My L.A. Story

I just went four days without wearing socks, a new record.  I was in L.A. over the Labor Day weekend, and socks seemed out of place in a city where “formal” wear is a collared shirt and “casual” is no shirt at all.   Some folks in L.A. might be offended at that statement, but if the sandal fits…

I’ve had family in California for most of my life, and I made a number of trips out west as a kid, but it had been nearly 20 years since my last visit.  By fortunate coincidence, my uncle is a UCLA booster, and I am a fan of the Tennessee Volunteers.  For the first time this decade, those teams met up in Pasadena for their season opener.  My uncle invited my wife and I out for the game, and we took the opportunity to visit the area from which I’d long been absent and where my wife had never traveled.

My Uncle Larry and Aunt Kitty are unfailingly gracious and generous.  From the moment they picked us up at LAX until they dropped us off, we were treated to a high-paced itinerary full of wonderful meals and diverse attractions.  Their plans sounded great, but the one unplannable item on my agenda was to spot someone famous.  Atlanta is not without its celebrities and attractions, but whenever I go to L.A., New York, or D.C. I have the sense that I’m headed to where the action is, to where decisions are made and important things happen in the worlds of entertainment, business and politics.  There’s a glamour factor to Southern California that’s impossible to beat, and unnecessary to explain.   L.A. is the object of our nation’s collective loathing and lust, representing the things those of us in the flyover states both criticize and crave. Even NYC and DC kowtow to the cultural agenda that L.A. sets for the rest of the world.  For a few days, I was eager to bask in the other-worldliness of it all. 

Saturday morning, after reading the newspaper and enjoying breakfast in my aunt and uncle’s perfectly manicured back yard, we boarded the Lexus for the beginning of our three-day tour.  Day One included Newport and Laguna Beach where we enjoyed a great meal at a sort of Mexican/Mediterranean merge restaurant with a spectacular view of the Pacific Ocean.  Beautiful sites and girls abounded, though none more beautiful than the one I brought with me.

(Please forgive the poor photo quality.  I forgot our regular camera and used my camera phone for this leg of the journey)

The topography of Southern California is radically different than anything in the East.  Virtually every house in L.A. is built on a dry, brown, creosote-covered hill.  Surprisingly tall mountains tower above nearby ridges in almost every direction.  The coastline can be disorienting, because in most instances the beach is located to the south, when logic tells you it should be west.   Only the irrigated lawns are lush and green, and the rest of the parched landscape produces sparse, drought-hearty plants.

The evening of Day One, we drove into Anaheim to visit Disneyland.  At 38, I’m still not over the thrill of visiting the Disney parks, even when my kids aren’t with me.  We met a friend of my aunt and uncle’s who has perhaps the most wonderful job in the world.  She hands out prizes at the park – ranging from mouse ears to overnight stays in the castle suite originally designed for Walt Disney.  She provided us with passes to the Fantasmic show, which we enjoyed after a wonderful meal and a few rides.  My relatives were probably a little surprised at my childlike enthusiasm for the rides, which wasn’t significantly dulled from my first visit to the park with my aunt and uncle back in 1976.

 

After Raiders of the Lost Ark, Space Mountain and a stroll down Main Street, U.S.A., we retired to the house, our east coast bodies telling us it was much later than the time showing on the wall clock.

On Day Two we visited the Getty Center, a wonderful example of the power of generosity, even when it comes from evil oil men.  J.P. Getty’s bequest upon his death in 1976 led to the construction of the museum, completed about 11 ago.  A quiet tram carried us above the cacophonous freeway to the grand, breezy structure overlooking the surrounding valleys.  Some of Bernini’s paintings and sculptures were on special exhibit, and we marveled at the detail in his busts of popes, nobles and jesters.  The Getty itself is a work of architectural art, providing seemingly infinite angles and perspectives to view the art and the surrounding countryside. 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In a study of stark contrasts, we drove from the Getty to Venice Beach, which is where photographers capture stock footage of hippies, rollerbladers and other West Coast bohemians in all their glory.  The street scene looked like I imagine a post-Castro Cuba, complete with poverty, rebellious debauchery, reckless abandon and socialist inclinations.

  

  

I couldn’t wear my preppy golf shirt in that environment.  It screamed “Right Wing Republican” as loudly as if I’d been wearing a Bush/Cheney t-shirt.  So, just as the Apostle Paul was all things to all people, I chose to conform to my surroundings.  No one else joined me.

My elegant aunt was a little mortified by the whole scene, but she consented to pose with me for this memorable picture.

 

 

I kept expecting to see Fletch walk out onto the beach in a Lakers jersey, but neither he nor anyone else I recognized was to be found.  My search for celebrity came up empty again.  Not finding any suitable gifts for the kids, we moved on to the remarkably incongruous Rodeo Drive.  Other than the dearth of shoppers (it was a Sunday afternoon), it was all that I expected it to be.  We looked in a few shops, but mostly marveled at the extravagant inaccessibility of it all.  Paris and Nicole were nowhere to be found.

 

  

From there, we drove through Beverly Hills, Westwood, and Hollywood where we saw recognizable sites and opulent, tree-lined streets.  But alas, I saw no famous faces.  That evening we ate at a wonderful bistro near my Aunt and Uncle’s home where we sat and continued our running conversation about the extended family.   My father is one of six, and my uncle Larry is his youngest brother (one of twins).  By my count, there are 18 cousins and now more offspring of cousins than I can count (What are they, my second cousins?  Second cousins once removed?) , so we had lots to discuss.  Uncles and aunts are great sources of family history that your parents may have intentionally forgotten to tell you.  Things like the story about Larry and Kitty rekindling their long-dormant relationship while on a double date with my father – who was on that date with Kitty.  These are interesting things to know.

The next morning we visited the Nixon Presidential Library. I didn’t recognize anyone I’d seen at Venice Beach among the museum visitors or docents.  It was an impressive library, built next to the President’s birthplace and childhood home.  The small house is still in its original location, just a few yards from his grave.  I found it odd, but not terribly surprising, that I saw not one mention of Watergate or resignation in the library.  I imagine that he had a hand in the library’s design, and hoped that deleting such mentions would somehow dull the incident’s resonance in history. 

From there, we began preparations for the long awaited event – Tennessee versus UCLA at the Rose Bowl.  Tennessee was a heavy favorite, due in part to the fact that UCLA was starting a 3rd string quarterback and had suffered injuries and other depletions at key positions.  Tennessee was coming off of a strong year with a lot of returning veterans.  The table was set for an opening game win, and I was excited to be a witness.

My uncle and aunt do things well, including game day.  We parked near a large tent full of UCLA fans where we enjoyed good pre-game food and an open bar.  It was there, finally, that I enjoyed my first celebrity sighting.  Perhaps to those under 30, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar is not a celebrity, but for those of us who remember him as a Laker in the 80’s, or as a UCLA Bruin before that, not many celebrities are bigger – certainly none taller.

It wasn’t the first time I’d seen him.  I was at the Salt Palace in 1988 to watch a playoff game between the Lakers and Jazz.  John Stockton, the young Karl Malone and towering Mark Eaton were giving the defending champion Lakers fits in the playoffs.  Leading 2 games to 1 in the series, the Jazz had electrified Salt Lake City, and the Lakers were on the ropes.  Those were the days of Magic Johnson, James Worthy, and the elegant veteran, Abdul-Jabbar.  The Lakers were down at halftime, but Abdul-Jabbar used his sky hook to lead the Lakers back and ultimately win the game 113-100. They took the series in 7.  My father and I were two of the very few Lakers fans in the stands that day, and it was one the most gratifying sports experiences of my life.  I still remember Abdul-Jabbar’s unstoppable play.

He still towers over everyone else, but he walks slowly and with effort.  He looked thin and in pain.  Not unhealthy, but not powerful.  He wasn’t a celebrity, just a man.  He seemed weary to me, my flashing camera adding to the constant invasions of his space.

 

After enjoying the shade and refreshments for a few hours, we moved to the Rose Bowl.  I can’t hope to recall how many games I’ve watched in that stadium from my living room couch, but this was the first time live.  UCLA fans were universally friendly and certain that they were about to lose.  Being accustomed to SEC regular season games and the few SEC Championship and Peach Bowl games I’ve attended, I expected a packed house, but was surprised to see large sections of empty seats.  School hasn’t started yet, so the student section was mostly empty.  Everything about the scene bolstered my confidence in a Tennessee win.

As the game started, Tennessee looked flat.  They have a new offensive coordinator and new starting quarterback.  Their lines still seemed to dominate, and had an effective running game, but the team was generally mis-firing.  I was comforted by the fact that UCLA’s quarterback was doing worse.  He threw 4 interceptions in the first half.  Teams don’t win with those kind of turnovers.  But despite its opportunities, Tennessee just couldn’t score.  The large Tennessee contingent grew restless, and the UCLA crowd grew optimistic as the game wore on without the expected Tennessee breakout.  I didn’t like the direction we were headed.  The last UCLA interception resulted in a touchdown just before the half, giving Tennessee the lead.  UCLA’s only points had come off a botched Tennessee punt.  I watched the fatigued UCLA defender’s with their hands on their hips and figured the game would effectively end early in the third quarter, once Tennessee pounded the ball through the tackles a few more times.

Early in the third quarter, my predictions seemed to be coming true.  UT’s quarterback connected on his one long completion of the game, and the Vols seemed destined for the end zone.  Their senior tailback had been running downhill all day and outmatched the Bruin defenders in speed and size.  Larry mentioned how strong he looked and how many yards he was gaining.  I responded that he almost always did, and then managed to fumble at exactly the wrong time.  No sooner had I said that than he fumbled on UCLA’s 6 yard line.  The game had just changed again.

A game that lacked offensive excitement for 55 minutes more than made up for it in the last five minutes of the game.  With about 5 minutes remaining, UCLA had scored a touchdown, pulling ahead by 4.  Tennessee eventually drove down the field and Montario Hardesty (if I get any of this wrong, it’s because I’m doing it from memory) sprinted into the end zone with 1:44 left on the clock.  I was elated, Larry was dejected.  The game was certainly over.

But no.  UCLA’s 3rd string quarterback had found a soft spot in the middle of the field.  He kept going to his tight end, and Tennessee had no answer.  Why hadn’t they seen it?  Why couldn’t they adjust?  Seconds ticked off the clock, but the Bruins kept connecting on passes.  Finally, with some 35 seconds on the clock, the Bruins had driven to the UT 6.  Then their third stringer connected on a final short pass into the end zone, with only 24 seconds remaining.  Once again, the game seemed over.

But no.  UCLA pooched their kick and Tennessee returned it to mid field with two timeouts left.  A couple of plays later they were within field goal range with 5 seconds left, and they needed 3 to tie.  Daniel Lincoln, Tennessee’s kicker, had missed twice from beyond 50 yards, but this one was a 47-yarder.  He nailed it, the orange nation was euphoric.  We were headed for overtime.

Tennessee won the toss, elected to defend, and held UCLA to a field goal.  Again, I thought Tennessee held all the cards.  It would be an ugly win, but still a “w”.  All they had to do was run it through UCLA’s weakened defensive line.  But they couldn’t, or at least they didn’t.  Lincoln lined up for another kick, shorter this time.  Well within his range.  The snap was good, the hold solid, and kick was up…wide left.  The UCLA faithful erupted, and I sat dejected, unbelieving, the hopes for a good season crushed in the very first game. 

My Aunt Kitty felt like a bad hostess.  She wouldn’t trade high-five’s with Larry and couldn’t even meet my eyes.  You can see her in this picture, looking away.  My uncle, male that he is, insisted on taking the shot – wanting to capture my pain in real time.  I did my best to be charitable, but you’ll have to ask my car mates how well I pulled it off.

After a leisurely breakfast Tuesday morning, it was time to go.  We left the land of glitz and glamour and headed home for our regular lives among the non-movers and non-shakers.  I thought of Abdul-Jabbar and his limping, weary entrance into the booster tent.  I thought of Daniel Lincoln’s long flight home.  I thought of Nixon’s failed efforts to throw his scandal down the memory hole.  They are, or were, just people.  At the airport, I looked over my wife’s shoulder at People magazine and read about Jessica Simpson finding love again, knowing full well that within weeks I’ll be reading about her losing it once more.  People magazine reads like a tragic novel for people with ADD, most every article consisting of five sentences telling the tale of a breakup or putting spin on some other personal disaster disguised as triumph.  The characters in the grand play -actors, athletes, and other celebrities, are just people, walking with whatever limps life has pressed on them or they’ve taken on themselves. 

After we landed, it was time to reclaim our own baggage and go home. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’ll never forget our wonderful weekend, or the generosity of our hosts.  But it was good to go home where I slipped into my children’s rooms and gave them each a kiss as their grandmother had promised, grateful for my flyover life in a second-tier city, living a rich and wonderful life that will never make the pages of a magazine.