Photo Essay - A Night at the Hollywood Bowl

It's a part of your life. Or so say the radio ads and all the billboards for the Hollywood Bowl.

And, for the last eight or nine years, I guess it has been as far as my life is concerned. Indeed, an idyllic summer night for me these days would be either a perch at Dodger Stadium or at the Bowl. Like clockwork, I initiated one more season at the latter on the Fourth of July.

The show that night was a perfect one for yours truly. The theme was the 50th Anniversary of the Dodgers in Los Angeles. There was baseball-related music played by the LA Philharmonic from "Field of Dreams" and "The Natural." Randy Newman played "I Love LA," which has become the song played after every Dodger home win. Some dude who spends his life pretending he is Danny Kaye did two numbers and I was hoping he would meet up with some other guy who spends his life pretending he is Sir Laurence Olivier. The Dodger organist, beloved Nancy Bea Heffley, played through intermissions as well as accompanying us all on a "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" sing-along led by Tommy Lasorda, who also told the same four hoary jokes he has been telling at rubber chicken banquets for years.

They dragged out some marginal Dodger greats, but, apparently, folks like Steve Garvey, Maury Wills, and Sandy Koufax had other barbecue plans. We got to hear the comforting tones of Vin Scully, who narrated a version of "Casey at the Bat" that was adapted to fit Kirk Gibson's 1988 game winning World Series homer hit when he had less mobility than one of Jerry's Kids.

And, of course, there was fireworks, wine, fireworks, and more wine. The photos below can't let you hear it all...or give you the buzz from some fruit infused champagne. But, at the very least, you can see a little bit of what I saw and enjoyed.

When you go to the Hollywood Bowl, this is the very first thing you need to deal with. Parking is extremely limited, and the lots are all stacked. Essentially, that means if you plan on going into labor mid-concert, you might as well give birth in the street. You can't get your car out until the show is over. And, of course, that means you might be hemmed in by some cars whose drivers are slow as shit coming back to their vehicles. Oddly, I have been very lucky with the stacked parking and the longest I have waited is about thirty minutes. Usually, you've already got a buzz on and you don't even notice how long you're waiting. Or where you are in the first place.

A nifty view of the Hollywood Bowl marquee and it eerily reminds me of the sign that used to be in front of the old Elmsford Drive-In theater in New York. What happened to marquees? They are wonderful, especially if there is a misspelling and you can read that "Diana Boss" is playing at the Bowl later this month.

It's a healthy walk from the stacked parking up the hill to the Bowl itself. So, if you need some fortification, how about a sausage, peppers, and onions sandwich cooked by an illegal alien? This woman has been setting up camp outside the parking lots as long as I can remember. The food smells really good and it's no surprise. It's sizzling in grease on a grill that hasn't been cleaned since the Beatles played the Bowl in 1965. I've always been tempted to try it, but, for some reason, a heart attack in the gutter on Highland Avenue is not my ideal way to die. This woman looked away as I was snapping this picture. She probably thought I was initiating some undercover INS sweep.

To get to the Bowl entrance from the parking lots, you need to go through this tunnel that cuts across a major thoroughfare. For me, it's like I am back in NY and going down into the subway. Only this tunnel doesn't smell like urine. Part of the Bowl fun is the trip up to the arena. When I entertain out-of-town guests, I insist on taking them to the Bowl and making the same trek we always do. It is as much a part of the ambience as the show itself. In all my years, there was only one visitor who didn't enjoy a night at the Bowl. Said gloomy person complained about everything. The walk up the hill. The bench-like wooden seats (which we now have cushions for). The heat. The people. It was one miserable moment after another for this person and, as a result, an equally horrible night for me. I do believe that Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger has initiated legislation preventing this now ex-friend from ever setting foot in the state again.

At the end of the tunnel, there is always this saxophonist who has adapted his playlist to whatever is that evening's theme at the Bowl. On Friday, when I approached wearing my Dodger jersey, he immediately dove into a jazzy rendition of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame."

The other end of the tunnel with directions for all those people who took buses to the Bowl. Most of the structures around the Bowl have this great Art Deco look, which is no surprise since the whole place was built back when Art Deco himself invented this style.

A pre-show view from my seats. At this point, you might be eating from whatever picnic basket you brought. And juggling your wine glass, a sandwich, some fruit, and a program. Or, as was the case for me Friday night, knocking over a large soda which dripped down about fifteen rows.

My seats on the side sections cost about 30 bucks less than the club seats right next door and the only difference is these folks have a little rickety table from which they can eat their Gelson's delicatessen-catered meals. My view is the same and cheaper. The only problem is that, with that goofy table, I would not have accidentally kicked over my large soda which dripped down fifteen rows.

The show starts and every member of the orchestra is wearing a Dodger jersey. Tommy Lasorda will later refer to them as the Los Angeles "Philharmonica."

Dusk has departed and, with the evening darkness, the wonderful colors of the Bowl become even more vibrant. I thought this was a particularly beautiful moment and, apparently, so did the pinhead in front of me. I'm just happy his camera still worked as it was the first casualty of the errant large soda that dripped down fifteen rows.

Okay, if you want a perfect picture of fireworks mid-explosion, call Ansel Adams.

On your walk down the hill after every Bowl show, the night is not complete unless you hear a rendition from the Singing Dog. I think this guy is part-religious nut, part-homeless bum, and part-street performer. But, he is there every single night with the worst ventriloquist act ever and some unrecognizable hymn. The funny thing is the guy does work year-round. When the Bowl ends its summer season, I have found him parking outside the Ahmanson Theater downtown during the winter. With the exact same act.

Come and enjoy with me sometime. And, except for one certain someone out there, you're all cordially invited.

Dinner last night: Grilled turkey sausage, potato salad, and beets.