If you tell most people, even lifelong Angelenos, that you have spent a day in Malibu, Santa Monica and Venice, a readymade set of images will spring to mind: long, golden, sundrenched beaches, the laidback glitzy set in Malibu, shopping on the 3rd Street Mall and drinking at the British pub in Santa Monica, people rollerskating along the boardwalk past all the trinket and t-shirt shops on Venice Beach.
I have had exactly those experiences in those places on other days, but this day was nothing like any of that. I was with two of my friends, Maggie and Mike who, as a result of living near Deal pier on the Kent coast in south-east England, have become pier connoisseurs. And, on a misty November Monday, we were going to see the Malibu, Santa Monica and Venice piers.
We started by dropping down from the 101 freeway through the Malibu canyons to the coast which, without any fires to worry about, was pretty spectacular. Then we encountered the all-pervasive Malibu private security armies.
A gateway announced the entrance to the Malibu Lagoon State Beach, complete with opening hours (which we were well within). But we found ourselves in a private driveway policed by a couple of ersatz cop lookalikes who politely told us this was private land, not open to the public. So naturally we u-turned and continued on our way, but it sounds like a tax dodge to me.
Happily, the pier was only a few hundred yards down the road. It was like a quiet version of a British pier, with a few mainly Latino fishermen either at the sea end or dropping lines over the side surprisingly near to the beach. We had to assume they knew what they were doing. One caught a smallish fish, detached it from the hook and left it to die, wriggling, on the ground, almost delighting in ignoring it despite the loud noise its desperate flapping made in its death throes. Another pair were picking over the catch in a net, which didn't seem too promising.
Originally, like Malibu itself, the pier was privately owned but is now one of the National Parks properties. The pier had been built for the yacht owned by Frederick and Rhoda Rindge, who had owned Malibu since 1891 and after her husband died Rhoda fought a fierce battle to prevent public roads being run through the property - a battle that ended in defeat in the courts in 1929, when the State of California won the right to build the Pacific Coast Highway there.
The pier has recently been refurbished, with newly painted buildings that look ready to be turned into restaurants and shops. I hope that doesn't change the character of what, on the day we were there, was a delightfully tranquil spot on a misty, tranquil sea.
The Santa Monica pier is easily the biggest and best-known in the area, complete with a fun fair attached. On weekends it can get very crowded, and the main part of the pier is thronged with souvenir sellers. But, on this Monday, it was much more subdued - most vendors probably take the day off, deciding there isn't enough passing trade to make it worthwhile turning up. That's to the visitor's advantage, even though it does mean missing the weekly Sunday creation of the Arlington West tribute to GIs killed in Iraq.
By now it was lunchtime, and Santa Monica is probably the best of the three stops for a bite. We went to the Greek restaurant on 3rd Street - but beware, if you like wine or beer with your meal, you have to go round the corner to Wild Oats to get it: the restaurant is unlicensed.
Then it was back to the car for the short trip down to Venice pier. This is the most spartan of the three, and maybe the best one to visit when the sun is beginning to go down. It has no structures on it, other than the lookout. It is a straight concrete runway with wooden railings and no hawkers - just walkers, seagulls and a few hardy fishermen. It seems a world away from the bustle of nearby Culver City with its Sony film studios - the former MGM lot that made Wizard of Oz, Gone with the Wind and many other movie classics.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Thursday, November 15, 2007
spit it out
At All Souls College, Oxford, as part of the interview process there is a legendary test of resourcefulness when the nervous candidate is invited to dinner. The meal is almost guaranteed to contain a challenge in terms of etiquette and not offending the surrounding highly intellectual and highly demanding dons. The timebomb is usually planted in the dessert, by which time the examiners reckon the candidate will have relaxed, maybe had a glass or two of wine and may be starting to think the ordeal is virtually over.
The classic trap is cherry pie - with the stones left in the cherries, naturally. As I never set foot in All Souls, let alone dined there, my knowledge is limited to Oxford student pub gossip, but apparently the correct technique is to remove the flesh from the cherry stone, put the stone in your spoon, and place the stone on the edge of the dessert plate. Or something like that. At any rate, most observers would agree that spitting it out is not a good idea.
Tell that, though, to Ann Marie Sabath who, according to the business section of the LA Times, is an accomplished "etiquette maven", defined in my online dictionary as "someone who is dazzlingly skilled in any field".
This lady was in California recently, imparting her table manners to the students of UC Irvine before they undergo the gruelling process of job interviews - and lunches, it seems.
Faced with olives amongst a salad, Ms Sabath's advice is apparently to spit the stone quickly onto the plate, "making sure the little guy doesn't richochet off the crockery toward the prospective boss". Quite how the pupil is supposed to ensure this happy outcome, once the pit has been propelled towards the plate from a distance of two or three feet, Ms Sabath does not explain.
Clearly, the poor lady has an uphill task. She was called in because an Asian student, confronted with a burrito, started spooning the contents out of the wrapping straight into his mouth as if it was in a bowl.
This another demonstration of the way in which southern California is a melting pot of cultures, religion and races. Somehow they all have to co-exist and co-ordinate, if not co-operate, and the dominant culture is still wasp. Hnce the etiquetee classes.
But please, Ms Sabath, don't encourage them to spit out food. All Souls may be a bit out of touch in many ways, but putting pits, stones and other unwanted material onto your spoon or fork, to transfer to the side of the plate, is far more acceptable simply because it is less risky and less liable to cause offense. Even better is to remove the pits etc while the food is still on your plate. That may be a bit fiddly, but you don't have to scrape off every last morsel of flesh, and the route from plate to mouth should ideally be a one-way street.
The classic trap is cherry pie - with the stones left in the cherries, naturally. As I never set foot in All Souls, let alone dined there, my knowledge is limited to Oxford student pub gossip, but apparently the correct technique is to remove the flesh from the cherry stone, put the stone in your spoon, and place the stone on the edge of the dessert plate. Or something like that. At any rate, most observers would agree that spitting it out is not a good idea.
Tell that, though, to Ann Marie Sabath who, according to the business section of the LA Times, is an accomplished "etiquette maven", defined in my online dictionary as "someone who is dazzlingly skilled in any field".
This lady was in California recently, imparting her table manners to the students of UC Irvine before they undergo the gruelling process of job interviews - and lunches, it seems.
Faced with olives amongst a salad, Ms Sabath's advice is apparently to spit the stone quickly onto the plate, "making sure the little guy doesn't richochet off the crockery toward the prospective boss". Quite how the pupil is supposed to ensure this happy outcome, once the pit has been propelled towards the plate from a distance of two or three feet, Ms Sabath does not explain.
Clearly, the poor lady has an uphill task. She was called in because an Asian student, confronted with a burrito, started spooning the contents out of the wrapping straight into his mouth as if it was in a bowl.
This another demonstration of the way in which southern California is a melting pot of cultures, religion and races. Somehow they all have to co-exist and co-ordinate, if not co-operate, and the dominant culture is still wasp. Hnce the etiquetee classes.
But please, Ms Sabath, don't encourage them to spit out food. All Souls may be a bit out of touch in many ways, but putting pits, stones and other unwanted material onto your spoon or fork, to transfer to the side of the plate, is far more acceptable simply because it is less risky and less liable to cause offense. Even better is to remove the pits etc while the food is still on your plate. That may be a bit fiddly, but you don't have to scrape off every last morsel of flesh, and the route from plate to mouth should ideally be a one-way street.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
why it's better to fly west than east
I think I have solved one of the major mysteries of modern life - why it takes longer to get over jet lag if you fly east than if you fly west. Please, if you are one of that minority who suffer the converse problem, don't bother writing: you are freaks, should be in the zoo, and are lucky that you haven't been rounded up and shot as you are clearly a danger to society.
For the rest of us, going east is a pain. Even if we sleep on the plane, we almost certainly won't sleep the first night we land, and we will be liable to fall asleep at the most inconvenient moments for the next several days, depending on how far we have travelled.
The reason, I believe, is to do with our dream patterns. Under normal circumstances we fall asleep partly through tiredness and the need to rest our muscles, including our brain function. But, as part of the latter, we clearly need to dream. No one, including me, is sure why we dream, but it seems to have something to do with making sense of our most recent or most concerning experiences, even if it is expressed in the form of the bizarre fantasties played out in the dreams we become conscious of. Deprived of sleep and therefore dream time for a long period, we go crazy, making it an ideal non-violent punishment and/or torture.
Clearly we have the ability to postpone sleep/dream, either because our brain tells us to stay awake to meet a deadline or survive serious physical threats, or because we're enjoying ourselves at a social occasion.
What we find much harder to do, and this is where eastward jet lag comes in, is to make ourselves sleep/dream prematurely. We don't seem to be able to sleep if we are not tired, and we can't dream if our brain doesn't have enough material to work on since the last session. And we seem to need a fairly regular pattern: despite the occasional delayed sleep, we need to sleep at regular intervals and jet lag of more than four hours is enough to disrupt that, especially going east because our bodies seem to say that, even if we have managed to sleep on the plane, it still won't sanction the next sleep/dream 16 hours later, as normal. It seems to register that we have slipped in an early sleep and wants to revert to the pre-travel pattern. That is why it is better to stay awake through the first day after travelling, but that is much harder to do that than to stay awake a few hours after a westbound trip.
It would be nice to end this analysis with a logical conclusion in the form of a pat remedy, but I don't have one - at the moment. Maybe the answer lies in trying to sleep earlier and earlier before we take off for the eastbound journey, to build up at least some sleep debt. It seems to be a case where credit is bad for you.
Anyone got any better ideas?
For the rest of us, going east is a pain. Even if we sleep on the plane, we almost certainly won't sleep the first night we land, and we will be liable to fall asleep at the most inconvenient moments for the next several days, depending on how far we have travelled.
The reason, I believe, is to do with our dream patterns. Under normal circumstances we fall asleep partly through tiredness and the need to rest our muscles, including our brain function. But, as part of the latter, we clearly need to dream. No one, including me, is sure why we dream, but it seems to have something to do with making sense of our most recent or most concerning experiences, even if it is expressed in the form of the bizarre fantasties played out in the dreams we become conscious of. Deprived of sleep and therefore dream time for a long period, we go crazy, making it an ideal non-violent punishment and/or torture.
Clearly we have the ability to postpone sleep/dream, either because our brain tells us to stay awake to meet a deadline or survive serious physical threats, or because we're enjoying ourselves at a social occasion.
What we find much harder to do, and this is where eastward jet lag comes in, is to make ourselves sleep/dream prematurely. We don't seem to be able to sleep if we are not tired, and we can't dream if our brain doesn't have enough material to work on since the last session. And we seem to need a fairly regular pattern: despite the occasional delayed sleep, we need to sleep at regular intervals and jet lag of more than four hours is enough to disrupt that, especially going east because our bodies seem to say that, even if we have managed to sleep on the plane, it still won't sanction the next sleep/dream 16 hours later, as normal. It seems to register that we have slipped in an early sleep and wants to revert to the pre-travel pattern. That is why it is better to stay awake through the first day after travelling, but that is much harder to do that than to stay awake a few hours after a westbound trip.
It would be nice to end this analysis with a logical conclusion in the form of a pat remedy, but I don't have one - at the moment. Maybe the answer lies in trying to sleep earlier and earlier before we take off for the eastbound journey, to build up at least some sleep debt. It seems to be a case where credit is bad for you.
Anyone got any better ideas?
it's a flea country
Where does all that stuff come from? And where does it all go?
Those were the two questions I couldn't get out of my mind as I made my first visit for about a year to the giant flea market that surrounds the Pasadena Rose Bowl on the second Sunday of every month.
For those who haven't been, or don't remember the 1994 soccer World Cup Final, the Rose Bowl is a massive stadium holding 100,000 seated, so to circle it with stalls selling everything from pickled olives to attic junk is quite an achievement. But the flea market does that with ease: in addition there is a massive overspill into an adjoining car park (sorry, US friends, parking lot).
So, like most things American, the flea market is on a grand scale and goes to the extremes. And it is, naturally, a big moneyspinner for the organisers, who charge everyone at least $8 admission - more if you turn up before 9am to snap up the early-bird bargains - on top of what the stallholders pay.
As with most flea markets, it is hard to see how a lot of the stallholders make money. Some are straightforwardly commercial, selling stuff they have bought wholesale like the pickled olives, or calenders, knick-knacks or even toy bicycles. Most of that sort of thing will be on sale or return, so the stallholders probably won't have to pay for the goods until they sell them and their only risk is the time they spend.
But, by numbers of stalls, the overwhelming majority of the goods are second-hand, hence the premium for early entry. Many of the stalls clearly offer the contents of attics, garages, garden sheds, basements or long-neglected cupboards, though plenty are organised neatly enough to indicate that they have been taken off the original owners by traders. Everything from moose heads to ancient clockwork alarm clocks, umpteen decorated mirrors, decorations that have survived too many Christmases before being retired - it's all there and must eventually find a home I suppose.
The overspill area is almost entirely second-hand clothes: dresses, jeans, coats, jackets and row after row after row of shoes and boots, as far as the eye can see and beyond. It must take hours to lay out, and there was very little sign of any of the contents of this great junk yard being bought. And the stallholders didn't seem bothered, possibly because they were just hired hands paid a straight fee for being there for the day. At one zone - stall is too modest a word for it - four girls were sitting on the ground, happily riffling through a huge pile of scarves going for $1 a time to the accompaniment of a pop radio program.
There were a few hucksters. One stand had punters with their shoes off with their feet in some sludgy, orange-brown liquid that was supposed to draw the toxins out of their body at a mere $35 a go, allegedly reduced from $50 or $100 depending on their gullibility. Sue and Lynne made some sceptical inquiries and in return were given a free 10-second treatment for their aches and pains. This amounted to being poked with a mild electric shock, which did Sue some good, but it was hard to see what the shock treatment had to do with putting your feet into a bucket of sludge.
For most visitors, though, the $8 was a fee to peer into other people's lives, see what sort of thing they owned before it ended on this gigantic scrap heap and was deemed saleable by stallholders willing to get up in the middle of the night to claim their spot and lay out their wares. It suggests there is more to all this than meets the eye, but they clearly fee it is worthwhile, and the rest of us are mildly entertained until our feet tell us it is time to return to the car and the real world.
Those were the two questions I couldn't get out of my mind as I made my first visit for about a year to the giant flea market that surrounds the Pasadena Rose Bowl on the second Sunday of every month.
For those who haven't been, or don't remember the 1994 soccer World Cup Final, the Rose Bowl is a massive stadium holding 100,000 seated, so to circle it with stalls selling everything from pickled olives to attic junk is quite an achievement. But the flea market does that with ease: in addition there is a massive overspill into an adjoining car park (sorry, US friends, parking lot).
So, like most things American, the flea market is on a grand scale and goes to the extremes. And it is, naturally, a big moneyspinner for the organisers, who charge everyone at least $8 admission - more if you turn up before 9am to snap up the early-bird bargains - on top of what the stallholders pay.
As with most flea markets, it is hard to see how a lot of the stallholders make money. Some are straightforwardly commercial, selling stuff they have bought wholesale like the pickled olives, or calenders, knick-knacks or even toy bicycles. Most of that sort of thing will be on sale or return, so the stallholders probably won't have to pay for the goods until they sell them and their only risk is the time they spend.
But, by numbers of stalls, the overwhelming majority of the goods are second-hand, hence the premium for early entry. Many of the stalls clearly offer the contents of attics, garages, garden sheds, basements or long-neglected cupboards, though plenty are organised neatly enough to indicate that they have been taken off the original owners by traders. Everything from moose heads to ancient clockwork alarm clocks, umpteen decorated mirrors, decorations that have survived too many Christmases before being retired - it's all there and must eventually find a home I suppose.
The overspill area is almost entirely second-hand clothes: dresses, jeans, coats, jackets and row after row after row of shoes and boots, as far as the eye can see and beyond. It must take hours to lay out, and there was very little sign of any of the contents of this great junk yard being bought. And the stallholders didn't seem bothered, possibly because they were just hired hands paid a straight fee for being there for the day. At one zone - stall is too modest a word for it - four girls were sitting on the ground, happily riffling through a huge pile of scarves going for $1 a time to the accompaniment of a pop radio program.
There were a few hucksters. One stand had punters with their shoes off with their feet in some sludgy, orange-brown liquid that was supposed to draw the toxins out of their body at a mere $35 a go, allegedly reduced from $50 or $100 depending on their gullibility. Sue and Lynne made some sceptical inquiries and in return were given a free 10-second treatment for their aches and pains. This amounted to being poked with a mild electric shock, which did Sue some good, but it was hard to see what the shock treatment had to do with putting your feet into a bucket of sludge.
For most visitors, though, the $8 was a fee to peer into other people's lives, see what sort of thing they owned before it ended on this gigantic scrap heap and was deemed saleable by stallholders willing to get up in the middle of the night to claim their spot and lay out their wares. It suggests there is more to all this than meets the eye, but they clearly fee it is worthwhile, and the rest of us are mildly entertained until our feet tell us it is time to return to the car and the real world.
Friday, November 9, 2007
Accent on accents
What is it with Americans and English accents? No Brit can be in the US for more than a few days before one of the natives will burst out with the declaration that they "love your accent". Usually women, which may have something to do with the female urge for self-improvement, or flattery.
But it is completely wrong-headed. Because there are also plenty of Americans - usually, but not exclusively, men - who take just as much delight in mocking Brits for their accent. Their idea of wit is to go as posh as they can and produce their idea of a cartoon English upper-class twit. So any American who really got their wish and acquired an English accent would soon find themselves on the receiving end of this ribaldry.
So which is it to be? Is an English accent a good or a bad thing?
My current riposte to any US jokers is to point out that they too have an English accent, it's just that it's the one people used to have in Britain 200 or 300 years ago. We Brits have moved on, I tell 'em, but Americans are stuck in the 17th or 18th centry, accent-wise.
And it's true. If Shakespeare were to return to earth, he would find the American accent far more congenial than the strangulated, back of the throat tones that middle-class southern Brits spout.
Maybe it's time for American's to develop their own accent, not one borrowed from their former colonial masters, whom they pretend to despise.
But it is completely wrong-headed. Because there are also plenty of Americans - usually, but not exclusively, men - who take just as much delight in mocking Brits for their accent. Their idea of wit is to go as posh as they can and produce their idea of a cartoon English upper-class twit. So any American who really got their wish and acquired an English accent would soon find themselves on the receiving end of this ribaldry.
So which is it to be? Is an English accent a good or a bad thing?
My current riposte to any US jokers is to point out that they too have an English accent, it's just that it's the one people used to have in Britain 200 or 300 years ago. We Brits have moved on, I tell 'em, but Americans are stuck in the 17th or 18th centry, accent-wise.
And it's true. If Shakespeare were to return to earth, he would find the American accent far more congenial than the strangulated, back of the throat tones that middle-class southern Brits spout.
Maybe it's time for American's to develop their own accent, not one borrowed from their former colonial masters, whom they pretend to despise.
Ruud awakening
So Ruud Gullit is coming to LA! (Hooray, stylish chap, nice wife, will add to the glamor of the place) But he is coming to manage the Galaxy soccer team! (Boo, great player, not a bad coach but crap at dealing with internal politics, got booted out of Chelsea and Newcastle because he got up the noses of the people who mattered. Still, as he's on $10m over three years, maybe he'll be able to say what he likes).
The great news for Galaxy fans, most of whom don't know one end of a penalty spot from the other, is that the club will have another person with high-level European experience. Gullit's predecessor, Frank Yallop, who amazingly was lured away to San Diego last week despite being complete rubbish, had played for Ipswich, but he is hardly fit to tie the shoelaces of Gullit or Beckham. And there is also the enigmatic but experienced Abel Xavier (Portugues national team, ex-Middlesborough, but we won't hold that against him).
Imagine the first chat between Gullit and Beckham, though:
RG: Good to be working with you, David. What do you see as the main problems facing Galaxy on the pitch?
DB: The other teams, Ruud.
RG: Ha, Ha, David, the LA sunshine has clearly done your sense of humor a world of good. Seriously, though?
DB: Seriously, though, the big problem is the other teams. They're better than us, Ruud.
RG: OK, I take your point. What do you suggest we do about that?
DB: Try, and I do mean try, to teach our lot the basics of playing football.
RG: The basics, David? But they're all professionals, surely they know the basics?
DB: They get paid money, Ruud, in that sense they are professionals, but in most cases it stops there. And I hear some of them are only paid $500.
RG: An hour, right?
DB: A week, Ruud.
RG: Not like us, eh, David!
DB: No, not like us, Ruud, and you'll soon see why. The defence is fairly well organised, with Abel's help, but midfield and attack are woeful. They've got no idea of keeping possession, no idea of keeping the ball on the ground, it's Route One all the time, kick it up the field and hope for the best. And when they haven't got the ball, they don't have the first idea of trying to cut out the other side's options or anticipate what they might do.
RG: That's quite a long list, David.
DB: I could go on.
RG: Thanks but no thanks.
DB: There is one bit of hope.
RG: What's that?
DB: The other teams aren't much better. Welcome to LA, Ruud.
The great news for Galaxy fans, most of whom don't know one end of a penalty spot from the other, is that the club will have another person with high-level European experience. Gullit's predecessor, Frank Yallop, who amazingly was lured away to San Diego last week despite being complete rubbish, had played for Ipswich, but he is hardly fit to tie the shoelaces of Gullit or Beckham. And there is also the enigmatic but experienced Abel Xavier (Portugues national team, ex-Middlesborough, but we won't hold that against him).
Imagine the first chat between Gullit and Beckham, though:
RG: Good to be working with you, David. What do you see as the main problems facing Galaxy on the pitch?
DB: The other teams, Ruud.
RG: Ha, Ha, David, the LA sunshine has clearly done your sense of humor a world of good. Seriously, though?
DB: Seriously, though, the big problem is the other teams. They're better than us, Ruud.
RG: OK, I take your point. What do you suggest we do about that?
DB: Try, and I do mean try, to teach our lot the basics of playing football.
RG: The basics, David? But they're all professionals, surely they know the basics?
DB: They get paid money, Ruud, in that sense they are professionals, but in most cases it stops there. And I hear some of them are only paid $500.
RG: An hour, right?
DB: A week, Ruud.
RG: Not like us, eh, David!
DB: No, not like us, Ruud, and you'll soon see why. The defence is fairly well organised, with Abel's help, but midfield and attack are woeful. They've got no idea of keeping possession, no idea of keeping the ball on the ground, it's Route One all the time, kick it up the field and hope for the best. And when they haven't got the ball, they don't have the first idea of trying to cut out the other side's options or anticipate what they might do.
RG: That's quite a long list, David.
DB: I could go on.
RG: Thanks but no thanks.
DB: There is one bit of hope.
RG: What's that?
DB: The other teams aren't much better. Welcome to LA, Ruud.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Nigel and the Fog
Yesterday started in heavy fog and ended in a blizzard of American Idol stories from Nigel Lythgoe - he of American Idol and So You Think You Can Dance?
Now, I know the Fox breakfast show helicopter has been grounded for several days thanks to the fog, but I had to see it to believe it. The freeway heading east at about 8 am was in thick fog, at times with visibility of less than 100 yards. It was a weird experience in what is supposed to be the land of perpetual sunshine. It duly burned off, but for a while it was like being on the M6 on a bad day.
Lynne and I were driving out to Hemet in the San Jaquino valley to see the first branch of Fresh & Easy, the new chain by Tesco, Britain's No 1 supermarketeer. It has outgrown the UK, eastern Europe, Asia and so is now trying its luck in the US - traditionally a graveyard for Brit retailers.
Rather than buy a ready-made chain, with all its built-in faults and bad habits, Tesco is starting from scratch, taking over vacant sites and converting them to the Fresh & Easy format, backed by its own distribution system that in turn relies on many of its trusted UK suppliers. It's effectively launching a whole mini-industry.
Despite the advance claims, there's nothing new about Fresh & Easy. It's another supermarket.
It's smaller than usual - 10,000 sq ft, about a fifth the size of normal US grocers - has a spartan decor with neon lighting to make the point that no money is being wasted. It has a pretty wide range, but you might be hard put to do your whole weekly food and household shop there. It doesn't really compete with Vons or Ralphs or Albertsons.
Advance publicity emphasised fresh, organic, own-label food, giving many people the impression that it would be another Trader Joe's. It is - without the humor. Fresh food is in fact pretty minimal, lots of canned and packaged goods, and an echo of TJs in the Our Kitchen feature offering samples and recipes. Checkout is DIY.
It'll take its place in the retail range, but it won't cause competitors too many sleepless nights, confirming my suspicion that this is just a trial run for when Tesco does the big box version, going head to head with Vons etc. But that's a few years off yet.
Back home in time to file the copy to the London Daily Telegraph, then into glad rags for a party given in LA by the British American Business Council LA (BABCLA) in honor of Lythgoe.
After an hour the great man turned up and gave a lively account of the history of American Idol, especially how difficult it was to sell to the US sponsors and TV networks, even though the format had already been a success in UK as Pop Idol. It's basically the old-fashioned talent show that has been going for more than 50 years on TV. The difference lies in the razmatazz and the way it's done, with mass auditions and three judges with clearly defined personalities - Randy Jackson, Simon Cowell and Paula Abdul - chosen for their chemistry.
After about half an hour Lythgoe introduced a video that he has clearly been showing to selected audiences for quite a while, featuring the Randy Jackson fart in one of the preliminary rounds, while Cowell was pontificating (hardly a coincidence).
Lythgoe, a multi-millionaire and huge success at this narrow area of reality TV, was as he admitted nervous and has an irritating habit of following any joke or point with what he hopes is an appropriate facial expression, just in case we'd missed it.
An entertaining hour, which left me full of admiration for the way the Idol format has been thought out, and wanting to know more. There must be a book in it somewhere. Maybe I'll write it.
Now, I know the Fox breakfast show helicopter has been grounded for several days thanks to the fog, but I had to see it to believe it. The freeway heading east at about 8 am was in thick fog, at times with visibility of less than 100 yards. It was a weird experience in what is supposed to be the land of perpetual sunshine. It duly burned off, but for a while it was like being on the M6 on a bad day.
Lynne and I were driving out to Hemet in the San Jaquino valley to see the first branch of Fresh & Easy, the new chain by Tesco, Britain's No 1 supermarketeer. It has outgrown the UK, eastern Europe, Asia and so is now trying its luck in the US - traditionally a graveyard for Brit retailers.
Rather than buy a ready-made chain, with all its built-in faults and bad habits, Tesco is starting from scratch, taking over vacant sites and converting them to the Fresh & Easy format, backed by its own distribution system that in turn relies on many of its trusted UK suppliers. It's effectively launching a whole mini-industry.
Despite the advance claims, there's nothing new about Fresh & Easy. It's another supermarket.
It's smaller than usual - 10,000 sq ft, about a fifth the size of normal US grocers - has a spartan decor with neon lighting to make the point that no money is being wasted. It has a pretty wide range, but you might be hard put to do your whole weekly food and household shop there. It doesn't really compete with Vons or Ralphs or Albertsons.
Advance publicity emphasised fresh, organic, own-label food, giving many people the impression that it would be another Trader Joe's. It is - without the humor. Fresh food is in fact pretty minimal, lots of canned and packaged goods, and an echo of TJs in the Our Kitchen feature offering samples and recipes. Checkout is DIY.
It'll take its place in the retail range, but it won't cause competitors too many sleepless nights, confirming my suspicion that this is just a trial run for when Tesco does the big box version, going head to head with Vons etc. But that's a few years off yet.
Back home in time to file the copy to the London Daily Telegraph, then into glad rags for a party given in LA by the British American Business Council LA (BABCLA) in honor of Lythgoe.
After an hour the great man turned up and gave a lively account of the history of American Idol, especially how difficult it was to sell to the US sponsors and TV networks, even though the format had already been a success in UK as Pop Idol. It's basically the old-fashioned talent show that has been going for more than 50 years on TV. The difference lies in the razmatazz and the way it's done, with mass auditions and three judges with clearly defined personalities - Randy Jackson, Simon Cowell and Paula Abdul - chosen for their chemistry.
After about half an hour Lythgoe introduced a video that he has clearly been showing to selected audiences for quite a while, featuring the Randy Jackson fart in one of the preliminary rounds, while Cowell was pontificating (hardly a coincidence).
Lythgoe, a multi-millionaire and huge success at this narrow area of reality TV, was as he admitted nervous and has an irritating habit of following any joke or point with what he hopes is an appropriate facial expression, just in case we'd missed it.
An entertaining hour, which left me full of admiration for the way the Idol format has been thought out, and wanting to know more. There must be a book in it somewhere. Maybe I'll write it.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
rolling the pink, fluffy dice in Vegas
Yes, I'm on a roll now - and so is Las Vegas. Maybe its hoteliers (how inadequate a term that sounds for the garish, monstrous monuments that line the strip) have grown tired of pulling everything down and rebuilding it, and pulling it down and rebuiling it, or maybe they have had a severe attack of the PCs, or possibly reading too much of a commie rag like the LA Times - or perhaps they have spotted a new way to shake the shekels out of the world's pockets. Yes, I'll go for the last one.
Anyway, the clue lies in a couple of playing cards, both depicting Jacks (or knaves, but that has ever so slight pejorative connotations in this context). However, one of the cards is empty and the two Jacks are getting to know one another by cuddling up to one another in the window of the other card.
Yes, Vegas is going gay. There have long been gay bars, of course, but tucked away off the strip where no wholesome middle American families might bump into them. Also, the gays are less likely to get beaten up by drunken stag parties thrown out of one of the aforementioned monstrosities.
But all that is so last year. As part of their strategic move away from gambling, the hotels are making an all-out attempt to attract the gay market. Discreetly, of course - what do you think this town is, crass or something?
It's nice that Vegas is suddenly being so inclusive. And it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that surveys show gays spend 30% a head more than straights when they go on vacation. Pink pound rules, after all.
Anyway, the clue lies in a couple of playing cards, both depicting Jacks (or knaves, but that has ever so slight pejorative connotations in this context). However, one of the cards is empty and the two Jacks are getting to know one another by cuddling up to one another in the window of the other card.
Yes, Vegas is going gay. There have long been gay bars, of course, but tucked away off the strip where no wholesome middle American families might bump into them. Also, the gays are less likely to get beaten up by drunken stag parties thrown out of one of the aforementioned monstrosities.
But all that is so last year. As part of their strategic move away from gambling, the hotels are making an all-out attempt to attract the gay market. Discreetly, of course - what do you think this town is, crass or something?
It's nice that Vegas is suddenly being so inclusive. And it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that surveys show gays spend 30% a head more than straights when they go on vacation. Pink pound rules, after all.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
boulevardiers
Apologies to my many fans for not blogging for a few weeks - I promise to get back in the saddle on a regular basis in future, having read strong medical opinion that it does you good to be regular.
And there is so much going on. Last night I was at Boulevard Music, a guitar shop in a fairly run-down part of Culver City - though I do recommend Tanner's Coffee further down the road if you ever have an hour to kill.
Boulevard turned itself into a mini-auditorium for the evening, to host a show by Noel Harrison, ever doomed to suffer the soubriquet "son of Rex", and the irrepressible Ian Whitcomb, whose love affair with the microphone makes Napoleon and Josephine look like George Bush and Hillary Clinton.
Despite his claim to an Oscar-winning classic song, the diffident-seeming Harrison accepted the role of warm-up act for Whitcomb, and on the night that was about right: Harrison the virtuoso and Whitcomb the showman.
Like any true monolingual Brit, I was dazzled by Harrison's command of French, not only in his rendition of a string of Jacques Brel songs but also to deal with a French-speaking heckler demanding more Brel and less Harrison. Nevertheless, the highlight of his half was Windmills of Your Mind, the Oscar-winning theme song by Alan Bergman, Marilyn Bergman and Michel Legrand for the 1968 version of the Thomas Crown Affair, the one with Steve McQueen and Fay Dunaway. Harrison has been singing it ever since, so he has got it pretty well sorted out by now, but it still evokes memories of that extraordinary movie.
The contrast with the second half of the show was total. We had Ian Whitcomb singing with and without the wonderfully dulcet tones of his lovely wife Regina, with and without his ukelele, his accordion and his piano, playing an instrumental and even an over-the-top piece of Vicotrian declamatory monologue that would have left Donald Wolfit blushing. Oh, and a delightful guest singing appearance by a lady called Michael, in a long ivory dress with a bubble of brown hair on top, who brought the house down with a real hoochie-mamma song.
It will be very hard to explain to future generations what Ian's performances were like, just as it is to recapture the mood of any artiste from the past unless they are captured on film or video. Even then, they are of their time and cannot easily be seen in context by those who see them years later. But on a night like last night Ian was in his pomp, in command of the stage and the whole room, exuding personality and keeping the audience enthralled with his asides and his ability to recover from occasionally forgetting words and even whole songs. It didn't matter: I really believe that Ian could pick up a phone book and entertain a crowd with it, and that is why he will always be remembered by those lucky enough to see him. And if you want to catch the flavor without stirring from your armchair, I am sure he would want me to tell you that on Wednesday, November 7, he is starting a radio show going out at 10pm LA Time on luxuriamusic.com, an internet station. But don't worry if you miss it, because I'll probably blog it!
And there is so much going on. Last night I was at Boulevard Music, a guitar shop in a fairly run-down part of Culver City - though I do recommend Tanner's Coffee further down the road if you ever have an hour to kill.
Boulevard turned itself into a mini-auditorium for the evening, to host a show by Noel Harrison, ever doomed to suffer the soubriquet "son of Rex", and the irrepressible Ian Whitcomb, whose love affair with the microphone makes Napoleon and Josephine look like George Bush and Hillary Clinton.
Despite his claim to an Oscar-winning classic song, the diffident-seeming Harrison accepted the role of warm-up act for Whitcomb, and on the night that was about right: Harrison the virtuoso and Whitcomb the showman.
Like any true monolingual Brit, I was dazzled by Harrison's command of French, not only in his rendition of a string of Jacques Brel songs but also to deal with a French-speaking heckler demanding more Brel and less Harrison. Nevertheless, the highlight of his half was Windmills of Your Mind, the Oscar-winning theme song by Alan Bergman, Marilyn Bergman and Michel Legrand for the 1968 version of the Thomas Crown Affair, the one with Steve McQueen and Fay Dunaway. Harrison has been singing it ever since, so he has got it pretty well sorted out by now, but it still evokes memories of that extraordinary movie.
The contrast with the second half of the show was total. We had Ian Whitcomb singing with and without the wonderfully dulcet tones of his lovely wife Regina, with and without his ukelele, his accordion and his piano, playing an instrumental and even an over-the-top piece of Vicotrian declamatory monologue that would have left Donald Wolfit blushing. Oh, and a delightful guest singing appearance by a lady called Michael, in a long ivory dress with a bubble of brown hair on top, who brought the house down with a real hoochie-mamma song.
It will be very hard to explain to future generations what Ian's performances were like, just as it is to recapture the mood of any artiste from the past unless they are captured on film or video. Even then, they are of their time and cannot easily be seen in context by those who see them years later. But on a night like last night Ian was in his pomp, in command of the stage and the whole room, exuding personality and keeping the audience enthralled with his asides and his ability to recover from occasionally forgetting words and even whole songs. It didn't matter: I really believe that Ian could pick up a phone book and entertain a crowd with it, and that is why he will always be remembered by those lucky enough to see him. And if you want to catch the flavor without stirring from your armchair, I am sure he would want me to tell you that on Wednesday, November 7, he is starting a radio show going out at 10pm LA Time on luxuriamusic.com, an internet station. But don't worry if you miss it, because I'll probably blog it!
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