Andrea Wilson Woods' Blog

Every year on or near my sister Adrienne’s birthday, I go to an event as a way to honor her. Usually I see a ballet, a play, or a concert, but this year I decided to try something different. I had wanted to see the new exhibition, Collection: MOCA’s First Thirty Years, at the Los Angeles Museum of Contemporary Art (MOCA) before it closed in May. Originally, I was going to drive there as most Angelenos would. However, my relationship with Los Angeles has become incredibly acrimonious lately so I that thought I would approach the city with a fresh pair of eyes. I decided to be a tourist.

Besides going to art museums, one of my favorite things to do in a new city is to ride the subway and to walk the town. I never do these things in LA because its public transportation sucks and it is not “bipedal-friendly” as a friend of mine likes to say. But in the past ten years, the Metro (i.e., bus and rail system) has made it possible to go from the San Fernando Valley to downtown Los Angeles by taking the red line subway, and the public buses have increased their routes to include short trips such as the Downtown Area Short Hop (DASH), which only costs twenty-five cents. Walking around Los Angeles is still feasible if you plan to stay in one area. So the day after my sister’s birthday, I drove to the North Hollywood Metro station, parked my car, and experienced Los Angeles like a tourist for the first time in almost twenty years.

The immediate surprise was that I didn’t have to wait for the museum to see art, as there are murals inside of the North Hollywood station. The colors are bright and the pictures reflect the diversity and uniqueness of “NoHo”—Sitton’s Restaurant, Phil’s Diner, Lankershim Arts Center, etc. I especially liked the murals that reflect how the Valley looked before it was developed (e.g., Lankershim Ranch and Water Company). Most people don’t realize that the Valley used to be acres upon acres of fruit trees; we have an orange, a tangerine, a Meyer lemon, and a pomegranate tree in our backyard. (If you are local, email me if you want some oranges or lemons!)

As I exited the subway in Pershing Square, I reminded myself that despite its flaws, LA has a rich history full of intriguing characters, mysterious circumstances, and beautiful landscapes. All of these elements are captured in my two favorite movies about Los Angeles: Chinatown and LA Confidential. Wishing I had worn a hat like Mrs. Mulwray, I thought about those films as I buttoned my seersucker jacket when the cold breeze hit me.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. Learning to Love LA (again): Part Two—Walking the City is coming soon!

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Do you remember The Game of Life? Originally created by Milton Bradley in 1860, Life received a makeover 100 years later, and I’m almost positive that we owned the 1963 edition. I played the game often as a child, but I didn’t enjoy very much. I didn’t like that girls had to be “pink pegs” in the pawns (i.e., plastic cars) and that part of the objective included obtaining wealth, getting married, and giving birth to children. I didn’t want those extra pegs in my car. Even at eight years old, the whole concept seemed so ordinary to me. I understood that the game was supposed to reflect “real life” but it didn’t represent the one that I wanted. Therefore, winning Life didn’t matter as much to me as beating my brother at Monopoly.

Except for The Game of Life, I have always been competitive. I never bought into that saying, “It’s not whether you win or lose; it’s how you play the game.” Bullshit. The objective is to win. Many people don’t play games with me anymore because I am too obnoxious. My husband and I can’t play each other in Trivial Pursuit because we get too mean, but we make a ferocious team. I love games because like math the answers are definite.
1 + 1 = 2 or Earn six pie wedges by answering tough questions and then answer one final question (selected by your opponent) in the center hub. Of course people interpret them differently, but for the most part, the rules of games are clear.

Real life, however, doesn’t work that way. It is far more subjective, enigmatic. I remember my dance teacher used to wear this t-shirt that read, “He who dies with the most toys wins”; he collected Porsches. Unlike the board game, I used to think “winning the game of life” meant having an incredible career. Later, I realized that being Adrienne’s parent made me happier than any acting role ever did. For example, I scheduled the final dress rehearsal of a play that I directed, produced, and wrote around Adrienne’s 13th birthday party, which I refused to miss. No matter what, she always came first.

Even though I did everything that I could, a part of me feels that I failed Adrienne. I didn’t help her win the game of life. I didn’t see to it that she made it to the finish line. It is as if she lost her turn and never came back to the game. Like she quit, but that is not what happened. She never gave up even when she knew her time was running out. Like a tired boxer in the ring, she kept fighting and every time a doctor counted her out, she got back on her feet and threw another punch. She refused to suffer a knockout. She finished the fight on her terms—she died at home in peace.

All of these years, I thought Adrienne had “lost” the game because she didn’t survive cancer and because I had lost her. I had it all wrong. Even though Adrienne was not as competitive as I am, I instilled in her the same aim: Play to Win. If life were a boxing match and the judges had to decide between Adrienne and her opponent—cancer, there is no question. Adrienne won. She led a successful life. She made some of her dreams come true. She inspired her friends; she continues to inspire me. While cancer may have beaten her down physically, she never allowed it to take away her heart, her spirit, or her soul.

When asked what they want for their children, parents usually reply, “as long as they are happy and healthy” but all parents have dreams for their children. When I was a kid, my father told me that I should be a doctor because I love to read. I guess he figured that I could survive medical school. I didn’t have a career selected for Adrienne, but I wanted her to leave home for college, preferably a four-year university such as Stanford, Berkeley or an Ivy League school on the East Coast. (She preferred my alma mater USC.) I wanted her to realize that there was nothing wrong with making money from her art. I wanted her to learn to drive a stick shift. And of course, I wanted her to be healthy and happy.

But Adrienne never graduated from high school, sold her art, or drove any car. She suffered from depression long before cancer invaded her body. She didn’t have a chance to do the things that I wanted her to do, but my dreams for her should have no bearing on whether or not Adrienne lived an extraordinary life. Even though I don’t like the outcome, Adrienne won the game.

It does not matter how you play the game of life  … it is how you define winning. Therefore, Adrienne is a champ.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. Happy Birthday baby—you are the champion of my world. I miss you so much. Keep playing Queen for me, okay?

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On Wednesday, March 31, my husband took me to see Paul McCartney’s Up and Coming Tour at the Hollywood Bowl. At 67 years old, Paul has survived the breakup of the Beatles, the death of his beloved Linda, and a bitter divorce from his second wife Heather Mills. Though he is not the most dynamic performer, Paul can certainly keep up with his younger band members. The power of Paul (and the Beatles) is that his music is timeless. One look at the audience, who ranged in ages from 5 – 75, shows how each generation finds its own connection to the songs. Although I am not a devout Beatles fan, I will admit many of their songs possess a magical quality due to their melodic nature. However, despite his divine talent, I never need to see Paul McCartney in concert again. His overbearing ego, which needed to be stroked every few songs, distracted me from the music.

Instead of milling around, most people were in their seats by 7:30pm; I’m presuming because, like us, they didn’t want to miss anything. Well, we had plenty of time, as the sold-out show began 15 minutes late. In lieu of an opening act, the concert started with a 30-minute overture that consisted of pictures, photographs, and video clips scrolling on two giant screens as Paul McCartney/Beatles’ songs played in the background. The effect was interesting, but my husband regretted not getting in line to buy us drinks. By the time Paul opened the show by singing Venus and Mars/Rock Show/Jet, the guy next to me had elbowed me in the side one time, and I was sick to my stomach from his super sweet pot. Thanks for the contact high, asshole.

After singing a few songs, Paul talked about when he and the Beatles appeared at the Hollywood Bowl “about a million years ago.” (They played their last show there in 1965.) Then Paul stopped the show and took center stage to, he said, “Take a moment to drink this in.” He stared at the audience. Subtext: I will continue the show once I receive enough applause from you peons out there. Once everyone understood his message, we all started clapping. My husband and I, who have seen many pop/rock legends in concert (e.g., Queen, Madonna), looked at each other. I whispered, “What the hell?” My husband replied, “What an egomaniac!”
Although I was disgusted by his arrogance, I also admired Paul because he proved to us just how powerful he was. Though I couldn’t help thinking, if he were secure in himself, he wouldn’t need to demand applause on cue. He even told stories about girls screaming so loudly during concerts that he and the guys couldn’t hear each other sing. Taking the hint, two blonde Playboy types in the front row shrieked until their dark roots showed. Paul smiled.

To be fair, when Paul shut up and sang, the effect was wonderful. I was bouncing up and down in my seat to Drive My Car, and the graphics behind the band were fantastic. Let Me Roll It, a blue-jazzy number, had me rolling my neck, swinging my arms, and swaying my hips. The Long and Winding Road featured pictures of beautiful landscapes. Paul dedicated My Love, a song he originally wrote for Linda, to “all the lovers in the house.” However the strong emphasis on the last two words at the end of the song, “to me” made me wonder about their love affair. Was it all about him all the time?

Paul may be at his best when he picks up an acoustic guitar and sings a cappella. Here Today, a song he wrote for John after he died, brought tears to my eyes. Paul’s voice sounded smooth yet emotional; few artists today have that kind of raw talent. Even though Paul’s show had the bells and whistles of a modern-day concert, he didn’t need them and that is refreshing. Paul masters whatever instrument he is playing whether it is the piano or the guitar. Paul even played George’s ukulele to perform Something—a dedication to George who wrote the song.

During Sing the Changes, shooting stars turned into an image of President Obama behind the band to which my husband said, “That’s too bad because it’s a good song.” Paul picked up the pace with Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da, which had people jumping and singing even if they only knew the “Life goes on” part. He kept up the energy with Back in the USSR; unfortunately, the sound tech cranked up the lead guitar, and it overpowered Paul’s voice. Paul shared a story about meeting the head of Russian defense years ago. The man said to him, “We learn English from your music. Hello. Goodbye.”

My husband wasn’t a fan of Paperback Writer, but I thought the graphics were cool—novel covers about naughty nurses. The concert exploded during Live and Let Die, as fireworks and pyrotechnics lit up the sky. The show “ended” too predictably with Hey Jude, but of course, there were two planned encores, which I think are ridiculous. Paul thanked the sound guy Pablo and the video crew, but he failed to introduce his band, which both my husband and I found odd. Perhaps it was an oversight, or maybe Paul stopped acknowledging other musicians after the Beatles broke up. I mean, why bother when it’s all about you.

I thought it was funny (and perhaps sad) that a man who used to get women’s underwear thrown at him on stage got a teddy bear tossed to him during this show. Seeing that brown, fuzzy, stuffed animal and thinking about the soft, silky panties of the past has to make even Sir Paul, the unofficial king of England, feel old. Despite his over-the-top ego, Paul performed for an impressive two hours and forty minutes without taking one break. He closed the concert with a crowd favorite Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.

We’re Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band
We hope you have enjoyed the show
Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band
We’re sorry but it’s time to go.

Thanks, Paul, I did enjoy the show, but every now and then when you feel so insecure—ask for help, not applause.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. To see all of the pictures that I took during the concert, visit my Picasa Photo Gallery. To view the set lists for the two Hollywood Bowl shows, visit Paul’s website.

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