Monday, December 08, 2014

Movies You May Have Missed - Slums of Beverly Hills (1998)

Slums of Beverly Hills is Tamara Jenkins' semi-autobiographical tale of growing up in the mid-70s while living in various rundown "dingbats"—box-like cheap-o apartments with fancy-sounding names like "Casa Bella," that sprouted mushroom-like throughout California during the 50s and 60s. Natasha Lyonne is Vivian Abromowitz, soon-to-be freshman at Beverly Hills High. Alan Arkin is her car salesman dad, Murray, who struggles mightily to keep his three kids within the Beverly Hills school district by renting its cheapest apartments just inside the city limits. When rent is over-due, which is often, Vivian and her two brothers are packed into the family station wagon in the middle of the night, hightailing it to the next available apartment.

Just the combination of Lyonne and Arkin alone makes for supreme casting, but Slums... hosts a ridiculously rich company of comedic actors, including David Krumholtz as would-be thespian pothead brother, Ben, and the always-great Kevin Corrigan as a neighbor who's obsessed with Charles Manson and is something of a love-interest for Vivian. Not a full-on love interest, because Vivian is more interested in exploring her own sexuality than connecting with some guy across the hall who dropped out of high school to become a drug dealer. Vivian's ability to view sex as its own outcome rather than a love connection, is one of this movie's modern conceits. The sexual revolution was in full effect by the mid-seventies and Jenkins doesn't bow to romantic movie tropes about teenage girls and their inner desires. What Vivian desires is to settle down in one place long enough to have an actual home. But since Murray describes his family as Nomads, that's not likely to happen any time soon.

With her tremendous pie-eyes and mounds of red hair, Lyonne could just make facial expressions on-camera and be riveting, but she has so many innate comic gifts going for her. It's  good to see her career pick up again in Orange is the New Black (where she shines once more). As Vivian, who has seemingly developed breasts "overnight," she's forced to go from tomboy to object-of-desire in one summer. Lyonne's galumphing walk and plaintive stare indicate Vivian's humiliation throughout an array of uncomfortable scenarios—forced to wear a bra with a halter top, potential plastic surgery confusion, and the fallout from unexpected menstrual bleeding.

Slums... is a precursor to our current comedy of mortification, but unlike much of today's comedy, Vivian is not the butt of the joke. Although she has no sexual experience or even knowledge of half the things the adults around her refer to, she covers up her ignorance and soldiers on. And she's most often the voice of reason in a world full of dingbats. Jenkins recognizes that young people may be inexperienced, but they're not stupid.

And now:

Vivian has no choice but to surrender to the demands of early puberty. Her dad insists she buy her first bra. What an awful time, puberty.

Vivian's parents are divorced and for reasons unexplained, mom lives on the east coast. A series of maternal and not-so-maternal characters flit in and out of the story to guide Vivian through this awkward phase. The bra saleslady assures us that "breasts are beautiful!"

But Vivian's not buying it.

Ah, Los Angeles. I lived there briefly in 1970 and it looked just like this. One of the great achievements of this little comedy is the set design, and the recognition that families struggled economically throughout the decade. People didn't look "cool." They mostly looked everyone in this movie.

National treasure, Alan Arkin, as Murray—on the pay phone


An upscale dingbat

An Abromowitz family portrait featuring Vivian's iconic blowdryer-halter-first-bra-cutoffs-tube-sock gunslinger look.

Everyone in this cast is so game for anything. How hard you laugh at Ben's rehearsal scene for "Guys and Dolls" is a barometer for how much you'll enjoy the deadpan comedy stylings of this film.

Things get more squirrely when adorable but drug-addled cousin Rita (Marisa Tomei) escapes from rehab and is taken in by her Uncle Murray so the family can afford to live off her wealthy father's allowance. A recipe for disaster? Oh, most assuredly.

Marisa Tomei is always charming and so underrated

Though she's worldly, Rita is not wise. Here she introduces Vivian to her "boyfriend." Another memorable musical scene ensues.

Kevin Corrigan, as Eliot. Corrigan is one of those "where have I seen him before?" character actors who can play oddball or menacing, often both at once. The secret is his excellently modulated voice, and his intense eye-stare.

More greatness—veteran actor Jessica Walter as Doris, Murray's "nice, normal" lady-friend who wants him around as a (paid?) companion.

And check it out, Carl Reiner and Rita Moreno show up as Rita's parents. Jenkins has said that between takes, conversation between Arkin, Reiner and Moreno around this table scene was incredible—all stories of past shoots and movie lore. She wishes she had taped it and so do I. What a dream cast. She also says it was a very stressful shoot, which I can imagine. It was her first feature and look at all these veterans, along with young quirky up-and-coming youngsters (Lyonne was only 18). Plus the weirdness of a period piece from a very weird period.

There's some clunky narrative issues with this film. Murray is supposed to be flawed, but some of his behavior is jarring and makes for darker conflict where conflict isn't needed. Characters find and lose each other rather abruptly, but that's in keeping with the time. It was a coming-apart-at-the-seams era where family boundaries burst and people had to figure out how to keep going without a social template to follow.

A Beverly Hills dream deferred.

One more family portrait. I'll always treasure Vivian's bravery in the face of teenage mortification. I can't think of another movie that faces teen-girl sexuality and oncoming womanhood with such a baleful earthy stare-down.


Saturday, December 06, 2014

Inflatable Boy Clams - Artifacts from San Francisco's 80s' Music Underground

I've been so lax about posting while I work on other projects ("My kingdom for a standing desk!" cried the would-be writer). Posting here takes a bit of research and time and I only have a limited amount per day to do a somewhat decent job of it. So why haven't I just posted my Inflatable Boy Clams video and their pre-IBC Pink Section video as well? These videos have just been SITTING AROUND on my YouTube with hardly any fanfare from me whatsoever. 

If you're wondering what I'm talking about, you're not alone. Inflatable Boy Clams may be the most obscure band ever to exist (next to my band, She Mob). But people who lived in San Francisco in the early 80s may recall their inspired take on everything from skeletons to frenemies.

They had gone their separate ways by the time I realized they had been part of "the scene." But I used to play them on my radio show at KSFS and they got some air-time on KUSF as well—a college-radio staple in my mind. Band-member Carol played doggy ball with my pickup league (named after the rubber practice ball we used) on several occasions. Those were heady musical times, my friends. Musicians, writers and artists playing ball on some of the finest city-park fields imaginable—appreciating Inflatable Boy Clams all the while.

Inflatable Boy Clams, I'm Sorry - my favorite IBC song. It still brings up memories of former roommates I wish I could forget. A visceral experience for me.

Pink Section, Francine's List - Carol and Judy's 1981 band before forming IBC with JoJo and Genvieve.

All visuals are courtesy of the Prelinger Archive.

Weirdly, there's been a bit of IBC activity on the Internets this week. I posted about them a couple days ago on my Tumblr, in response to a This is Hanging Rock Comic that paid them tribute. Then the next day Dangerous Minds featured them. Serendipity! It's an Inflatable Boy Clams universe—we just live in it.

Monday, November 17, 2014

Movies You May Have Missed - Dig! (2004)

It's been ten years since Dig! won the documentary Grand Jury Prize at Sundance and bedazzled the world with its grainy brilliance. (It has a 90% approval rating on Rotten Tomatoes—that's a critical storm.) Some of you may have missed this absorbing portrayal of two bands who started out as friends but didn't remain so. And to you I say, check it out. It captures the hidden world of rock in all its unholy glory. If you have seen it, it's worth a re-watch. It's aged like fine wine (that's down to the dregs with a few cigarette butts floating in the bottle).

When we think about visions of rock & roll in feature-length form, The Song Remains the Same, Woodstock, Gimme Shelter, or Don't Look Back, may come to mind—films that were financed and produced because their musical movements had become or were in the process of becoming wildly popular. Dig! is the world of rock in the underground trenches, where bands trudge forth—lugging amps and guitar cases from dingy club to town-hall rec room, loading up a rattly old van in the middle of the night, eating substandard road food, and busking on the highways of America, where rock is not exactly dying, just sort of languishing at the moment.

At the time of its release Dig! got a lot of media attention, some might say at the expense of the bands it portrays. The most vocal critics being the bands themselves, the Dandy Warhols and the Brian Jonestown Massacre. In its narrative arc, the film casts Dandy's leader Courtney Taylor-Taylor as the corporate (if struggling) shill, while BJM's musical genius, Anton Newcombe is the violent artistic madman, sinking into the mire of drug abuse and general all-around abuse, causing his band to implode on impact. It's engrossing, but I can empathize with the bands' disgruntlement at their portrayals. No one wants to see their very worst behavior caught on film for all eternity—an award-winning film at that. It's damning.

With seven years' worth of footage to edit down, tenacious director Ondi Timoner had 2,500 hours to cull a theater-ready tale of the rise and plateau and fall and plateau of two unique and worthy-of-our-time independent bands. At the time of its release, critics appreciated this insider look the music industry—its hopefuls and its malcontents. The second coming of psychedelic pop-rock has come and gone (again—there was an initial resurgence of this genre in the early 80s—a "paisley underground," based on 60s-era garage rock of the "Nuggets" compilations and a combination of drugs, Reagan-era nihilism, and a appreciation for velvet pantsuits.). Why revisit Dig! you may wonder.

Like a big fat biography of its time, it's worth checking out every few years. Here's why:
  • We are all aging and so is rock music. Since this is such a raw peek into the world of struggling, talented musicians, it's nostalgic to see youth portrayed in all its bitter, dark creative turmoil. If you're creative too, it's that much more personal. This is the documentary for the YouTube/reality-TV age—not pretty but immediate and engrossing. 
  • As you age, so will your perceptions of pop culture and the voice of each generation that contributes to it. Looking back, you'll be having fresh thoughts and feelings about our past and how we got where we are today—listening to Ke$ha. No, the film won't explain why we're listening to Ke$ha and so much manufactured party music, but it might offer a few hints.
  • There's humor, primarily supplied by tambourine (and maracas) player, Joel Gion of the BJM. Come to the movie for the behind-the-scenes drama, stay for Gion's court-jester running commentary and absurd antics. So oddly charismatic, he's the face on the DVD cover, and he eventually got a cameo on The Gilmore Girls, which replicated the film's infamous band-fight scene in quirky Gilmore-Girls fashion.
  • BJM front man, Anton Newcombe—I don't want to arm-chair-speculate about his probable mental-health issues here, focusing instead on his leadership role, flawed as it is. For many years he offered his ample back catalog free on the Internet. He doesn't like corporate control and posits that musicians have the right to complete licensing control of their work. He'll play the edgy goofball on occasion but like most ideologues, he's all-serious all the time. He makes a good contrast to the Dandy Warhol's front man, Taylor, who ended up narrating the film when Newcombe dropped out of the project, post-production. Despite Taylor's wry (some have said smug) talk-show-host delivery, it's Newcombe who leaves the deeper impression.
  • It's always interesting to watch what happens when one band is signed to a major label while the other slogs through the critically acclaimed but poverty-level trenches of cult-band status. It's a self-perpetuating wheel of artistry and commerce—only the most Darwinian will survive. Or end up in Portland. All underground musical roads lead to Portland.
Ultimately, this is not just a film. This is rock on film—a subject that's near-impossible to capture. Whether it's a fair portrait of its subjects or not, it reveals the last gasp of a bloated music-industry system and the bands who attempted careers within it. It's a story that's occurred countless times, but never on such a dry, bemused, you-are-there level. Some further thoughts, not in any particular filmic order will follow. And now:

We begin with Anton Newcombe. His band, The Brian Jonestown Massacre has gone through something like 40 incarnations since its beginnings in 1990. A red flag. What keeps band members coming back for more musical mayhem is Newcombe's canny synthesis of 60s psychedelia with themes of alienation and mind expansion, and some great big guitar hooks. Back in the 90s, all his guitarists playing dark psychedelia together created an endorphin-releasing harmonic convergence.

I saw this particular lineup on several occasions and they were quite the group. Once before a show in San Francisco, they had a guy tuning an entire billiard table covered with their guitars before the show. Seeing all those guitars, including multiple twelve-strings, was almost as exciting as the show itself. 

If Dig! is missing one important element, it's the thrill of a good BJM show. And all the shows I saw were really good. No ass-kicking, no bottle-throwing, no destruction—not as the movie would have you believe. But I have to admit, the first night I saw them play was when my band She Mob opened for them at the Purple Onion in North Beach and one of my bandmates saw Anton getting a blow job before the show, right on the floor in the back of the tiny basement club. I was already intimidated that they were named after both Brian Jones and the Jonestown Massacre (man, that's dark). Although my band was dressed for our own self-professed "fake glam" night, we were not prepared for the rock-style onslaught that was upon us.

Such was their infamy that when Anton asked to borrow one of our mic stands for his set, I must have looked momentarily unsure (normally when the headliner asks to borrow your mic stand, the proper response is to exclaim, "Sure!" and hand it over). "I promise we'll be careful with it and it won't be destroyed," he pleaded. He was so sincere in a sort of anguished way that I felt compelled to reply, "You better be careful because it cost us thirty dollars!" Instead of laughing at my cheapjack mic-stand humor, he looked at me like I was completely out of my mind. So let that be my legacy—I freaked out Anton Newcombe without meaning to. And they were very careful with our thirty-dollar mic stand. And played a damn fine show.

Anton beseeches us to enjoy the sound of his friends, The Dandy Warhols. It's early in the film.

Meanwhile, over on the Dandy Warhols' stage, they're also reveling in the 60s in a poppier, brighter, more speedy way. The Dandy's are like the BJM's more popular cousins who get invited to all the house parties where jocks and cheerleaders mingle with burnouts and would-be intellectuals who just finished reading On The Road for the first time. They're more uplifting but conventional—fluffier.

Singer/songwriter Taylor is a clever fellow but not quite as clever as he believes. I mean, look at this video set—just look at it. All the trappings of too much too soon.

Here's the music video, with dancing syringes, for "Not If You Were The Last Junkie on Earth," a song that BJM (rightly) mocks outright. Just my opinion, but this was probably not the best use of Capitol Records' $400,000 marketing budget.

BJM guitarist and my personal style icon, Jeff Davies, asks at the video shoot, "Is this all for the Dandy's?" It's a pertinent question.

And it's contrasted with a BJM tour where this happens. It's the wee hours for what looks like four people at a hall used for hosting communist meetings, if I recall. Still the band plays on. They are professionals after all.

A fan-made video for BJM's "Anemone," from the Strung Out in Heaven album, released on TVT, a big deal that didn't pan out ultimately. 

No matter how dry his narrative delivery, Taylor is obviously enamored with Newcombe's songwriting prowess. They start out as mutual cheerleaders but their friendship degenerates into a rivalry that turns toxic and nasty by film's end.

The BJM household in Los Angeles where Harry Dean Stanton shows up for a party. The following day (apparently) the Dandy Warhols, flush with record-industry per diem, show up for a photo shoot in the decrepit band house, mocking the abject poverty of its inhabitants who groggily confront their frenemies by cooly informing them, "That's not cool."

BJM lined up and grooving.

Stirring up a psychedelic stew.

Have you ever edited a big video shoot? I helped edit an improvised drama once, shot on Beta (so long ago). There was about two hundred hours of footage to log, dub and condense down into a feature-length film that was not only cohesive but dramatically compelling. Even though the film got made, the goal was impossible. Timoner had seven years' worth of footage, 2,500 hours total. CAN YOU IMAGINE? That this film was even completed is a sort of crazy miracle. It's a good film too. Kudos.

Anton and Joel playing the subways and streets of New York City before a CMJ conference. The Dandy Warhols meanwhile were struggling to sell albums in the U.S. but while touring, discovered that Europeans were going crazy over them. Perhaps the U.S. wasn't ready to go retro. Interestingly, Newcombe now lives in Berlin and tours on that side of the world in a successful manner.

The BJM fight in front of record-label reps at the Viper Room in Los Angeles, blowing a chance to get signed to a big-time label. This was some Spinal Tap ultra-violence, ending in the infamous lament, "They fucking broke my sitar, motherfuckers!" Some might say Newcombe was more afraid of success than failure, drunkenly pummeling his own bandmates during a crucial show, but I think he was more interested in control. The ultimate control freak.


Chaos—not the good creative kind

Genesis P'orridge has something to say about major-label industry executives. My favorite quote: "I dread to think what they're like in bed trying to have sex because, you know, their mind and body are not connected."

Jeff Davies is my spirit animal. Where are you, Jeff? Get back onstage already.

Just a little reminiscing with Joel Gion. He's a born entertainer and a damn fine percussionist.

So where are they now? There's a bonus material DVD should you care, with more interviews a few years after the film. Everyone's alive, which is the best kind of spoiler, and marriages, house-purchases, babies, co-op music studio/brewpubs in Portland, second and third band formations were all on the horizon for everyone involved.

Ultimately this is a film about performance. Everyone in these two bands are performers to varying degree. They all agreed to be in the film, at least initially. They were in a sense performing for the entire seven years, no matter how forgetful or fuzzy-headed they may have been in front of the camera. Should they balk at Timoner's narrative devices? Had she let the 2,500 hours of footage unfold to everyone's delight, it would be a mess of a film. By crafting it as a band vs. band vs. music industry vs. inner demons, she gave us a universal rock film for the ages. All the messy ugly parts along with the harmonic clarity. The bands did the hard work and hard partying, Timoner gave them a story—maybe not the story they wanted or believed in, but it's a good one.

Dig! trailer

Bonus! Enjoy this 1999 band-therapy segment from VH1's "Rock Candy," hosted by Jim Gaffigan, featuring more delightfully dysfunctional footage of the Brian Jonestown Massacre working on their issues. My band and I made a special point of watching this—we were fans. Thanks to lovelykate for uploading this lost gem.

Tuesday, November 04, 2014


While I get my head together, post-Halloween, please enjoy this fine 1930s-era illustration of a gelatin dessert.

Friday, October 31, 2014

Murder Ballads Bash in Berkeley Tonight for Halloween

Joy and I are playing as The Rotten Logs in tonight's Murder Ballads Bash at the Starry Plough in Berkeley. This is the 13th annual Murder Ballads show and it's always fun. I don't say that lightly. It really is always fun. In fact, every time I've played at the Starry Plough, or viewed others playing there, it's always been a good time all the time.

We go on at around 9:30-ish. Each act is only 15 minutes so it's fast and furious. Hey, Penelope Houston will be there. Happy Halloween to one and all. I'll be dressed as a rotten log.

Thursday, October 30, 2014

An Avenue of the Giants, Eureka, Redding, Weaverville and Mendocino Weekend

Road trip post! In the quest to, as Jackson says, "visit California's most desolate places," we hit the road for a surprise three-day weekend (thanks to a mandated day off by our school district). With the goal of seeing some fall foliage (goal unmet), visiting Joy in her new digs in Mendocino, and taking a trip back through time on the Avenue of the Giants, we climbed into the Subaru and hit the road.

In no special order, photos and thoughts. We haven't run out of places to visit in California by a long shot, oh no. California is truly a place of wonders.

We begin in Redding, visiting a bridge. Not just any bridge—the Sundial Bridge—designed by Spanish architect Santiago Calatrava in 2004. Why visit a bridge? Well, look at it. It's awesome. It's so tall (217 feet/66 meters), it has a warning light at its top for aircraft. It's a cable suspension bridge that's also a working sundial! Glass panels line the walk going across the Sacramento River. Originally they were made of clear green glass, but that was too freaky for people to see the water below their feet, so now they're frosted, but still green for tinted-light purposes. And perhaps best of all, this is a pedestrian bridge, which includes Segways, because: California/technology, etc.

Witness the splendor of this destination bridge.

Have Segways, will travel

Like really great public sculpture, it must be seen in person for the full effect

The McConnell Arboretum and Botanical Gardens and acres of walking paths through tree-dotted open space, plus the Turtle Bay Museum with interactive science exhibits, all make for a fine afternoon outing. Redding—who knew? And if you like this sort of thing, check out Calatrava's  Jerusalem Light Rail Bridge—splendid.

Have you spent any time in Weaverville by the Trinity Alps lately? Neither had I. I'm so glad Keith discovered this lovely little gold-mining town. And by gold-mining, I mean, from 1845, with a downtown made up of buildings from the era, with spiral staircases outside (to avoid a bizarre California tax on indoor staircases—it's California and it doesn't always make sense), cute restaurants, antique shops and my favorite: junk stores. Junk stores where you can buy a second-hand long-sleeved cotton shirt for a dollar. A dollar! Where mood-ring displays and political buttons from the 1940s sit alongside records, charm bracelets, Carl Sagan books, driftwood sculpture, model ships, buttons, you know—junk. The Bay area used to be full of junk stores—no more. Now we have to go to Weaverville to get our fill. Fine, so be it.

I walked around downtown Weaverville, gaping and exclaiming little ooh's and ah's and took not one photo, so here's a photo from Matthew Roth, who has kindly posted it to the creative commons space on Wikipedia. Look how cute!

Up the street from the old courthouse is a row of lovely Victorian-style homes. Here's one. I like old homes but having owned one (not nearly as stylish as this), I issue this word of advice to would-be old-home-owners: have a chunk of surplus cash set aside for ongoing repairs. And by ongoing, I mean for the rest of your natural life. Then bask in the charm.

I took many photos of the Weaverville Joss House State Historic Park, the oldest Chinese temple in California (in continuous use since 1874! Actually even before that—an earlier temple burned down, like much of mining architecture of the time). That's the temple behind Keith and Jackson. The arched bridge they're standing on not only gets you across the creek, but purportedly helps keep out evil spirits, who have trouble managing curved pathways. The temple was built by gold miners from China who were mostly young men, hoping to get rich. It was a rough life to be sure.

Looking up at the entrance. The blue "tiles" are painted to look like ceramic as in traditional Chinese temples, but this temple is completely made of wood. There's a high first step upon entering and a solid wall that you have to go around to enter the temple. More evil-spirit barriers. They travel in straight lines and don't go over steps or through walls very easily. Now you know.

The temple altar honors powerful deities, Xuan Wu and Guan Yu. Our lovely park guide, Julie, gave us much information on these gods and all their accouterments. The interior decor was bought in San Francisco then hauled up to Weaverville by mule-wagon, piece by piece. It all looked super-deluxe to me and in great shape (the park doesn't refurbish, only preserves), but Julie told us Weaverville miners probably got the leftover discounted temple artifacts that had been shipped from China and remained unsold after a period of time. Kind of like a temple outlet mall.

Nonetheless, the Joss House items look good to me. These procession banners are made from silk and silk embroidery. One of them features a crafty bat atop it to bring prosperity and good luck.

This lion dog is made of gilded silk thread and it's not stuffed—that's just layers and layers of embroidery atop itself for a 3D effect. I've done some embroidery and let me tell you—wow. The long-ago artisans who created these items have my complete respect and admiration.

A lovely drum banner for parading around. Everything has meaning in the Joss House. I should have taken notes. I'm not really a journalist in my heart, but mythology and symbols are important. I'll return again and do a better job reporting next time.

Let us not forget Whiskleytown. Another mining town that was made into a lake in 1962. That is, the town is under the lake that was created by damming up the valley. One original building remains on dry land. This is a popular boating and recreation area.

My favorite story from this trip came from an official billboard-sized sign at a Whiskeytown scenic vista. One day a mule-drawn shipment of barrel whiskey toppled off the dirt path, nearly 175 years ago, rolling down the hill towards the town, ultimately smashing to bits. The distraught miners named their settlement Whiskeytown in commemoration of this heartbreaking moment.

Whiskeytown is also home to four waterfalls with fresh new paths made by the park service. We only got to Crystal Creek Springs Falls this time. Next spring we'll probably come back for the Whiskeytown Waterfall Challenge—hike all four waterfalls in a week and receive an "I Walked the Falls" bandana (while supplies last).

Crystal Creek Falls is more raging in the spring—still a very nice to see in the fall

Upper Crystal Creek Falls

Hey, we're in Eureka now. We were just passing through this former logging town/suburban city-center, when out of the corner of my eye I spied the Carson Mansion tower and made a screeching sharp right turn to visit. Here it is—the crazy-times Victorian Queen-Anne style lumber-baron home of your dreams.

Check out the intense architectural detail. Apparently owner William Carson had this house built by his laborers during a slump in the lumber industry. The house was a source of employment during its two-year construction. Job creators, we salute you.

And directly across the street, The Pink Lady, same San Francisco-based Newsom brothers architects, hired by Carson to design a house for his son. A sort of "Everybody Loves Raymond" situation, Victorian style.

Of note - the Minor Theatre in lovely down town Arcata. Not only a nice old theater, built in 1914, but perhaps the oldest movie theater in the country designed exclusively as a movie theater that's still showing movies. Apparently a trap door that Houdini once used is still there. The lobby was the woodsiest movie-theater lobby I've seen. I would have loved to have checked out The Skeleton Twins, but we had to be on our way. That was three days of adventure. We'll be back.

Avenue of the Giants - this is a side-by-side comparison of Jackson at the Shrine Drive Thru Tree at ages 6 and 12. The tree itself is barely alive and kept standing by wire. Next time we'll try the Chandelier Drive Thru Tree in Leggett. They both cost about the same fee for the opportunity to thread your car through the tree slot. Of course drilling a tunnel through a living tree is a grotesque and harmful thing to do and would be completely frowned upon today. Still, you can drive through it, or should I say "thru it"—tell your grandchildren.

Jackson is growing but I think the Shrine Tree has reached its full growth potential

We strolled through Founders' Grove and marveled not only at the trees towering hundreds of feet above us, but also at all the fallen giants along our path. Redwoods have a shallow root system and make these tremendous environments for more forest growth once they topple. Keith poses to give you an idea of the size of the base of this tree. Ferns, redwood shoots, fungus and who knows what else have made this former tree their home.

Large and in charge (now that they're protected from logging interests)

A sampling of fallen tree root systems and their eco-systems.

We saw a few slightly burned-out trees, perhaps from fires started by logging companies many years ago...? It's hard to burn redwoods—they're dense. Lots of crevices and tunnel-like formations from old fires. The trees endure.

Did you know there's an Avenue of the Giants Marathon in May? That would be a beautiful, shady run. Runners must feel like beetles scurrying through the vast woods.

Jackson poses at one of the redwood sculptures at the Legend of Bigfoot Gift Shop in Garberville. Let me say this about Garberville—it's overpriced for what you get. Bay Area new-money-itis has probably had a hand in this, making Garberville a stopping-off point for trees and other destinations. Motels and restaurants overcharge in this small, nondescript town. If you must visit, do stop at the Woodrose Cafe where the food is organic and served with a smile.

Shrek-tastic (not an officially licensed product of Dreamworks Animation)

On to Mendocino! Another logging town turned tourist destination. Adorable Victorian-style buildings a few hundred steps away from ocean-side cliffs. Taking a stroll around the neighborhood is an edifying experience for the senses.

Joy has discovered that living in peaceful, quiet conditions by the Pacific Ocean has its its merits.

Town is on the left. This was the location for Elia Kazan's East of Eden and it looks pretty much the same today. No streetlights, telephone poles or overhead wires of any kind. James Dean could walk down the street as Cal Trask and you wouldn't know what era you were in. There's no Target, Costco or Trader Joe's either, so plan accordingly.

The Mendocino Joss House, the Temple of Kwan Tai, is open only by appointment. Built some tune around 1854, it's still in use—a humble temple with ample stairs to thwart all evil spirits.