Andrea Wilson Woods' Blog

I made these observations during my first visit to Detroit over Labor Day weekend. Now you may wonder, why visit one of the “Most miserable cities in America” (#1 in 2008, #7 in 2009, and #4 in 2010 respectively)? Well, my husband is currently living in Motor City because he works on the television show Detroit 1-8-7 on ABC. (Yes, I am plugging the show, but it is not my motivation for writing this blog.)

• American flags fly all over Detroit. At first, I thought it was only one flag, which I first spotted in the center of the suburb Royal Oak where my husband lives. What a great landmark I thought to myself—especially if the GPS doesn’t work. Then I realized there are flags everywhere. When I asked my husband about this strange phenomenon, he guessed that maybe it’s because Detroit is a union town. I asked some locals who replied, “I don’t know” and “We have flags in Detroit? I never noticed before.” America’s largest and oldest flag company, Annin, is not located in Michigan. I even contacted the Flag Manufacturers Association of America and no such luck. If anyone knows why there are so many American flags in Detroit, please post a comment on my blog.*
• Most of the houses are made of brick. As I drove around the city, trying to kill an hour before going to eat dinner with my husband on the set, I noticed that all of the houses looked the same. I’m used to the variety of LA architecture (e.g., Craftsman, Bungalow, Ranch, Spanish, Georgian, Art Deco) as well as building materials (e.g., wood, rock, stucco, brick). Depending on how you look at it, Los Angeles has many personalities or no one identity. In Detroit, however, it didn’t matter if I was in a partially deserted neighborhood with dilapidated homes or in the elite neighborhood of Grosse Pointe with beautiful houses, most of the structures are similar in that they are made from brick. Of course, the quality of brick differs, but it’s still brick, which gets boring after a while. I can only assume that brick is the best material to withstand the horrible Michigan winters, which the natives love to mention with sly grins on their faces.
• Michigan is freaking cold—even in September. I should preface this comment by saying that I am always cold. Always. If I am not shivering in the shade, my husband 1) knows that my thyroid medication is off and 2) calls me a freak because he is so used to asking, “Did you bring a coat?” (He makes me keep a fleece in my car for emergencies.) On this particular trip, I thought for sure I had packed the appropriate clothes because I check the weather before going to any destination. Unfortunately, I was not prepared for the wind blowing off Lake Huron at Mackinac Island, a romantic and quaint place that my husband took me to as an early anniversary present. I was shaking before we boarded the ferry. My husband sighed, bought me some long underwear, and then spent the next two days chastising me for not bringing a real coat. To which I responded, “I checked the weather!” Eventually, I just glared at him as my limbs trembled and my teeth chattered.
• People love their booze here. Even before I arrived, my husband told me, “Man, the women here can drink.” When he asked a local woman why people consume so much alcohol, she replied, “When it’s gets cold, all there is to do is fuck and drink.” Two activities that warm up the body, I might add. Michigan actually takes driving while intoxicated very seriously. There are constant TV commercials warning against drunk driving and highway signs that read, “Buzzed driving is drunk driving.” At the Detroit airport, I struck up a conversation with some residents to discover why Michigan is so vigilant about DWIs. An older woman named Helen thought that MADD had started in Michigan, but she was wrong. I should have known better than to listen to her considering she was drinking a Bloody Mary at 7am and still nursing a hangover from the night before. Helen and her boyfriend waited five minutes until the bartender could legally serve them alcohol. I almost fell off my barstool when her boyfriend happened to mention that she is 39 years old—only one year older than I am. I had Helen pegged for 49. The excessive alcohol intake is not doing her skin or her body any favors.

Although my husband enjoys the city, I cannot say I love Detroit. However, I like the people. From the cashier at Petco who pointed me in the direction of the only Indian restaurant he could remember to the park ranger who allowed me access to Lakefront Park (normally reserved for Grosse Point residents) on Lake St. Clair, every person I met in Detroit was friendly, helpful, genuine, and real. I doubt I could I tolerate Michigan winters, but I could definitely spend more time with Michiganders.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. I spotted a Michigan native on the ferry; she was wearing tight short-shorts, a tank top, and flip-flops. I’m guessing she was probably warm.

*A few days after I published this blog, a Detroit native explained that he believes the Americans flags are due to Detroit’s former nickname as the “Arsenal of Democracy” during World War II.

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I have a confession to make: I like modern art. Not all of it, but more so than most people I know. Even my sister Adrienne thought that the sculptures scattered around downtown Los Angeles were pretentious, ridiculous and a waste of public funds. I’m not fond of many of those sculptures either, but I prefer paintings anyway. To me, art is subjective. Perhaps Shakespeare said it best, “Beauty is bought by judgment of the eye, not utter’d by base sale of chapmen’s tongues.”

One of my favorite pieces of art Blue Clamp by Jim Dine is on display at the San Francisco Modern Museum of Art. I have a print hanging in my office, but it doesn’t move me as much as seeing the three-dimensional work in person. The blue clamp projects outward from the painting, and to me it suggests how delicate our hearts are, how the clamp holds this particular heart in place, how in one quick motion someone could pull out the clamp and the heart would break. A large blue clamp does not hold my heart together, but I often feel that it is bound by a thick rope tied in numerous knots, which keep me safe and to some degree—sane.

With so many artists and works to choose from, I find it difficult to only select a few for my blog; therefore, I recommend viewing my MOCA Picasa Web album to see more art from this impressive collection or visiting the exhibition Collection: MOCA’s First Thirty Years online at the Los Angeles Museum of Contemporary Art (MOCA).

Cuban artist Ana Mendieta has several works on display in MOCA’s permanent collection. Although I am not fond of some of her performance art, I stared at her series Silueta Works in Mexico, an examination of death and how the body becomes one with the earth.

I thoroughly enjoyed James Rosenquist’s Vestigial Appendage. The painting covers one entire wall at the museum, and I wish I could explain why I am so attracted to it. Rosenquist’s ability to capture sex, beauty, capitalism, and American pop culture using brilliant colors and unusual positioning is just breathtaking.

I am also a fan of Wallace Berman’s photography—especially his Black Piece and Silence series. Here is a close-up view of one small part of Black Piece #2 or #3 (I cannot remember).

Stepping into Doug Wheeler’s RM 669 is like walking into a peaceful fog. He states, “I make things that you experience and then it’s in your mind,” and indeed he accomplishes that goal with this sensory illusion of stepping into another dimension. I have heard critics say that modern art should be “an experience.” If that is true, than Wheeler is one of the best modern artists of his time; however, you cannot hang his work in your home.

Of all of the modern art that I saw/experienced, my least favorite artist is Cy Twombly.
Honestly, I do not get the point of his “art.” Anything that looks like something a kindergartener could scribble on a chalkboard is a waste of space. In addition to this Untitled piece, I recently saw another Twombly work at LACMA, and it looked exactly the same.

You may not agree with my comments, but isn’t that the point of art? To discuss, argue, learn, like, love, and remind all of us that there is some beauty in this ugly world even if we define “beauty” differently.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. Learning to Love LA (again): Part Four—Seeing the Geffen is coming soon!

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I have no sense of direction, but luckily, downtown Los Angeles is laid out on a grid system. Numbered streets run east and west while named streets run north and south. I often confuse the order of the named streets (e.g., Hope, Grand, Flower) so I definitely walked the longest way possible as I left Pershing Square (A) to find the Museum of Contemporary Art (B). I reminded myself that getting lost in a “new” city is exactly the point of being a tourist.

For example, I immediately stumbled upon LA’s Grand Central Market, which is a huge place full of restaurants and fresh-food stands. Since I had forgotten to eat, I decided to try EJ’s Grill. Initially, I wanted a slice of pizza, but against my better judgment, I opted for the chicken pita sandwich. Trying new food is part of the journey—right? Well, the “sandwich” was disgusting: dark-meat chicken mostly covered in fat swimming in three tablespoons of mayonnaise with one shred of lettuce. I gagged after one bite. I returned the food and got my money back.

Satisfied that I didn’t have to pay for a crappy meal, I vowed to eat somewhere else at the end of the day. With the taste of fat and mayo still clinging to my tongue, I searched in my purse for some gum. No luck. I could have stopped and bought a pack, but I didn’t want to waste anymore time.
Determined to get to the museum, I moved on still trying to figure out the best way to reach MOCA, which sits on Grand Avenue above an overpass.

I soon found myself walking through the 3rd Street Tunnel, which is practically underneath MOCA. I’m sure I have driven through it before, but being on foot was a new experience. Despite the cars zooming past me, the tunnel was quiet. Too quiet. The smell of exhaust filled my nostrils. Graffiti covers the sidewalk. One particular scrawl caught my eye, and I thought how it was similar to some of the modern art that I’ve seen in the past. I couldn’t resist taking a picture.

I exited the tunnel and began a short climb. My thighs began burning. My Skechers Shape-Ups are working. Soon, I saw Walt Disney Concert Hall, a place where I have seen many shows. I watched as tourists took pictures of what has become one of the ugliest, yet best known, buildings in Los Angeles. Despite architect Frank Gehry’s tacky exterior design, Yasuhisa Toyota’s acoustics are to die for. I highly recommend seeing a concert here—just close your eyes and listen.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. Learning to Love LA (again): Part Three—Visiting the MOCA is coming soon!

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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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I am sitting in a bar in Mammoth Lakes, California, during one of the busiest times of the year—President’s Day weekend. As I listen to the inane chatter of intoxicated birthday girls, inebriated ski bunnies, slick man whores, and a staff who can’t wait for this night to be over, I don’t feel like part of this crowd, but I am here, ordering a drink just like the person next to me. Yet, this post-skiing-drinking tradition is not my typical scene. I would much rather be back at the condo watching the Olympics with my husband. Perhaps I would enjoy this situation more if I were falling down drunk with the rest of the clientele. Instead, I sit here writing in my notebook enduring curious stares and quizzical looks. It feels like junior high all over again—eating lunch in the cafeteria, wondering how kids my age can spend so much time talking about themselves.

Don’t misunderstand; I don’t feel sorry for myself. I could try, but I don’t want to because I am bored. Later, my husband will be upset that I didn’t make more of an effort to talk to “our friends.” However, with my new “No longer faking it” creed, I refuse to pretend that I like hanging out in a bar in a strange town with people whom I deem as acquaintances. I should add that I haven’t slept well in weeks, and that all I fantasize about lately is eight hours of uninterrupted, non-medicated sleep. I send my drink back not only because it is too strong and the vodka is terrible, but also because the alcohol will make a good night’s rest more difficult because it induces vivid dreams.

Finally, we leave the bar, and I look forward to whatever Olympic coverage is still airing on NBC. Despite my rant, I have fun skiing in Mammoth, and thanks to my husband, I have been many times now. So in my humble beginner-intermediate skier* opinion, here is the best of what Mammoth has to offer:

Best Ski Lift: Chair 12

Base elev. 9,042′
Top elev. 9,707′
Rise 665′
Length 2,851′

With many simple, groomed, intermediate runs, I am a huge fan of the double Chair 12. According to my research, it is a good place to learn about powder skiing, and in my experience, you can avoid crowds, too, because fewer people ski the back side of the mountain. Chair 12 takes you to chairs 13 and 14, which also have intermediate runs. If I am tired, I stick to Lower Road Runner, which is fairly flat, but narrow in many spots so I can practice my turns. If I feel more ambitious, I will ski White Bark Ridge or Secret Spot. My goal is to eventually ski all of the blue runs at Chair 12 even the steep ones (e.g., New Critters) that scare me.

Best Ski Shop: Footloose Sports
With their famous “Try Before You Buy” policy, Footloose makes it easy to find the perfect pair of skis and boots. We had rented equipment from them in the past, but in December, my husband decided it was time that I had my own skis and boots so I demoed a new set each day. Chris, one of their boot experts, recognized that my wide feet could only fit into two kinds of boots. When I complained that the pair we were about to buy still felt too tight, his alternate suggestion turned out to be the right fit. Julia recommended different skis for me to try based on my height and my expertise. In the end, I came home with electric blue Head skis and smoky grey Tecnica boots.

Best Accommodations: Edelweiss Lodge
With its Swiss chalet exterior and personable caretakers Keith and Marta, Edelweiss feels like home. A gift basket in every room invites guests to partake in Marta’s famous chocolate chip cookies, and pets are always welcome. We have taken our English Mastiff there, and the owners didn’t even blink at Winston’s size. In fact, they gave him his own gift basket complete with homemade dog treats. The only unfortunate experience we have ever had is that during our last visit, I contracted hot tub rash; it was the first time we have ever used their hot tub facility. However, we plan to return to Edelweiss considering that Keith and Marta have offered us a two nights’ free stay for what I now call “The Incident”; we just won’t ever use their hot tub again.

Best Dinner: Mogul Restaurant
We went to this restaurant with ten other people, and everyone was happy with their meal. Whether you desire steak, chicken, pork, lamb, fish, or seafood, I guarantee The Mogul will have a dinner that will fill your stomach and ignite your taste buds as you savor their sauces. They have a “Lite Dinner” selection for those patrons who want to save room for dessert, and their wine list not only contains a decent selection, but the prices are reasonable, too—especially for a restaurant. While the salad bar is average, their entrees are not. I recommend the Mogul Chicken: a double boneless breast marinated in red wine, honey, soy sauce, red wine vinegar, brown sugar, Worcestershire, and spices. The menu states it is “grilled to perfection”—considering how moist, succulent, and delicious my chicken was, I completely agree.

Best Happy Hour: Austria Hof Lodge
According to its website, the Austria Hof restaurant is Mammoth’s only “truly authentic German” cuisine. I don’t know about the main dining room, but the bar downstairs is a divine happy hour experience. With tasteful martinis and many German beers on tap served by a friendly staff (ask for Sean the bartender), the drinking is elevated to new heights with their delicious appetizer menu. My favorite was their baked brie on crostini accompanied by grapes and apple slices; it was like tasting a piece of heaven. And unlike the bar  that I discussed in the opening of this blog, the Austria Hof Happy Hour has a touch of class. I think it’s the food. You have to be at least partially sober to appreciate it.

Best Breakfast: The Stove
“County cookin’ since 1970″ is what the sign outside The Stove says, and I believe it. The Stove is so popular that locals eat there, they don’t have to advertise much, and they don’t even need a website. As long as you can put aside any thoughts of keeping your cholesterol in check and be patient regarding the 20-minute or longer wait, you will be able to enjoy the huge helpings, pleasant service (the same Sean from Austria Hof served us here, too!), and typical eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, and hashed browns breakfast. Of course, they have other items such as French toast and omelettes, but I stick to the basics at The Stove. My only complaint is that their biscuits could use more lard, but at least they are not as dry as most non-Southern biscuits. After all, we Southerners are biscuit experts!

Best Bakery: Erick Schat’s Bakkerÿ
With locations in Bishop and Mammoth, you have two opportunities to visit Schat’s Bakkery, home of the original sheepherder bread. This European-style bakery has everything from bread to pastries to cookies to candy. My husband and I often buy olive or raisin bread depending on our mood, and we always indulge in some cookies. The mail-order catalog is only a partial list of the many goodies this establishment has to offer. If you are anywhere within a 50-mile radius, Schat’s is worth the stop. I recommend the Bishop location because it is much larger, and therefore has a more diverse selection.

Best Coffee: Looney Bean
I imagine Looney Bean is what Starbucks was once upon a time: a small coffee chain with great brews and a distinct personality combined with a touch of hometown charm that makes each location unique. While their pastries lack taste altogether (much like Starbucks), Looney Bean is the place to buy and drink coffee in Mammoth. They provide free Wi-Fi and plenty of indoor and outdoor seating for their customers. I especially like their support of local artists as well as their helpful—but not hyper—staff. With two locations in California (Mammoth and Bishop), and one location in Oregon, Colorado, and Mexico, Looney Bean is easier to find than Schat’s, but still inaccessible for most people. However, you can experience their coffee by joining Club Looney Bean, but if you are in Mammoth, stop by for a cup of java. You’ll like the taste of Looney!

No “Best of” review would be complete without at least one “Worst of” segment. Perhaps I shouldn’t, but here is my most humiliating and humbling experience at Mammoth:

Worst of Mammoth: Jim of the Mammoth Ski Patrol
What are you doing here? Why didn’t you ski down? Why can’t you walk up the road? Why are you alone?
Instead of “Are you okay?” I was grilled like a second-class citizen when Ski Patrol Jim discovered an exhausted me at the side of the mountain in December. I had gone down the wrong way (i.e., too steep), and I had tried to hike back up to where I needed to be. However, my thighs were burning, my chest was aching from pneumonia, and my head was spinning between actual sweating and nervous anticipation as I watched the sun descend on the horizon. I knew I had to get down the mountain, and I knew the easiest way was to ski down, not to walk back up to a flatter run. But I was too tired to struggle with the steep slopes.
Seeing the ski patrol was like an answer to the prayer that I forgot to say, but instead of feeling relieved, I felt stupid. After an initial burst of tears, I recovered enough dignity to say to Jim, “Why are you treating me this way? I thought you were supposed to be helpful.” Instead of answering my question, he diverted it by engaging in light chitchat. Although we were on civil terms by the time the other ski patrol arrived on the snowmobile to return me to the main lodge, I’ll never forget how Jim made me feel: like a moron. If there is a next time, I will either ski down or slide down on my ass, but I will not allow myself to be “rescued” again.

AWW — XoXo

*According to a Mammoth Ski Instructor, beginner-intermediate is an actual level. I was unable to take a beginner’s class because I am too intermediate, and I didn’t qualify for the intermediate class because I am too much of a beginner. Geesh!

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