At the Movies: "Love & Mercy" Delivers Both

In the feature film Love & Mercy, the Beach Boys' meteoric rise to worldwide popularity unwinds in a disturbing spiral of tragedy and survival for Brian Wilson, heart and soul of the band. So where did it all begin? In his room, as the song goes, where a teenage Brian leads his brothers in lyrical harmonies before the idea of their own band catches fire. There was also the stage father who offered his three sons, and possibly their cousin and a friend who joined the group, regular doses of physical and mental abuse, which gave Brian hearing loss in one ear. After the band is well established, dear old Dad is fired as the self-appointed manager, but still shows up at the occasional studio gig to offer his trademark bite. Brian, the artistic genius behind much of the highly acclaimed California sound, is a favorite target.

Paul Dano plays the young Brian with fervent optimism, devotion, and teddy bear charm that's hard to resist. While his bros dig the surfer-themed performances on the road, Brian starts to exhibit early symptoms of a psychosis that renders him awkward in front of audiences and erratic offstage. He convinces himself and rest of the gang that he needs to quit the tour so he can focus on new material. That's when euphoria blossoms and vines its way through the film to rewrite rock 'n' roll history. Wilson's gifts and technical expertise are awe-inspiring to the seasoned musicians who work tirelessly with him. The xylophones, tambourines, piccolos, and strings Brian introduces in the studio infuse fresh new arrangements and unforgettable hits like "Good Vibrations," and the "Pet Sounds" album, considered by many the crowning achievement of a stunning career. These magical productions lay the floorboard of a musical legacy that still resonates today.

But the euphoria is short-lived. By the 80s, the psychosis has gained an upper hand and Brian's gifts morph into madness, with mind-altering street drugs center stage. John Cusack's portrayal of a restrained yet sincere Brian is on the mark as troubling voices derail his iconic life and music. Taken to his bed for three years, Brian is rescued by a manipulative psychologist, Dr. Eugene Landry, played with guts and vinegar by Paul Giamatti. The performance sizzles as evil incarnate, a worthy villain by anyone's standards.

Just when you're thinking wouldn't it be nice to get rid of him, a knight in shining armor appears. She's a blonde, curvaceous car saleswoman named Melinda Ledbetter, portrayed by Elizabeth Banks with sweet authenticity to balance her starlet, eye candy appeal. Melinda first meets Brian when he steps inside her Cadillac den. Her attentiveness bubbles into quiet, starstruck awe when she learns that he's Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys. But, of course, Landry is never far away. Through the front window of the shiny new Seville where Brian and Melinda sit, he signals his famous prisoner that it's time to run along. As chance would have it, Brian asks Melinda for her number before they part and manages to write three words on the back of her business card, which he leaves on the console: "lonely, scared, frightened." They start dating and before long, Landry threatens Melinda to bug off, or else. But it's too late. Her gentle heart has fallen for Brian's open, innocent heart. She can't abandon him. With steel determination, she digs deep to discover what the evil doctor is up to. When a housekeeper provides the evidence, Melinda tracks down Brian's family and paves the way for his release from the medicated fog and the shrink's shenanigans -- to gain control of his fortune.

Perhaps a weakness of the film is the absence of a finale, with fireworks and wedding bells. But that might have required another feature-length movie. It's the credits that provide closure. Brian returns to what he loves -- writing, producing and performing, and his life today includes wife Melinda and five children. In 2000, Dan and I were fortunate to catch up with him when he staged a solo "Pet Sounds" concert at Atlanta's Chastain Park. We bought three tickets and entertained our niece, Allison, visiting us on a cross-country trek. Unfortunately, a few minutes after the show started, dark clouds burst open and showered us for most of the night. It must've been God's way of saying he approved. As did we and thousands more who hunkered under rain gear and umbrellas until the closing curtain.

You don't want to miss "Love & Mercy." The dark alleyways of Brian Wilson's life are sad and disturbing, but the triumphant boy and man who rise above it all to bless the world with his heart and soul and genius make the movie ride all the more poignant.

Pet Sounds Atlanta 2000

Brian Wilson Website

And the Winner Is....

The clock is ticking. It's the big night for Oscar, so I'm on top of my deadline to register comments about the contenders.  Some truly great movies based on historical stories, current books and people, and fantastical tales, with outstanding performances and risks taken by producers and directors. Hope you'll have as much fun as we do at our house, filling in the ballot for nominees we pick to be the winners.  So here we go...in the Best Picture category:

American Sniper is hard to beat for a true story reminiscent of recent headlines and a timely trial to remind us this movie will wind its way to a tragic finale. Navy Seal Chris Kyle is portrayed by a very husky Bradley Cooper in a role that he literally embodies for a new level of achievement in an already impressive career. As a war story, the on-the-ground perspective of the skilled gunman gave me a chill. He goes for the target regardless if it's a child hugging a grenade or the enemy sharpshooter peering through a rooftop view miles away. I could taste the dry dusty dirt of Iraq, hear the jumbled thoughts inside his steely head, and feel the tug of a thumping heart when images of his family danced between bullets. I was there, with the Navy Seal whose patriotism compelled him to a third and fourth tour of duty in a part of the world that had and has a split personality at best toward American engagement. And I was there, when he returned home unable to adjust to a life he once cherished. And I was there when his wife pleaded with a stranger, not the man she married. Real. Tough. Stuff. But nothing in his military training prepared Chris Kyle or his family for the final chapter on that driving range at the hands of a troubled soldier. The scene doesn't appear in the movie. Instead, his flag-draped coffin travels past endless crowds who line the roads of his Texas hometown. They are there to honor their hero, and to never forget the sacrifice of those who wear the uniform of our armed forces. The movie does the same. In spectacular disturbing detail, it brings front and center the sacrifices and the journeys back home. For that and much more, American Sniper deserves its nomination on the Best Picture list.

Birdman is a robust character study of Riggan Thomson, played by Michael Keaton, who has been there and done that as a Broadway actor, but still tries to do it again with a new play, starring role,  unpredictable co-star, and the sexually charged teen daughter who hangs around like a simmering flame ready to burst into an explosion, which she does in one dramatic scene. Blazing with energy, sensual innuendos and encounters, and crazy complicated relationships that we'd expect from such theatrical characters and director Inarritu, the film is a romp through dressing rooms, closets, and high ledges that flies off in unexpected and believable directions at every turn of the backstage and onstage sets and streets of Broadway.  Keaton has already won Golden Globe and Screen Actors Guild best actor awards and may very well go all the way for the Oscar. I can't deny him the deserved accolades, and loved his speech for the Golden Globes in which he shared his humble roots, heartfelt appreciation, and vulnerability. And who can dismiss his long accomplished career? He may ride this award season all the way to the stage tonight.

Boyhood is a quiet film that slowly tugs at the heart until you catch yourself weeping for no good reason as a family of four evolves through years of marriage, divorce, remarriage, divorce, graduations, fights, adolescence, and so much more. So there are reasons. The universal experience of family life washes over us in waves of nostalgia to which we can relate, at least to substantial chunks. We've lived this story, first as children in a family with parents (one, two, or more), and then as parents raising the kids. Director Richard Linklater took a giant risk when he signed four actors to a shooting schedule once a year for twelve years. But he's done that before, with the Sunrise Sunset films that were ten years apart, gems in their own right. Considering what can occur in all four of the actors' lives during that period of time, and his own as well, Linklater accomplished a monumental task. Luckily for us, he pulled it off, not just to complete the movie, but to infuse a piece of art with a sense of magical realism that feels more like a documentary of these lives than a scripted film. Ethan Hawke and Patricia Arquette are stunning in understated performances, with similar deliveries by the two actors who play the son and daughter, Ellar Coltrane and Loelei Linklater (the director's daughter supposedly wanted to bail on the film at some point but persevered, perhaps with fatherly encouragement).  My daughter who is raising two sons, 20 and 17, said she cried through most of the movie. The poignancy is undeniable, and heart-wrenching at times. I'll be just fine if this is the night's big winner. It touched me softly, deeply, as well.

The Grand Budapest Hotel is a zany showpiece of film, with story, visual, and character elements that lend themselves to imaginative invention more akin to Disneyland characters and capers. Ralph Feinnes has never been quirkier or quicker, on his feet and in his delivery, as the manager of this exotic European resort where well-heeled patrons park themselves to escape from a more practical, sensible world outside the hotel (at times). Tilda Swinton, Owen Wilson, and Bill Murray offer memorable co-starring and cameo appearances, each with their own brand of whimsical, whacky tributes to add to a composite of entertaining puzzle pieces that might tickle a few chuckles from Laurel and Hardy or the Marx brothers. The colorful, playful sets of the hotel and surrounding countryside could be toy creations in which pastel pastries and interiors set the tone against a backdrop of snow-capped mountains in faraway Austrian inspired scenes. All things are possible, and all things can happen, as they do when dead bodies surface, countryside jaunts lead to wild chases, and bellboys take center stage. It's a thoroughly original, exhausting, enjoyable, nearly cartoon slice of moviemaking that is not inconsistent with director Wes Anderson's other work. He specializes in original storytelling that takes us down roads less traveled where characters and stories possess unique qualities and spin we're not used to seeing, i.e. Moonrise Kingdom, the only other movie of his I've seen. Applause for the delightful Grand Budapest Hotel! Will it be the the zany, quirky winner for best picture? Not likely. For best Original Screenplay? Quite possibly, with the Writers Guild of America award in that category already under his belt.

The Imitation Game is accomplished historical storytelling that sealed me to my seat for the entire ride. It doesn't hurt to have an equally accomplished Sherlock Holmes BBC actor in the lead, playing a brainy, geeky guy long before anyone dreamed of Silicon Valley or branded men who tape their eyeglasses and prop pens in their shirt pockets as nerds. Benedict Cumberbatch carries this movie from beginning to end, as Alan Turing, the British genius who unlocks the German Enigma code to give the Allies the advantage they need to turn the war and beat Hitler to the ground. But it wasn't an easy win for Turing, and it didn't lead to a lifetime of happiness.  There were roadblocks that nearly killed the effort along the way, including military superiors who demanded faster results and nearly shut down the enterprise undertaken by Turing and a handful of colleagues who joined the secretive mission. Keira Knightley plays the female co-star, romantic interest on the team who softens the rough edges of Turing's awkwardness with his co-workers on the high-tech project. Cumberbatch is authentic in a pondering role that sears the screen with ferocity. This is a character who refuses failure, pushes the limits, and eventually succeeds, allowing the world to triumph over Nazism. If only the joy could have followed him after the war, but the world wasn't ready. Found out as a homosexual, Turing is ostracized by the social norms of the day and forced to live a reclusive life that ends with a probable suicide at the age of 41 in 1954. The brilliance of Imitation Game is that it takes a highly technical topic and pugnacious character, spins a yarn of intense human interest and historical significance, and delivers an unforgettable movie that the New York Times calls a "tidy and engrossing drama."

Selma,  another historical movie on a broader scale, takes us back to the mid-sixties in Alabama where Martin Luther King leads a 50-mile march from Selma to the state capital in Montgomery, but like Turing, his journey was wrought with challenges and a tragic ending.  In fact, blood was spilled, lives were lost, and the Civil War was alive and well in the old South. State troopers blocked the bridge out of Selma to ensure no one would reach the capital until national publicity and a groundswell of whites and blacks arrived from other parts of the country to join a second march at a later date. While I lived this period of history in high school, I can't say I truly understood or followed the daily dramas except for evening news stories when I caught them. So it was an important movie for me, to fill in the missing pieces, in the same way that The Butler, another Oprah movie, did last year. Performances were exemplary from David Oyelowo and Carmen Ejogo who played King and his wife, Coretta Scott King. Oprah's cameo scenes were emotional and memorable, the most prominent one when she tried to register to vote, but was turned down, even after she gave correct answers to the questions asked. In the end, history triumphs and the Civil Rights Act is passed by President Johnson, whose portrayal in the film has been criticized for diminishing his significant support for King to bring the worst of racial atrocities to the attention of the American press. While it's an important film with a significant contribution, it's unlikely Selma will beat out the competition for the Oscar. But who knows?

The Theory of Everything is utterly remarkable, depicting the life of Stephen Hawking, whose perseverance and virtuosity shine from beginning to end through the performance of Eddie Redmayne. Based on his first wife Jane's book about her life with Stephen, the film opens with a magical fairy tale in the form of a love story in Cambridge between two brainy, charming characters. They capture our hearts only moments before they face a dismal diagnosis that will reverberate throughout their lives and test them at every kiss and turn. This is a triumphant love story that stands up to the challenge of Stephen's debilitating disease, with dedication, loyalty, and determination rarely if ever seen among others with a similar diagnosis. Felicity Jones' portrayal of Jane is honest and earnest, her devotion to her husband nearly angelic, until it isn't. Up to this point, Jane and Stephen put their love and faith in each other first, to raise a family and support Stephen's substantial scientific contributions to the field of physics, including the publication of a bestselling book. But Jane eventually recognizes her own desperate needs in a nearly impossible situation where she has been a moon orbiting around Stephen's earth. Both find love beyond their relationship, which has run its course under the most difficult circumstances imaginable. The film does justice to a heart-wrenching story about a couple who rises above an unforgiving disease, but Eddie Redmayne's portrayal of a twisted, disfigured, slurring invalid is what lingers and aches for months afterwards. It's hard to imagine a more demanding role with such a high bar for physicality and emotional depth, unless it would be Bradley Cooper's portrayal of The Elephant Man on Broadway, which I haven't seen. Redmayne has already collected several awards, and may be giving the acceptance speech for an Oscar tonight. An honor well deserved.


Whiplash is the final nominee in the Best Picture category, but a film I did not see. J.K. Simmons stars in the role of a music teacher and has already picked up some awards for his portrayal.

'Night Mother at Ion Theater a Masterpiece

In 1977, my mother called to tell me that Actors Theater of Louisville announced the winner of its Humana Festival of new plays: Getting Out by Marsha Norman received the top award. The news was exciting since Marsha and I graduated in the same class at Durrett High School in Louisville, and I was delighted about her success. When I moved from Connecticut to California months later, I discovered the Mark Taper Forum in Los Angeles was producing the play, so I rushed to see it. The story of a girl leaving prison after eight years, Getting Out takes its heroine on a jagged journey of re-entry in her hometown of Louisville, a place and time in stark contrast to her recent past. The somber tale unravels with brittle challenges and tangled emotions at every turn. I found it deserving of the award for a debut play.

So it was no surprise when I learned six years later that Marsha's play, 'Night Mother (1983), was the recipient of a Pulitzer Prize and countless other awards. Instead of a re-entry, Jessie decides to say good-bye and spends the next ninety minutes preparing her mother for her pending suicide. Somehow, I missed the play when it was staged over the years, and even the movie, with Anne Bancroft and Cissey Spacek. The stars never aligned, that is, until Saturday afternoon when I caught an opening performance at the Ion Theater in San Diego.

From the moment the two actors deliver first lines, the audience is caught in a web of family dysfunction and despair, like slow-rotting garbage in the kitchen-living room area of the modest  home, set in a poor black, rural neighborhood. Picture frames hang on the wall with no pictures inside, suggesting the vacant relationship Jessie occupies with her mother. The harder Jessie tries to assure Mama the plan is irrevocable and it has nothing to do with her, the more Mama strives to prevent it. In the course of the unwinding Saturday night scene, the pair launch into a game of truth. We learn about the father who died, and the wife who divulges she never really loved him, but knew Jessie did. He said very little, just sat there, except when making pipe cleaner figures for his daughter. We hear about the insensitive brother whose wife gives Jessie the same, wrong-sized slippers every year for Christmas. And there's Cecil, Jessie's ex, who left her high and dry so she's forced to move back with Mama. And her son Ricky, a worthless kid who steals for a drug habit, according to Jessie, but hasn't finished growing up, according to her mom.

In the midst of it all, Jessie organizes her mother's pills and candy, writes reminder notes, and instructs her on various chores, like running the washing machine, calling for groceries, giving the brother Jessie's list of  Christmas gifts for Mama, and notifying the police after the plan is completed. A play that delves into such raw territory could dissolve into a funeral march, but the writing is so poignant and playful, and the actors so immersed in character, that I found myself riveted to them, relating in a way that was both frightening and real. This is family dysfunction that is recognizable, taken to its final chapter when secrets seep out and anger explodes, revealing a tangible tragedy that makes sense of it all, but far too late for Jessie. The blast jars us in our seats.

Yolanda Franklin as Jessie and Sylvia M'Lafi Thompson as Mama are seasoned performers, with Thompson delivering a well-honed portrayal of the desperate but flawed mother whose ignorance, fear, and inaction denied her daughter the chance for a better life. The direction by Glenn Paris renders a powerful production, with threads of universal human experience expertly woven into the fabric of  poor black culture, and effects of societal stigma rendering the final, unexpected blow.

The writing soars, to provide the foundation, structure, and finishing touches which elevate the play to the level of a dramatic masterpiece about the human condition. For that, Pulitzer prizes are awarded.

Bright Star

Steve Martin and Edie Brickell have landed a hit, in my humble opinion. Dan and I caught the matinee of this world premiere show yesterday at the Old Globe, after I spent nearly an hour on the phone the day before with the sales lady from the theater.  She called to sell me a season ticket package. I'd already checked tix for the play, but they were over my budget, and the reviews didn't give me the sense of urgency that I really truly had to see it...other than praise for the bluegrass score, which I hated to miss. So BINGO, the caller put together a custom package with reasonable prices and dates, and alas, we owned four sets of tickets for plays at the Old Globe -- two this fall, and two more in the spring. I'm in a little bit of heaven, since I'd gladly see a play every week if I could. Theater lingers in my blood...leftover from dancing, acting, and performing as a kid, and more of the same in community gigs as an adult.

New York Times: Joan Marcus

"Bright Star" opens with a toy train chugging along a track at the top of the curtain, its shadow crossing the back wall as an omen of what's to come. Before you can say Folsom Prison Blues, the bluegrass score takes center stage, literally, with musicians housed in a see-through, wood-framed shanty that spins around for set and instrument changes. Young Billy Cane enters in full uniform, returning  to his hometown in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina after World War II. We learn that he'll pursue a career in writing, which takes him to the big city for a job at the Asheville Southern Journal where all the famous southern writers are being published. After a few assignments, he's told his writing holds promise, but his editor suggests that Billy write about the people and places he knows best. So home again. With romances to warm the heart and flashbacks to earlier days, Martin and Brickell wind us through the country roads of Billy's journey to reveal an untold story and family secret that turn the play on its side.

"Bright Star" resonates like an old-fashioned tale of family, love, passion, heartbreak, and redemption, but with a fresh twist of original country and bluegrass tunes that elevate this slice of musical theater to a level of charm and poignancy that is hard to resist. Martin wrote the book and confesses to being teary-eyed as his own play unfolds. I confess I felt the same, almost from the beginning. It's no secret that he's a banjo picker from way back, and a big fan of bluegrass. The pairing of his musical genius with Brickell's lovely lyrics renders a magical score and winning choreography. The title song "Bright Star" is a little surprising right from the opening scene, but works nicely.  "My Baby" goes straight to the heart without pause or apology, and "Sun's Gonna Shine" allows us to believe there will be  better days ahead.  At least a couple of ensemble numbers deliver a hee-haw hoedown that makes you want to jump up and join in, which does happen for curtain calls.  Pure joy.

Could the show lose a couple of scenes? Probably. Broadway bound? I'm betting on it.

Book Clubs and Americanah

When my husband and I moved to Carlsbad in 2000, I did what I've always done in a new neighborhood (once, in a new job)...I started a book club.  The notice about the first meeting appeared in our association newsletter. Two weeks later, eight friendly strangers walked through my front door and for the next five or so years, we met monthly at each other's houses. We took a hiatus after several members moved away, and four of us reconnected a few years ago with a new format -- over lunch. We literary lassies have an insatiable hunger for good books, and enjoy the lasting friendship that has blossomed from our discussions, shared history, and ongoing adventures.

messiah-lutheran.org

Last month we read Americanah,  critically praised as one of the best books of 2013. A celebrated author, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie offers a unique perspective on racism in the United States through the eyes and voice of Ifemelu, a Nigerian immigrant who arrives in the States to pursue a dream. While growing up in her native land, skin color was not an issue, but in America, a place of golden opportunities, Ifemelu discovers a nation still reeling from the aftershocks of slavery nearly one-hundred-fifty years later. Racial slurs, political correctness, and social order based on skin color are confusing in this new world, but become fodder  for irreverent observations on the popular blog she creates later. 

vogue.com

Ifemelu's love for Obinze, the high-school boyfriend who encourages her to go to America -- says he will come later, is the thread that drives this love story. Unfortunately, the America she encounters is not a land of milk and honey, but a land that threatens Ifemelu's very existence. Up against a wall, she's forced to make a bargain with the devil for her survival. In the aftermath, Ifemelu loses herself and Obinze too. After she returns to her native speech pattern (she abandoned it to fit into her adopted country) and decides to wear her hair natural, Ifemelu finds her way. She graduates from college, and stability and respect follow, anchoring her to solid ground and a more predictable future. But, like many heroines before her, the pot at the end of Ifemelu's rainbow is not the one she set out to find.  

Much of Adichie's plot unfolds as backstory from a beauty parlor in a northeast urban neighborhood. Seated in the chair for a hair appointment, Ifemelu watches, listens, and even interacts with a mix of colorful characters who discuss personal relationships and business affairs, all while they iron, straighten, cut, and set customers' hair. The narrative returns repeatedly to the significance of hair to black women of African descent -- an entertaining literary device for exploring the theme of identity woven through the novel. In the end, Ifemelu's story is about a solitary journey spanning two continents with vast differences in search of singular meaning and love. I found the novel highly relatable. Anyone who's left the comforts of family, home, or a job to settle in new places, cultures, or jobs that challenge their social norms may recognize the difficulties of adapting to the new environment. The pangs of love lost will also resonate, especially when new loves end or fall short. The echo of home rings loud and clear. Whether you grew up in Nigeria or New Mexico, and move to Alabama or Africa, certain remnants of childhood and home remain intact, like DNA, as a point of reference for all that follows. 

Massage Nirvana

The red-tasseled Chinese lantern hung in slanted daylight as friendly staff greeted me at the front counter of the neighborhood massage establishment, only fifteen minutes from my house. While one smiling assistant refilled my water bottle, another led me to a dimly-lit room, the center-stage massage table covered by a thin sheet of fabric. A small wood stand displayed key props -- oils, cloths, and a clock, tools of the trade for a holistic service within a given timeframe. Simple wall hooks and a shelf for clothing and jewelry rounded out the decor. My post-yoga body, muscles repeatedly tightened, strengthened, and stretched during the hour-long class, tingled in the chilled air. Would the lightweight spread provide enough warmth for sore limbs also recovering from of a six-hour stint of gardening two days earlier?

With damp gym clothes hooked on the wall and worn athletic shoes discarded on the floor, I slipped beneath the gauzy cotton, my bumpy silhouette nearly visible through the scant cover.  How does a youthful male masseuse from a small town in China view the women's bodies he massages daily, each for an  hour or longer? He'd seen plenty by now, including this one, so there was little chance of a subtle stir. Many workers come from small villages back in China. Landing in America, they attend a Los Angeles massage school where their native language is spoken and ancient methods are taught, to provide the ying and yang of massage places in strip malls all over Southern California. During the past six years, I'd entered half a dozen names next to the business title in my contacts list, i.e. Jackie, Linda, Kathy, Tina, George, Lester -- all American versions of given names. All with substantial skills to soothe aching joints and muscles.

With lids lowered, I inhaled and exhaled in rhythmic beats, slowing to a calmer pace. Recent events and future plans drifted from my consciousness. A light tap at the door. "Ok," I said. My current favorite name entered. A soft click blocked out the rest of the world and the last of my extraneous thoughts. Lights lowered to a warmer shade of dark. In quiet anticipation, my weary bones welcomed the gifts that would accompany my deep tissue massage.

The wide Asian hands rested on my shoulders for a mere few seconds before pressing in gentle pulses along one side of my body, which responded in a soft rocking motion like jello. At my ankles, firm tracks reversed course and pulsed up the opposite side. Any worries about warmth melted in a pool of silence, broken only by my breathing and the faint sound of exotic music from a faraway place. More pressure against the filmy sheath, to waken muscles with the therapeutic lullaby, a gentle overture for my ninety-minute retreat into nirvana.

Carefully arranging the drape to expose my back, nimble fingers pushed, probed, and rolled over knotted muscles, body barnacles holding their own in stubborn, stormy revolt from the crevasses of my  shoulders and neck. The likely culprits -- too much time on the computer and too much heavy lifting in the garden. More pressure. Whoa. If ever there was a good hurt, this was it, with no small measure of deep yoga breathing required. Lips pressed tight, I teetered on the brink, sucked air through my teeth, had to tell him, "Too hard." A master masseuse, he lightened the pressure and rubbed fast circles to relieve the soreness. His clairvoyant hands traveled to new trouble spots in other territories of carefully draped, exposed skin. Part by part, he pushed, prodded, and rubbed. I breathed deep, blew hard, and released tension, allowing stored stress to give way to calm waves of muscle tissue. When he raised the cover and said, "Please, turn over," act one ended. I was satiated, in a state of deep relaxation from the body work. All my worries and tight muscles on their way to neverland.

Struggling to shift my weight from facedown to face up, I beckoned flaccid muscles to act. Slowly, in stages, I rolled to my backside and took a deep breath to adjust my head, neck, and torso. For the next twenty minutes or so, until an hour was up, it was more of the same -- agony and ecstasy for knots and nirvana. Ahead of time, I requested an extra thirty minutes of pure luxury to focus on my feet. Long and slender, with little meaty cushion to soften the blows of daily use, they begged for attention. The reflexology performed on feet is based on an ancient Chinese technique that links exact locations on the foot to specific body parts, i.e. sinuses, liver, kidneys, ovaries, testes, spine, eyes, heart, etc., When reflexology targets these spots, the associated organs benefit, much like acupuncture trigger points release pain. I relished the sensual pleasure, but clenched my teeth when sturdy digits pressed and probed like well trained screwdrivers to relieve the longterm effects of  lifelong abuse -- a broken foot, fallen arch, and neuroma. Again, the challenge of breathing deep and letting go, to ease the ache. In the end, the prize was worth the journey -- hot nubby towels scrubbed over grateful feet, toes snapped in quick succession like string beans, and a warm embrace of thick, heated cloths  soothed my soles.

A full-body rubdown was next, signaling the end of the third act, only minutes or seconds to go. Long strokes over the filmy cover and pulsed karate chops offered a satisfying sayonara. Not to be outdone, an encore performance by the wondrous hot towels scrubbing over my arms and legs left me limp, my new torso, limbs, and feet now supple, rid of all former complaints.

"Thank you, that was amazing," I said, barely audible, eyes still closed.

"Tea or water?" he asked, ever ready to fetch one last pleasure.

"Both please."

The click of the door left me in the bliss of massage afterglow, my body returned to wholeness. One effort at a time, I rose, dressed, and slowly stepped into the hallway to retrace the path back to the front counter where clear water and aromatic tea waited. I sipped the coolness for hydration and the warmth for relaxation, my body and soul now fully refreshed.

Outside, sunlight danced through branches of young leafy trees, in playful joy below puffy white clouds. The afternoon breeze kissed my cheeks hello. Nirvana accompanied me all the way home and throughout the rest of the day, into the night. Restoration and peace, the lovely gifts of an afternoon massage.

Number 19

Photo by Rick Stewart

From my earliest days in San Diego, I knew the name Tony Gwynn. He preceded me by one year, arriving in 1977 from Long Beach to claim a basketball scholarship at San Diego State University. The following year, he played both baseball and basketball, lettered in both, and was nearly recruited by the San Diego Clippers when he left SDSU. But the Padres intercepted him in the third round of the baseball draft and the rest is history.

San Diego is not your thriving sports mecca. One columnist referred to Tony as the "lone light in an otherwise pitch-black sports town." Sorry and sad, but not far from the truth. We love our Padres and Chargers, but the foamy surf from the ocean casts a chill, like a slow wave rippling the sand. They're just way to mellow about winning. At bat, Tony was the winning factor,  and has been called the "best hitter this generation has seen," claiming dozens of titles and records during his twenty years with the Padres. He was on fifteen all-star teams and made the top ten MVPs ten times, with a  batting record that rivaled Ted Williams:  Tony Gwynn Stats

 

Photo by Tim Mantoani

In his post-Padres years, Tony coached the SDSU Aztecs, so he never left us.  Not that he wasn't lured.  All the big guys wanted Tony, but he was true blue San Diego, and for that, we celebrate him like our favorite son. Because he was. I'm not even the biggest sports fan, and didn't really follow his career, but what I'm reading and hearing tells me I lost out. This guy was the real deal, the genuine golden athlete, the most unassuming fella you could ever meet, and the one who made you feel good because his laugh was so effervescent.

Keith Olbermann says it best, because he knew Tony, he followed his career, and he loved San Diego's most humble, joyful sports hero, the guy we lost this week, the guy who won't be replaced any time soon. See Olbermann's tribute on ESPN:   Keith Olbermann Tribute to Tony Gwynn.

National Baseball Hall of Fame exhibit (en.wikipedia.org)