I'm an east coast girl. Always have been, possibly always will be.

But for a couple ill-advised years, I lived in LA. And I have to admit, I talk a lot about living there, given that it was only two years -- and that was three years ago.  (Meaning I've now been back for far longer than I was ever there.) Now, in my defense, they were two very long years, as time tends to slow down when you're miserable. 

Not to mention that while the 'Isn't it just crazy how different life is on the west coast' ground has been pretty well covered by a variety of essayists and stand-up comedians and freshman roommates, I feel it still has a certain gee-whiz factor. Especially at dinner parties when we've run out of all other conversation. (Of course, this is coming from the girl who's still blown away by the fact that the game I and all my Philadelphia friends called "Whisper Down the Lane" is known as "Telephone" everywhere else in the country -- even though, as I'm required to point out every time the subject comes up, calling it Telephone MAKES NO FREAKING SENSE.)

Anyway, my time in LA was rather memorable, and as the years pass, I'm prone to cultivating the memory of its high points, holding fast to things I miss about the city in case I ever find myself forced to move back. (Look: If JJ Abrams calls me up and invites me to join the writing staff of Lost, what am I supposed to say, "Love to, JJ, but I'm not so into the whole LA thing?"  I don't think so.)

And one of the things I miss about LA is the Mexican food.  Specifically, the probably not-particularly-authentic Mexican restaurant El Cholo.  Now, I know this place is a chain.  And it served a pretty generic menu of standard tex mex, as opposed to all the uber-authentic oaxacan stuff that most of my friends preferred.  But it had huge margaritas, it was close to my house, and of the handful of happy memories I have from those days, a big chunk of them take place at El Cholo.

Which means I spent a lot of time staring at the menu, which told the tale of how an El Cholo waitress basically invented nachos and single-handedly turned them into the delicious commonplace treat we know and love. I assumed this was the kind of cheesy crap you always find on the menus at cheesy crap restaurants.  Then today I saw this:

"RIP: Carmen Rocha, the El Cholo restaurant waitress who was credited with bringing nachos to Los Angeles in 1959, died in her home in Los Angeles on October 9. She brought the recipe with her from San Antonio, Texas where she learned how to layer tortilla wedges with shredded cheddar cheese and slices of jalapeño pepper."

It seems, counter to my view of the world, it is possible to be too skeptical.

So RIP, Carmen Rocha, and thanks for the memories!

*****
Special message to the one person I know who often reads this blog and joined me for many of those El Cholo evenings: Feel free to weigh in, since as I recall you found the food there somewhat less than edible.

...to the land of the living, that is.  First there was the post-deadline brain implosion, then, immediately after, there was the visit to the dentist that left me all swelled-up and whiny and slurping vanilla shakes like there was no tomorrow, and then there was the general-to-be-expected (even if I never expect it) lethargy that follows from staying on your couch for 72 hours watching Party of Five reruns on Hulu.

(And by the way, Scott Wolf and Matthew Fox? Bizarrely just as hot as they were in the 90s, no more, no less.  Maybe because they both seem to have drunk some kind of miracle anti-aging juice. I was a definite Bailey girl when this show was first on, at least in the early seasons, but Charlie has grown on me.  Maybe it's the Lost aura effect.  Dear readers, if you've never seen this show, you should go watch the first season, because it was incredible. Less angsty and gritty than My So-Called Life, far less soapy and trashy than Gossip Girl or 90210 -- all shows I love, mind you -- it was what Dawson's and Felicity wanted to be, but couldn't quite manage.  Just trust me. And then, if you like it, you should rent the 1st and 2nd seasons of Everwood, because they're in the same vein.  Plus Scott Wolf's dimples make an appearance!)

But now I'm done with the season, just as I'm done with my manuscript, and as my mouth has returned to almost normal thus allowing me to venture into the outside world. Both literally and electronically.  So here I am.

First things first: Don't forget, today is the last day to enter the SKINNED contest! Just send me a headline from the year 2060, and you could win a free iPod shuffle, a free iPod skin, or a gift certficate to Amazon or B&N. Details here. (Remember, it's a random drawing, so even if you're afraid you can't come up with a good headline, you should just send in the best you've got!)

What else? I was thinking yesterday about how I've expended all this energy and ink discussing my many crushes, but never shed spotlight on any of my girl crushes, ie the ladies that I wish I could grow up to be someday. Number one: Candice Bergen.



Now, Candice Bergen is currently on the show Boston Legal, which I watch (and I realize I'm the only one left in the country to do so) laregly because a) I'm in love with James Spader, b) David Kelly created one of my all time favorite shows and every now and then a little of that show's goodness leaks into this one, and c) Candice Bergen is awesome.

That said, in my mind, Candice Bergen -- and this is the reason I will love her forever -- will always be Murphy Brown.

I've been missing Murphy Brown lately, as I can only imagine what she'd make of the current political climate.  For those of you who never watched this show or (sight) weren't born yet when it aired, Murphy Brown was a sitcom in the early 90s about a loudmouthed, opinionated, stubborn, sarcastic, angry, (recovering) alcoholic, totally unlikeable yet totally charming anchor on a 60 minutes style new show.  Murphy Brown couldn't tolerate hypocriscy, incompetence, or stupidity -- and most of all, she couldn't tolerate liars.  This show was about a bunch of hapless journalists trying to put on a weekly newcast, it was about 90s politics (and in a way, in its jokes and references, was as period-specific as the Wonder Years or Will and Grace), it was about a woman navigating the shoals of working life (and later, working motherhood), it was about a woman who didn't care what anyone thought of her, but most of all, I would argue, it was about the search for, and insistence upon, authenticity and truth. In personal life, in professional life, in political life. It was about saying whatever you think and standing up for what you believe in, whatever the consequences. And sometimes the consequence was actually a reward -- shout your unpleasant truths loudly enough, and you get to be Murphy Brown.

It was also pretty damn funny. Plus it had an excellent soundtrack -- and every once in a while, Candice Bergen got to sing along:

As far as I can tell, that's how many minutes there are left between now and the final performance of Rent. Which, if you're counting, has been on broadway for approximately 6,496,800 minutes.  Yes, I just did the math. (And if you don't understand why, you probably won't care about the rest of this post. Sorry!)



The show was supposed to close in May, on my 30th birthday, which would also have been the 11th anniversary of the day I saw it there for the first time, after spending the night of my birthday sleeping outside the theater with some friends, waiting in line to get front row seats. We thought we were rather daring. In retrospect, it realize it probably would have been more daring -- or at least more "cool" -- to stay out all night waiting for Pearl Jam tickets or something. But I don't particularly care.

And not just because it meant the chance to spend a miniscule amount of quality time with Anthony Rapp and Adam Pascal.



Trust me when I say that compared to the community of obsessed Rent-heads, I'm barely even a fan. (This morning's NY Times profile talks to a guy who's seen the show 119 times, which as far as I can tell, he and his freinds consider about average.) But I was obsessed in my own way. And with good reason. The show opened just as I was graduating high school -- it was one of the last things I shared with my old friends, and one of the first things I shared with my new ones. At the time, it seemed like a guidebook to where life was going to take us, a manual to handling all the insanity and emotional overload, a safe and reliable refuge from daily torments.  And it was something singular, Broadway but not Broadway, something that seemed to belong to us, as if it had been made with us in mind.

It seemed like in only a few years we'd be graduating and moving to an east village artist's garret for our very own bohemian adventures. (Spoiler alert: it didn't quite turn out that way.)

It's one of the only things that I, cynical as I am (which is not nearly as cynical as most people seem to think) remain unabashedly sentimental about.

And before all the overblown hype, before it got old and cheesy and touristy and disdained by "real" theater people, before years of extremely unfortunate cast changes filled the stage with people who just didn't get it, it was something remarkable.

It was, according to the original review, "an electric current of emotion that is anything but morbid. Sparked by a young, intensely vibrant cast directed by Michael Greif and sustained by a glittering, inventive score, the work finds a transfixing brightness in characters living in the shadow of AIDS. Puccini's ravishingly melancholy work seemed, like many operas of its time, to romance death; Mr. Larson's spirited score and lyrics defy it."

What he said.

The beauty and tragedy of a live performance iis that you can't revisit it. Unlike a favorite novel or album or movie, you can't dip into it whenever you feel like it and bring it to life for yourself all over again.

As it's happening, it's more real than anything you could experience on the page or on screen. But when it's over?



It's over.

I wouldn't say my stress levels are at an all-time high. But given a) the national news, b) a September calendar packed with deadlines, c) a new book coming out in six days, and d) [miscellaneous], I'd say they're pretty close.

Sometimes, you just need a pick-me-up.

And sometimes, the world delivers:


Would you think less of me if I admitted that "Hangin' Tough" was the first album I ever owned?

First things first -- don't forget that today is your last chance to win a copy of Skinned! Just email me -- robin (at) robinwasserman (dot) com -- with the title of your favorite book.  WInners will be announced soon!

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Moving on. 90210, "new and improved." I've awaited this show's debut with eagerness and dread. And now that it's arrived, I'm a little reluctant to comment on the pilot, given how incredibly wrong I was about the Gossip Girl pilot. (Except for Chuck being the second coming of James Spader. That one I called from the outset.)  Stll, quick impressions:

-Not enough Brenda Walsh!

-Definitely enough "Hannah Zuckerman-Vasquez" (though I did appreciate the inside joke)

-What the hell did they do to the Peach Pit?

-Who's the father of Kelly Taylor's baby? (I mean, obviously they're keeping this a mystery in hopes they can woo Jason Priestley or Luke Perry back on screen, but If it's Dylan, I swear, I'll punch a whole in my tv.)

-Laurie Laughlin and Rob Estes are no James Eckhouse and What's Her Name (speaking of unnecessary adults, Nat is looking...botoxed)

-It's embarrassing how much of a chill I got when the theme song kicked in.

-I foresee the biggest problem going forward is that the female lead CANNOT ACT.  She's insufferable, and seems to have only two acting modes. "Frowny face" and "inappropriate laughing face." It gives me a whole new respect for how much Shannen Doherty really made this show, back in the day. Which leads me back to,

-Not enough Brenda Walsh!

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In other news, anyone flip over from the CW to the RNC at 10? (This was like going straight from a Justin Timberlake concert to the Bing Crosby Christmas Special.) Slate's take: "Boaters, facelifts, bowties, creepy pallor. It's like a Lynchian version of The Music Man."

And you can see why:



(The Texas delegation, via the New York Times)

There are a lot of things I could post about this morning: lauren_myracle's photo-riffic description of this weekend's tropical hijinx (including a rather embarrassing picture of yours truly), or the fact that Obama is finally, and awesomely, hitting back against McCain (money quote: "It's like these guys take pride in being ignorant.")

I could discuss American Teen, the Breakfast Club-style documentary I saw last night which was okay but (and I know you won't believe me on this) not nearly as interesting or incisive a commentary on high school life as MTV's The Paper.

I could point you to this very cool test to see if you have synethsia (which it turns out is a much less rare condition than everyone assumed, and you might not even know you have it), or we could discuss the fact that Joss Whedon's newest show is starting to sound as doomed as Firefly. (And while we're at it, why isn't there any buzz about JJ Abrams' Fringe, starring the ever delightful Joshua Jackson?)

We could, of course, always discuss Neil Patrick Harris.

But today, I choose to relay to you this sad news: PBS is cancelling Mr. Rogers. (Yes, arguably the universe cancelled Mr. Rogers back in 2003, but even after his death, the show has been airing in reruns.) What do you think? Is this an outdated show that holds no appeal to today's children and -- unlike Sesame Street -- can no longer adjust to fit wtih the times? Is it a piece of our own childhood that, out of misguided nostalgia, we're all determined to cram down the next generation's throats? Or is Mr. Rogers the only sane man in an insane world, giving our children the fundamental building blocks they need on issues like personal responsibility, lying, and cardigan sweaters?

Personally, Mr. Rogers himself always bored me, but ahhh...how I loved the Land of Make Believe.

Because I automatically assume that all culture from my childhood is superior to anything created after 1990 (and yes, I understand the irony here, given that I myself have become a post-90s culture-creator), it's hard for me to be objective on this one. I'm willing to accept that maybe Mr. Rogers and Mr. McFeely's time has passed. (Seriously, McFeely? Who's his boss down at the post office, Mo Lester?)  Still, it seems like a sad moment of passing.

Moment of silence . . .

. . .

Now, two questions:
1. Which show of your childhood do you wish could run forever in syndication?

2. Does anyone remember the opera episode of Mr. Rogers, which featured characters like Fork and Spoon, singing about how evil Mr. Knife was? Because this one's printed indelibly on my brain, yet I've never found anyone else who actually remembers it, and am beginning to think I'm insane.

I don't quite understand how it got to be Friday, since last time I poked my head up to check, it was Monday, but here we are.  A few end of week remainders:

1. Screech (aka Dustin Diamond, although it's best not to think of him like that, because then you have to confront the skeeziness factor) is writing a Saved By the Bell tell-all! I want it now.

2. I've been posting a million youtube videos this week, so I'll spare you another one, but if you know what's good for you,  you'll follow this link to Neil Patrick Harris playing the Shoe Fairy on Sesame Street. He SINGS!

3. My life can be characterized as a determined search for the perfect mentor. And whenever I find someone who temporarily fits the bill, I'm not shy about pouring on the gratitude. (Suffice it to say that in much the same way television can be considered just a delivery system for ads, my books may just be delivery systems for dedications.) Which is why I so enjoyed this post about what happens when you're confronted with the reality that your mentor looms rather larger in your imagination than you do in his.

4. Speaking of blogs, I'm not going to link to this random kid I came across (thanks, google alerts!) who's reading Cat's Cradle for the first time, but I will quote him: "I read about Kurt Vonnegut in a book called Hacking Harvard, and I think I'll like this book." Forget what I said above. This is why I write.

5. Apparently Joss Whedon's getting a lot of flack for Act III of Dr. Horrible's Sing-A-Long Blog. I can't defend it in detail without giving away crucial plot points. But I will just say that I think it's brilliant, and that people who think he's repeating himself are ignoring the meaning of the ending. Yes, the plot twists are reminiscent of old shows, but their context and import are completely different. (Sorry to be so vague. But it's your own fault for not watching it yet -- what are you waiting for?)

Updated to add:

6. I almost forgot -- have you guys seen the new JC Penney's commercial that pays (let me pause to throw up before writing this word) "homage" to the Breakfast Club? Could there be anything more repulsive -- at least to those of us lucky enough to grow up in the John Hughes era -- than recreating the pivotal scenes of this movie with a bunch of moronically grinning teenagers moronically delighted to start their school day? (With a disgustingly jaunty cover of "Don't You Forget About Me" playing in the background.) I'm not even going to link to it, because I don't want to contribute to any kind of buzz campaign. But know this, JC Penney: you have incurred my WRATH.

When I was a kid, my parents never hired a babysitter. Instead, whenever they needed to go out, they sent me off to my grandmother. This worked out rather well, since Saturday nights at her apartment meant two things: chocolate milk and Golden Girls. (And, if I was doubly lucky, butterscotch krimpets.)

Of course, I didn't understand three quarters of of what was happening on the show (and not just the senior citizen sex stuff -- I was in my 20s before I discovered that St Olaf was in Minnesota, not Sweden).  Watching reruns now, I have to assume that at the time a lot of the dialogue must have sounded like, "Blah blah blah inexplicable laugh line about handcuffs, blah blah blah something about blanche and a fireman's hose blah blah blah cheescake." (To give you a sense of how clueless I was, I believe this was also the first time I'd ever heard of cheesecake.)

I loved every minute of it. And of all the things I loved when I was eight years old, this seems to be the only one that was actually good.

(With the exception of buttersctoch krimpets -- and I'm willing to accept that that one's debatable.)

Not just good television, but a good thing to exist in the universe. A show about women in their sixties (and we won't even discuss how much more ancient that seemed to me when I was eight years old) with no husbands, absentee children, and -- nonetheless -- active social lives and sex lives. 

I'm inclined to say that no such show would ever be made today, but as I mentioned, I'm experimenting with optimism. So maybe it would, but it would be on HBO, and the women would probably be the heads of a brothel or something.

The point is, the show was brilliant, even if no one seems to realize it but (an admittedly large chunk of) fans and the programming execs at the Lifetime network. And that brilliance was in large part due to Estelle Getty (Sophia), who died this week.

One of the obituaries said something that really struck me:

Getty, a natural comedian famous for her one-liners even in private life, played Sophia for laughs, but she also brought depth to the character. It was her idea that Sophia would always carry a purse because, she said, older women are forced to shed so many possessions in their later years that everything they own ends up in their purses. "Nobody puts down their life very easily," she explained.

Nobody puts down their life very easily. One final piece of wisdom from Sophia Petrillo.

Well...okay, here's one more:

The new 90210 -- yea or nay?


Clearly I've been watching too much of the CW (curse those Gossip Girl reruns!), but every time I see this stupid trailer, I have a pavlovian 'I want this NOW' response. Even though it's surely destined to suck.

Or is it?

Cons:
-Probability that this will be lame retread of deliciously cheesy 90s greatness = high

-Rob "Veronica Mars" Thomas no longer running the show (am I the only one who didn't know this until just now?) -- replaced by exec producer of "What About Brian"

-returning characters to include Nat, exclude Dylan and Brandon

Pros:
-(semi) breaking news....Shannon Doherty joins the cast! (At least for a little while.) And even better, it seems (spoiler alert) that Brenda Walsh has become an internationally acclaimed actress and director, while Kelly Taylor is a West Beverly guidance counselor. (Dear Kelly, maybe instead of "choosing me," you should have chosen grad school. Love, Brenda+DylanFanForever512.)

Uh, sorry, what was I saying? Got distracted by the schadenfreude. Oh, right, the electric slide of tolerance:


So, speaking of '90s works of art, when do I get my Party of Five reunion special?

Or maybe, yesssssssssss!  (I can't decide.)

Is it a good thing that Harvey Weinstein is reviving this piece of 80s brilliance -- or is doing so destined to ruin it forever?

I reserve the right to withhold judgment.



"The Weinstein Co. is taking Fraggle Rock to the big screen! Jim Henson's classic series will become a live-action musical, directed by Hoodwinked! director Cory Edwards." (from the NY Observer)