Our magnificent electric pleasure dome

Columbus may not be nationally known for its bustling arts scene (though we have a fairly active one), but we do have one of the few operating old-fashioned movie palaces in the country, the Ohio Theatre. Opened in 1928 (an easy year for me to remember because that's also when my mother was born), the theater, on State Street across from the Capitol Building, presented movies and live stage shows for many years until a combination of the popularity of television and suburban sprawl wound up closing most of the downtown movie theaters--I remember 4 downtown theaters in the 60's: besides the Ohio, there was the Palace (where I saw many a B-horror movie and which is still used for concerts and plays), the RKO Grand (a Cinerama theater where I saw 2001: A Space Odyssey for the first time), and the Hunt's Cinestage (where I saw Dr. Zhivago).

The Ohio was in danger of being torn down when, in 1969, money was raised to save the building and renovate it. It was fully restored and has become the prize gem of CAPA (Columbus Association for the Performing Arts), housing stage shows, concerts, ballets, and other personal appearance events. And, during the summers for the past 40 years, movies return to the theater in the form of the Summer Movie Series of classic films.

I just love going to the Summer movies, even though I've seen virtually every film they run, and in many cases, I own them on DVD. The theater is huge, seating 2800 people (and though it never fills up for the classic movies, the crowds always number well into the hundreds), spacious and air-conditioned. The acoustics, especially for the 30's movies, are not ideal, but generally that's not an obstacle to enjoying the movies because, frankly, I go there for the surroundings--ornate decoration (restored faithfully from the old days), a giant balcony area (we try to get there early to snag seats in the front row of the loge, the best seats in the house), gold-gilt stars painted on the ceiling, a big movie-theater organ, and most spectacularly, a huge chandelier with hundreds of lights, suspended above the balcony.

We went on a free guided tour of the theater over the weekend, and though I didn't get to see anything I hadn't seen before, I did learn some interesting trivia (most of which has already gone through my sieve of a brain) and got to take lots of pictures, some of which you'll find below.

The lobby, as seen from the West stairs:


The screen, as seen from the balcony:


The organ, called The Mighty Morton, played before every film by Clark Wilson, who refers to the theater as a "magnificent electric pleasure dome."


Bathrooms for the gentry:


Balcony steps:


One of the wonderfully ornate, though non-functional, box seats:

One small step

1969, as we're being told by the media, was a big year for the country (Woodstock, Charles Manson, Altamont, and the Moon, for starters) but it was also a big year for me; at 13, I hit puberty, began to think I might be a homosexual, got my braces on, and discovered rock music. Frankly, in the middle of all that personal ebb and flow, the moon landing wasn't all the crucial to me, though of course I understood its historical importance. I did, however, get quite caught up in moon-landing fever for a week or so.

One reason why Apollo 11 may not, at least in the run-up to it, have seemed terribly momentous to me was that I grew up reading science-fiction. Bradbury, Clarke, Asimov, Edgar Rice Burroughs, Amazing Stories, Fantasy & Science Fiction Magazine, and Stanley Kubrick had already taken me to the moon and beyond. I knew all that was fiction, but the 60's was a time of change, when so much seemed possible, and I guess I assumed that, of course we'd get to the moon, we're Americans! My dad was a navigator in the Air Force, and though never close to being an astronaut, he wore zip-up flight suits that didn't seem all that different than what the Apollo guys wore, which maybe gave the Cape Kennedy missions more of an everyday feel to me.

At any rate, I don't remember giving the July mission much thought until a day or so before the launch. In preparation for getting on my braces, I had a couple of wisdom teeth removed just a few days before the launch, and at that point, getting put under by the dentist seemed scary and perhaps more exciting than watching a moon landing. School wasn't in, but my neighborhood friends (and my younger brother) were all caught up in the moon rage, so once I got past the dentist, I got swept up in it as well. We played Astronauts, formed a science club, and put together a little hand-made science magazine, of which 3 or 4 issues were "published" during that July week.

The real kicker was the media. There were books and magazines about the moon, and soon even all the networks (all 3 of them--Public TV barely counted since it came in spottily and often with lots of snow and static) had lots of coverage. What might have finally sent me into real teenage-boy enthusiasm about the moon landing was that my favorite author, Ray Bradbury, was interviewed and served as a commentator for one of the networks. I guess I thought if he was excited about this, I should be, too.

The bulk of the action happened over the weekend, and our little science club went into overdrive spending every moment we could either watching the TV coverage or, when the talking heads got too boring, talking about how cool it would be when we'd go to live on the moon when we were grown-ups. The actual landing ("The Eagle has landed"), which I think took place Sunday afternoon was quite exciting; we all jumped and cheered, and even my normally taciturn father seemed thrilled. But it was Neil Armstrong's first step onto the lunar surface, that night around 11:00, when I finally really did feel that this was a remarkable and momentous occasion. Of course, one reason I felt that way was because it was way past my bedtime, and Mom and Dad let my brother and I stay up for this, but by now, I knew that real life was catching up with science fiction. I'm not sure I've ever felt quite so excited about and proud of being an American as I was that night.

In the long run, I have to leave it to the scientists and cultural commentators to determine what the moon landing really meant, because right now, it seems very much like a last gasp of colonial glory that was done, rather like climbing Everest, because the moon was there. But I'm happy to have been the age I was at the time: young enough to get swept up at least briefly in the event without having to worry about a job or a career (or even, since it was summer, homework) and old enough to have vivid memories of it that will last the rest of my life. I do have to say, however, that we watched 2001: A Space Odyssey this weekend to commemorate Apollo 11, and in some ways, that film seemed more real to me than the actual landing.

Pasta primavera

When I was buying my supplies for last Friday night's pasta primavera, the clerk asked what I was going to cook and I said pasta primavera and he said, "I've never had that," and looked at me with big puppy dog eyes. I assumed he wasn't actually flirting with me, and I replied, "Well, it's just pasta in a light olive oil-based sauce tossed with vegetables," and he said a little sadly, "Oh, I guess I have had that."

One of the first things I learned to cook after I met Don was a pasta primavera dish from a Better Homes & Gardens cookbook. It was basically a stir-fry of carrots, broccoli, onion, and pea pods, in butter and white wine. I took to cooking quickly and really enjoyed it, but I've always been someone who has to stick to a recipe; I'm not very adventurous. Even dishes I've been making the same way at least twice a month for 15 years now (like hamburger stroganoff or pork chops in mustard cream sauce or sloppy joes) I still make with the printed recipe in front of me.

But slowly, I've been allowing myself to improvise a bit here and there. I found a pasta primavera recipe in a book called Cook Yourself Thin. That's never going to happen in this house, but I thought I'd give this one a shot. It calls for a pound of asparagus (bottoms snapped off--remind me to tell you sometime about the first time I cooked asparagus and threw away the tips, thinking they looked too feathery to eat) cooked up for a few minutes in chicken stock, then set aside. Then you stir-fry mushrooms and onion in olive oil and garlic, add peas and more chicken stock, throw the asparagus back in, and toss it with pasta (in this case, rotini).

That didn't sound like quite enough food to me, so I added some yellow bell pepper strips, chopped plum tomatoes, and celery slices, and threw some white wine into the stock (some yucky Pacific Rim Riesling that I was trying to get rid of). At the end, the recipe called for baby spinach to be added; I normally would have left that out, but I happened to have half a bag of spinach left over from a salad a few nights ago, so in it went.

I'm happy to report that my semi-improvised recipe was liked by all (that is, Don & I), and was made even better with a glass of Caldoni Pinot Grigo, which I picked because the bottle was cool, and some multigrain Tuscany bread. I forgot to take a picture of the food, but you'll find the cool wine bottle pictured. A very nice, light summer dish, and even better, the leftovers made a great cold pasta salad the next day!

My glorious celebrity dreams

Yes, I'm one of those braying jackasses who will relate his dreams at the drop of a hat, to anyone who is unfortunate enough to be within earshot. So as anyone with more than a passing acquaintance with me will know, I frequently have dreams in which celebrities play a large part. This started way back when I was just 8 years old; in 1964, after seeing A Hard Day's Night for the first time, I had a dream that the Beatles came to Grove City (the central Ohio suburb where I grew up) and stayed with my family to get away from the crowds, so my dad hollowed out our concrete front porch and they stayed in there, and I would bring them food and refreshments and they were super-nice to me.

The next one I remember, in high school during my Ziggy Stardust phase, was that I was in the studio audience watching David Bowie on Jeopardy (back before they actually had Celebrity Jeopardy weeks)--and he kept getting answers wrong and smiling knowingly at me.

Back during the heyday of Friends, I dreamed I was on a date with Matthew Perry (on whom I had a big crush at the time)--he drove a fast little sports car, took me to his high-rise apartment overlooking a glittering big city, and put the moves on me. My response as he was climbing all over me was to wonder out loud if I should call my partner Don to make sure it was OK for me to mess around with Matthew Perry. (Apparently I can't even cheat in my dreams.)

I dreamed I was giving a naked Angelina Jolie a hot oil massage. I dreamed I was singing backup for Madonna but she changed the song list at the last minute and I didn't know the words. I've had vague sex dreams about Jeremy Piven (I think real sex dreams ended back in college when I started having real sex.)

My latest: I dreamed I was backstage at the Michael Jackson memorial, waiting to go on to perform "Man In The Mirror" with Lena Horne and Grace Jones. That's it--I woke up before I went onstage--but shootin' the shit with Lena Horne, I mean, how cool is that? I'm reading a biography of her right now, which is probably why she was in the dream, and of course it's just plain difficult to get away from anything MJ, but how Grace Jones wound up there, I'm at a loss to explain.

Somebody doesn't like Sara Lee

I originally meant this blog to be a place to post short remarks, observations, etc. of the kind I post to Facebook and Twitter, but longer than those services allow. In practice, this has become another place for me to run off at the mouth at length. I'm going to try and reclaim this place for short posts, or expansions of Facebook posts. So I'll start with this:

I'm on a vacation day today, so I walked down to Starbucks for my morning coffee, and on my way, I saw a Sara Lee truck with their age-old slogan on the side, "Nobody doesn't like Sara Lee." I suddenly had an epiphany: I don't particularly like Sara Lee! This only means something if you know that I grew up in a Sara Lee household, having Sara Lee coffeecakes for breakfasts and Sara Lee pies for desserts. I liked them well enough when I was 8, but I don't think I've bought a Sara Lee product for myself in 30 years--maybe a couple of their streusel coffeecakes now and again, when I've had to entertain for breakfast. My 80-year-old mother would probably have a stroke if she read this (and she might, as she does have Internet access and occasionally glances at my Media Playroom blog), since she still loves Sara Lee. For myself, it's just a part of growing away from eating so many things frozen or boxed, and I guess that's good, but the taste of a Sara Lee product will still bring back fond childhood feelings--and when I'm at Mom's on Christmas morning, Sara Lee still provides our pre-present opening food.

Then, at Starbucks, I was entertained by hearing the most ludicrously superfluous conversation starter ever, spoken by a vacuous looking blonde female runner to her barista while waiting for her soy-free, fat-filled, dark/light mocha blobachino: "O My God, did you HEAR that Michael Jackson DIED yesterday?!?" His reply: "Uh, ... yeah." If she was flirting, she failed. Of course, I took a different tack when I said to him, "Nice shoulders--you been workin' out?" His reply: "Uh, ... yeah." [No, I didn't really say that, I just thought it, and even in my fantasy, he rejected me. I guess I'm too much of a monogomist to stray even in my idle fancies.]

Save Ohio libraries (and, BTW, my job)!

Here in Ohio, the governor, Ted Strickland, is proposing a state budget to go into effect in just a few days that would cut by 30% the amount of money that Ohio libraries would get to operate. This is on top of an average 20% shortfall we've experienced already this year due to the overall tax collection shortfall. I'm not a mathematician, nor am I an economist, but it does seem like we will be running our libraries with nearly 50% less money that we did last year. My library, like many in the state, doesn't depend completely on state funding, but still, this cut will mean we'll have 30% less money at our disposal.

In this economy, library use is way up, not just for "free" entertainment in the form of books, magazines, DVDs, and CDs, but also for free computer and Internet use (something that has been growing exponentially in the past few years), job search materials, and community programs. We have already been trimming back here and there (not filling jobs which have been vacated, charging more for fines), but a loss this big will truly mean major cuts in our staffing, hours, and programs. How does a "business" that is in more demand than ever wind up like this?

There is a rally at the Statehouse today which I won't be able to attend, but I hope that lots of people, and not just librarians, show up. Unfortunately, I think the everyday visitors to our library who take us for granted (whether for services or just to have a place to relax and a friendly person to talk to) are probably not likely to show up, but they are the ones who will feel the pinch first. Here's hoping these folks, who will have to be at the core of any meaningful protest, do show up, and that our legislators listen to them. The flood of e-mails and phone calls being recieved by the governor and lawmaker in support of libraries is heartening, but I'm not sure that alone will send the message.

Seasons, the night sky, and cabana boys

I am hardly a nature boy but the romantic in me loves nature in small and controlled doses. I've never gone camping (except when I spent the night with pals in a tent pitched in our neighbor's back yard when I was a kid) but I've enjoyed the "cabining" I've done with friends at state parks. I can't identify trees or flowers, but I like to go on the occasional hike through parks and woods and arboretums. And though I've never learned the constellations, I love to look at the night sky (approximated above on my work computer wallpaper). Where we live now, in a suburb attached directly to a big city, we're lucky enough to be just far enough away from the major light concentrations of downtown Columbus to our southeast that on cloudless nights, we can stand in our front yard and see some stars.

When I was young, our family had a cottage on Kelleys Island in Lake Erie, and many of my cherished memories of our island vacations are of our walks back to the cottage after a drunken carouse downtown (that should be "downtown" in quotes, as it was comprised of three bars, a small grocery store, and a Dairy Queen), throwing ourselves on the hoods of cars, and staring up into the deep, sparkling night sky. With virtually no noticeable light pollution to the north or west, the stars were brilliant and numerous. When I was very young, my dad, who had been a navigator in the Air Force, would point out to me and my brother the stars and constellations but I would never remember them from year to year, so each year he would be able to go through the ritual again. (Well, I did remember Cassiopeia which, in his earthy way, he identified as "the big tit in the sky.") As we got older, we would re-enact this event with our visitors (friends, boyfriends, partners, wives)--it was part of the initiation event of belonging to the extended Ritchie clan, and it is the only thing I really miss about not having property on the Island anymore.

Anyway, I think of this today not because of any night sky experience, but because of how gorgeous it is out this morning. It rained through much of the night, and the skies right now are cloudy but not ominously so. When I got out of my car at Panera (to get my coffee and cinnamon roll, bright and early at 7 a.m.), the breeze hit me in a way that it hadn't since sometime last summer. I call it a "tingly breeze": it's noticeable but not exactly forceful, and with an air temperature of 70 degrees, it's right on that rare and perfect edge between cool and warm. As I stood in the parking lot for just a moment to enjoy the wind, I got a tingly sensation along my arms (hence the "tingly breeze") and could imagine for a moment that I was on a beach in some paradisaical location, about to throw myself into the crashing surf (after the taut-bellied cabana boy brings me a margarita; why do carnal desires intrude into even my most beautiful wholesome fantasies?)

...Leading me finally to the title of this post. I realized recently that the seasons, sadly, have become less important to my everyday life. In school, in college, in grad school, and while teaching, seasonal changes were a big part of my life because my routine depended on the season. For most of my life, summer has meant either time off, time for vacations, or when teaching, just a different pace when teaching one summer class. Even when I was working in retail, summer felt different, partly because I was at the peak of my "swingin' singles" era, and summer nights were clubbing nights--we clubbed all year round, but somehow in my memories of those times, it was always a hot summer night.

In the past few years, with the library work cycle not particularly dependent on seasonal changes, and with tranquil domestic routines well established (not to mention central air conditioning), summer has largely become just like any other time of year. The past few years, I've felt bad about that, panicking that the summer was going to pass me by without registering on me at all. This year, for the first time, I don't seem to care. Part of it is that I've accepted that, like at Christmastime, I can't force myself to live up to these unrealistic expectations (I MUST be jolly in December, I MUST find time to lie in the sun in July). But the other part is that the weather the past month or so has been delightful--warm enough to sleep with windows open and the ceiling fan on, but not so hot that the AC is running all the time, though a little AC to accentuate the fan at night is nice. So I might get to swim in a pool or at a beach, I might not. I might get a little tan, I might not. I might sit on the porch and look at the stars in a warm night breeze, I might not. I guess I'm finally OK with that. But I did get at least one tingly summer breeze!