even chance for actress, over Allen (2-1) and Burstyn (5-1).
For director: Scott (2-1). Jeff Bridges is a 2-1 favorite for supporting actor, and Judi Dench a 2-1 bet to take supporting actress.
Why publish Oscar odds? "I'm an oddsmaker at heart," said Avello. "I'll put a number up on just about anything."
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2:30 p.m.: "You can tell the Republicans are back in town, because the two biggest films are about warriors," says Bruce Vilanch, who has written for the Oscar show for 13 years. "That was my first observation after I said, 'Welcome to Steven Soderbergh Land.' "
"It's my bar mitzvah this year," says Vilanch. "I can't think of a better present than to have Bob Dylan sing at my bar mitzvah. Bob Dylan at the Academy Awards. The times have changed.
"Until you know what the academy has made of the movie year, you don't know what the jokes are going to be. "We'll have a lot of jokes about crouching tigers and gladiators. Debbie Allen, she's warming up those tigers, they're crouching right now at a rehearsal studio.
Page 2 / IDEAS, TRENDS, STYLE AND BUZZ
Perspective
Enjoying the Ride
* A college freshman says teens who forgo the fast track to pursue their passions will be happier in high school and in life.
Home Edition, Southern California Living, Page E-2
View Desk
27 inches; 932 words
By STEVEN BARRIE-ANTHONY, SPECIAL TO THE TIMES
As competition for acceptance to prestige universities has reached an all-time high, the very idea of what students should get from high school has become distorted.
Students feel forced to pad their resumes to a ridiculous extent--join every club, play every sport, be in every high-level class--basically look good at everything on paper without concentrating on any particular passion. Doing community service and taking a full load of honors and Advanced Placement classes have value, but doing them merely to get into college is perverse.
Especially if it means not doing the things you love.
Some people--especially parents--have an attitude that treats every phase of life as preparation for the next one. High school is treated as a way to get into a good college, college as transition into graduate school, graduate school as a gateway into the work force, and jobs, well, are gotten and kept in order to make money. "Just close your eyes and bear it until retirement," people seem to think. You can't stop and enjoy life until you're 65? Give me a break.
This rat-race deserves the rotten reputation it has earned.
I've been in the trenches--I graduated from high school last year and am a college freshman now--and I'm here to say there is another way: Follow your heart and get into the college right for you.
High school is not merely a gateway into college. It is an experience in itself, perhaps even more important than college in terms of self-development.
There are certain reasonable steps that students can and should take in order to keep their college options open, like taking a relatively high level of academics, getting good grades, studying a bit for tests such as the SAT.
But if you do everything merely for tomorrow, then there's nothing to keep you happy today. There's a line you just shouldn't cross.
If you love to write poetry, for example, but you're spending so much time doing math and science that you no longer have any time for writing, then you've crossed that line. If you just hate English, but you love science, and you're studying and studying for that AP English course and don't have any time to devote to science, then you've crossed that line.
If you have extracurricular activities that mean a lot to you, and you feel like you have to give them up because people say you should be spending time doing other things because they "help you get into college," think again. Don't give up your passions. And parents, don't let your kids give up what they love for some pursuit of future prestige. It doesn't pay off.
When I first entered Berkeley High, a large public high school a few blocksfrom the UC Berkeley campus, I had this deep desire to achieve at some high level and go to Harvard or one of the Ivies. Who knows where that urge came from, certainly not from my parents, but it was there in full force.
I have always loved to write--poetry, fiction, anything really. From a young age writing has been my primary genre of creative expression. In registering for ninth grade, I enrolled in every high-level class available--but all of those classes were in math and science. There were no freshman honors classes in the humanities. As a result, I worked really hard and did well in these classes, but I wasn't able to keep up with writing, wasn't able to maintain this passion.
Halfway through my freshman year, my parents noticed what was happening, and questioned what I was doing. In talking to them, it became apparent to me that I was giving up a part of myself, and it just wasn't worth the payoff. So the following semester I went into the normal math and science classes and cleared more time for myself.
For the rest of my time at Berkeley High, I followed my heart, so to speak. I poured myself into activities that spoke to me. I edited multiple publications on campus, I published poetry, I spent hundreds of hours doing things that meant the world to me. All the while, some people told me that I was making a mistake, that if I wanted to get into a good college I should do what all the other college-bound kids were doing: putting their noses to the grindstone, trying to do everything at once, be in every AP and honors course in every possible academic area, join every club. But I didn't listen, and I'm glad I didn't.
I took care of business, I had a good grade-point average and a decent SAT score when I applied to colleges. But more importantly, I was happy and I had a good sense of who I am. There is something in high school, in education, that goes beyond grades, there is a joy to learning that is often forgotten. (A good teacher and friend once advised me: "Don't let school get in the way of your education.")
I ended up getting accepted into most of the colleges I applied to--including some very selective ones. I'm saying this not to brag, but to emphasize my point: that maintaining your passions and following your dreams helps your future, doesn't hurt it. I used the same thinking in choosing a college.
Everyone assumed I would go to Stanford or UC Berkeley because of their prestige. But after visiting the various colleges that accepted me, I decided that those two really weren't the schools for me. I chose the much less-known Occidental College in Los Angeles, because it speaks more to who I am, and has, in my opinion, comparably high-level academics.
Professors at Occidental seem accessible and friendly, and the student body is focused on community, on collaboration, as opposed to the highly competitive environment at some of the better-known schools. As I told someone recently who questioned my decision: Prestige isn't going to make me happy when I wake up every morning.
High school was one of the best experiences in my life, and I'll always remember it warmly. I don't hear this kind of comment too often and that makes me sad. Despite the problems plaguing American education, high school can be wonderful in many ways. If students take care of business, but also follow what they love, then they will flourish. And if they do this, then college will take care of itself.
I recently read a quote in Newsweek from a college counselor. She was talking about getting into prestigious universities, about how to be a patch on the "quilt" of admitted students. "With no outstanding passion, you don't fit into the quilt. I don't care what you do, get out and do it. If you collect butterflies, get out there and collect them." I couldn't agree more.
And if students don't get into the college they want to, at least they will have had four good years of real education, growing personally, following their dreams.
There will be a college that fits each one, that wants each one. Even if it's difficult to see at the moment, I look back now, just months later, and see how true that is.
