Wedded Bliss

My days as a vibrant, single man with fleeting hair but personality to burn have come to an end. It was a good run - a near three-decade-long stretch of hopeless crushes, first kisses and lost phone numbers. I have ceased being a person of independent thought and free will and have instead metamorphosed into, I’m reading from a manual, “half of a collective unit, one where thought and action is now a shared responsibility to better preserve the harmonious union we have selected to live the rest of our lives as part of.” In short, I got married.

The aforementioned “union” capped a whirlwind year of endless planning, negotiating and consoling. (“Of course I still want to marry you, sweetie; of course I’ll wear a tux.”) The first eight hours of our engagement were a time of overwhelming emotions and endless possibilities. From there we sharpened our pencils, opened Excel, punched a clock and began the time-honored process of building the firm of Husband and Wife.

Nothing can happen for the first three months of an engagement for this is when the ring goes on tour. A gaggle of personnel show up at your doorstep - roadies, logistical experts, cackling girlfriends, etc. They place the ring in a crate, haul it down the stairs and secure it to the back of a flatbed truck. Then it and your fiance set out across the country visiting every person she and her parents have ever met in their lifetimes. You get pictures every couple of weeks, a progress report charting their current location in relation to the official itinerary and occasionally you’ll read a blurb in the paper or spot a glimpse of them on the nightly news. When your fiance finally returns home she looks nothing like you remember and the diamond now resembles a shard of rock candy.

Now that you’re a happy unit again the planning of the actual ceremony can begin. First you choose a date - usually one at least a year or so off. (You gotta have time to really be sold on the idea, right?) From there it’s the location – something close so your inebriated guests can make it home safely.

Then there’s the music. I always envision for-hire disc jockeys as starving college kids trying to muster a few dollars together in between stipends from Mom and Dad. Boy, was I off. Spinning music is not only a venerable career it’s about as lucrative as being a doctor or investment banker. The one we visited lived in a sprawling split-level Spanish-style compound in south county complete with a cabin cruiser in the driveway and soundproof studio nestled neatly inside the garage. We sat next to the washing machine, our DJ behind his custom spin table, microphone in hand, and were dazzled for the next half hour with dancing strobe lights and dead-on impressions of Sinatra, Mathis and Tony Bennett. From there he thanked us for coming, pressed a button on his console and within seconds someone appeared to escort us from the premises. I bet he orders dinner the same way when working late: “Turkey pot pie.” Too cool.

Once the ceremony’s set you can focus on the registry. Now my wife and I got married in our mid-thirties and pretty much had already amassed all the household necessities a couple requires when first starting out. I’m thinking - sweet, we can get a plasma TV, new golf clubs, maybe even TiVo. Again, way off. I was not aware of the rule that states “When getting married never settle for one when you can have quadruple.” Wine glasses, bed sheets, cutlery, towels, vases, oh the vases. And picture frames – oh the humanity. We’ve got so many picture frames we’re going to have to adopt just to fill them all.

Before you know it the special day has arrived. The sun is out, the birds are chirping and all the people your parents ever met are waiting to introduce themselves to you. My wife and I were told early on we could each invite five friends (Best Man and Maid of Honor included). The rest of the seats were reserved for people who had missed the 2003 Engagement Ring Tour. But on your wedding day everyone is family and as the champagne flows and the hours seem to hurry by you begin to look back fondly on all the little things that got you to this point and ahead to all the bigger things awaiting your lives together. That and the hopes you’ll never have to duplicate the last 15 months again in your lifetime. (Of course I’m glad we got married, honey.)

A Little Piece of Heaven Closes Its Doors, Moves Inland

When a favorite restaurant closes its doors it often has the same effect as losing a best friend. No one knew your needs better. No one was as comforting to be around. Change is a part of life, but this one never seems to leave you, no matter how hard you try.

A favorite such Orange County haunt recently closed its doors after 14 years of service on the Balboa Peninsula and needless to say I'm having a little trouble getting over it.

Britta's Cafe, a small, neatly nestled little piece of heaven a stone's throw off Balboa Avenue, was my lone reason for getting out of bed on a Saturday or Sunday morning. I'd snatch up the paper, toss on whatever garment was most readily available and dash out the door praying the line hadn't yet reached the Balboa Pier.

I ordered the same breakfast for 10 years - scrambled eggs, two succulent sausage links, thick rye toast and the most extraordinary fried potatoes ever created. If I was ever granted a last meal, those potatoes would be my only request.

Everyone always had a smile at Britta's. You walked in and knew instantly the day was going to be a good one. Service never lagged. And if the rare wait for a table was required, you always got a big mug of piping-hot coffee to nurse outside in the fresh sea air.

The story of Britta's Cafe is almost as good as its food. Raised in Orange County, Britta Pullium was a mere 16 years old when she started socking away pennies in hopes of one day owning her own restaurant. By 21 she was general manager of a neighborhood cafe and by 25 she had purchased an ice cream/pizza parlor on Balboa's popular Main Street enclave. No partners. No managing director. There was one name on the sign and one name pulling the strings.

In the 14 years since, Britta's Cafe had become a cherished part of the surrounding communities. Britta became almost a pseudo-Oprah - her own book club, newsletter and special weekly dinners featuring three generations of family recipes that attracted as much attention as if they were staples on the Food Network.

So why the closure? Well it isn't so much a closure as a relocation. As Britta puts it, " Balboa was a proving ground. I'm older, wiser and ready for a new challenge."

In September a brand new Britta's Cafe, same menu, same Britta, will re-open its doors in Irvine at the University Center across from UCI. It's all part of a new investment by the Irvine Company to revitalize the sluggish but optimally located 17-year-old shopping center. First Trader Joe's and now Britta.

The new venue will include a full bar, wood-burning oven and much to Britta's fancy, a larger kitchen.

And what about the old location on Balboa? Well it's now owned by a local couple and goes by the name Bibbi Anna's. Britta thinks they'll make a tremendous addition to the neighborhood.

Britta's immediate plans call for an enjoyable summer with 10-year-old daughter Raquel. As for me, I'm rolled up in the fetal position anxiously awaiting those fried potatoes.

Look for Britta's Cafe this September at 4237 Campus Drive in Irvine.

After 16 Years of Waiting, The Star Wars Saga Returns To Save Us From Adulthood

Well, there's no turning back now. A generation's last-ditch effort at childhood is reaching its final stage. Before were just the smells, the quick forbidden sights - an odd creature here, a new Jedi there - a brief taste before it was stripped away and replaced with the usual, boring entree.

We've led our adult lives as best we could, waiting. We saw junior high, high school and college graduation come and go. We've searched hard and long for that perfect job, that career that would put and keep us on the right track, immune to the legal counsel of Mom & Dad, Inc.

We've met and maybe married that special someone, alleviating, God forbid, dating in our thirties. We've started a family, signed our soul to a mortgage and, yes, increased our 401(k)s each year like good little boys and girls. We've even gained a little weight, lost a little hair. It's okay, we've earned it.

We've done all this, 16 long years, with one month in sight.

One month where age and inhibitions cease to exist. A month where a junior executive can walk the halls with an extended lightsaber, telling his boss: "Don't worry about that presentation, The Force will be us. Always." A month where a crossing guard can sit and wait for children in an inflatable Darth Maul lounge chair. A month where you can get up from your desk, sweep away your files, walk out your office door and tell your assistant: "I'm going to lunch - Yoda is is the featured cup at Tacoville."

Yes, it's May 1999. One quick indulgence before the new millennium. It the words of that other, lesser-known Prince song: We want to party like it's 1983.

No one of authority will care. They'll just chalk it up as Y2K hysteria, something to let off a little steam before the world ends. A genius that George Lucas, couldn't have time it better.

Oh, what a joy standing in front of Toys R Us that early May eve, planning our strategy for getting the young Obi-Wan figure, knowing the right time to push the eight-year-old with the cherub face to the floor and say: "Don't worry, kid, here's a Queen Amidala, she's just as good." No looks of disgust here. They know who we are. We've earned it.

And then the magic week. In seven days it's here. There's great anticipation but awful dread as well. Soon it will be over. The next time it comes around we'll have even less hair, wider handles. We savor the the moment the best we can.

We recall that cloudy Wednesday morning a few weeks back when we headed to our favorite theater for advance tickets. The old and the young, Armani mixed with flannel. All of us there, the fraternal brotherhood.

Granted the young remember only video, but this film will be their initiation. We share fond memories of a farmboy with a grand, unforeseeable future, a smuggler confined to Carbonite. We scoff at such travesties at Ewoks and a brother and sister locking lips.

We remember holding the world in our hands after each repeated viewing, a world of undying imagination. As the line finally moves and each brother grabs his or her ticket, we all turn seven or eight years old again - shoelaces untied, caps flipped backwards, our wholes lives in front of us.

We will savor this, this time, this month of May, yearning for galaxies far, far away.


Published in the Orange County Register May 18, 1999

Orange Cinedome Closes after 30 Years

One of the last great cinemas in Southern California, the Century Cinedome in Orange, has closed its doors.

The Cinedome had been an Orange County cultural icon for nearly 30 years. Films like Star Wars, Superman and Raiders of the Lost Ark all had first-run exhibition at the "Domes," as they were called, two sprawling, spherically shaped auditoriums with unparalleled acoustics and screen size that were as much of an experience as the film itself.

It was the Cinedome that paved the way for multiplexes like Edwards 21 at Irvine Spectrum and AMC 30 at the Block, but somehow they never matched the Cinedome's excitement.

You always remembered seeing a movie at the Cinedome, eating the popcorn, sipping a Coke, playing a game in the arcade. Heck, even the sticky floors made a movie seem better.

I remember seeing Raiders there in the summer of 1981 with my dad when I was 10. I felt like I was right in the Peruvian temple in the beginning and even lifted my feet when the snakes appeared in the Well of the Souls. The Cinedome engulfed you, made you an active participant in your own imagination.

The Cinedome was converted to a bargain theater last November to make room for the more generic Century 25 cinemas across the 57 Freeway. I saw one movie at the Domes after the conversion: Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. I now regret that is was that film with which I said goodbye to one of the last, great theaters of all time.

Photo courtesy of Bruce D., Cinematreasures.org