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L.A. Affairs: We were just newlyweds when an emergency room visit tested our vows

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L.A. Affairs: We were just newlyweds when an emergency room visit tested our vows

“I’m his wife,” I said to the on-call doctor, asserting my place in the cramped exam room. It was a label I’d only recently acquired. A year ago, it had seemed silly to obtain government proof of what we’d known to be true for six years: We were life partners. Now I was so grateful we signed that piece of paper.

Earlier that morning, I’d driven my husband to an ER in Torrance for what we’d assumed was a nasty flu or its annoying bacterial equivalent. We’d imagined a round of industrial-grade antibiotics, and then heading home in time for our 3-year-old’s usual bath-time routine.

But the doctor’s face was serious. Machines beeped and whirred as my husband laid on the hospital bed. Whatever supernatural power colloquially known as a “gut feeling” flat-lined in my stomach.

“It’s leukemia,” she said, putting a clinical end to what had been our honeymoon period.

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Only six months earlier, a female Elvis impersonator had declared us husband and wife. A burlesque dancer pressed her cleavage into both of our faces as our friends cheered and threw dollar bills. A wedding in Vegas was my idea.

After two years of dating Marty, a cute roller hockey player with an unwavering moral compass, I knew I wanted to have a child with him. It was marriage, not commitment, that unnerved me. I wanted romance, freedom and to do things my way. The word “wife” induced an allergic reaction.

As Marty and I became parents and navigated adulthood together, my resistance to matrimony started to feel like an outdated quirk. The emotional equivalent of a person still rocking a septum piercing long after they stopped listening to punk music.

Marty had shown me, over and over, what it was to be a teammate. He’d rubbed my back through hours of labor, made late-night runs for infant Tylenol and was never afraid to cry at the sad parts of movies or take the occasional harsh piece of feedback about his communication style. And like all good teams, we kicked ass together. So why was I still resisting something that meant so much to him? To our family?

One random Saturday, at the Hawthorne In-N-Out Burger, after Marty ordered fries as a treat for our son, I finally said, “Screw it. Let’s get married.”

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The wedding day was raucous and covered in glitter. We both wore white. Our son’s jacket had a roaring tiger stitched onto the back and was layered over his toddler-size tuxedo T-shirt. Loved ones from all over the country flew to meet us in a tiny pink chapel. A neon heart buzzed over our heads as we vowed to “love each other in sickness and in health, till death do us part.”

I couldn’t have imagined then that the next chapel I’d be in would be the hospital prayer room. Or that I would have begged a God I struggle to believe in to please spare Marty’s life.

Unlike our decision to marry, acute leukemia came on suddenly. Over the course of a few weeks, Marty’s bone marrow had flooded his blood with malignant cells. Treatment was urgent. He was taken by ambulance from the ER to the City of Hope hospital in Duarte, a part of Los Angeles County we’d never had a reason to visit before.

Traditionally the 50th wedding anniversary is celebrated with gold, the 25th with silver and the first with paper. But we couldn’t even afford to look paper-far-ahead anymore. Instead, we celebrated that the specific genetic modifiers of Marty’s cancer were treatable, the good chemo days and his being able to walk to the hospital lobby to see our son for the first time in weeks.

Leukemia has taught me things such as: how to inject antifungal medication into the open PICC (peripherally inserted central catheter) line in Marty’s veins, how to explain to our son that “Papa will be sleeping with the doctors for a long while so they can help him feel better” and that to do the hibbity-dibbity with a person going through chemo, you must wear a condom. But mostly my husband’s sickness has taught me about healthy love.

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When we had a child together, we’d committed to being in each other’s lives forever. But marriage was different. We’d already made a promise to our son, but when we got married, we made one to each other and ourselves. We had gone all in.

Since his diagnosis two months ago, there have been so many ways we’ve shown love for each other. People assume that I would do all the caregiving, but it’s more than that. Yes, I’ve washed my husband’s feet when he couldn’t bend down, been the only parent at preschool dropoff and pickup, and advocated on Marty’s behalf to his health insurance with only a few choice expletives.

But my husband has also taken care of me. Even when he was nauseous, sweating and fatigued, Marty showed up. He made me laugh with macabre jokes about how the only way for us to watch anything other than “PAW Patrol” on TV together was for him to get hospitalized. He insisted that I make time to rest and bring him the car owner’s manual, so he could figure out why the check engine light had come on.

We’d promised in front of our closest friends and Elvis herself to love each other “for better or worse.” And when the worst arrived sooner than expected, we did more than love. We truly cared for each other as husband and wife.

The author is a writer whose short stories have been nominated for the PEN/Robert J. Dau Short Story Prize for Emerging Writers and Best of the Net. She is working on a novel and lives in Redondo Beach with her husband and son. She’s on Instagram: @RachelReallyChapman.

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L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.

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L.A. Times Concierge: Where can we go for a fun morning out with our toddler before nap time?

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L.A. Times Concierge: Where can we go for a fun morning out with our toddler before nap time?

I’m looking for something that’s open early on the weekends (9 a.m.?) where we can take our 2-year-old daughter. We don’t want it to be an indoor play place or something that is solely designed for kids. Ideally, it would be something that adults enjoy too. Maybe something outdoors or with a restaurant/cafe where we can give ourselves a little treat. We are in Manhattan Beach and have to be back home by 12:30 p.m. for nap time. We’ve been able to make drives to Pasadena and Orange County and make it back in time (bonus of leaving on a Saturday or Sunday because there’s no traffic!) — Brittany Newell

Here’s what we suggest:

Finding places that will keep both you and your toddler entertained can be tricky. But don’t fret, Brittany! I’ve enlisted the help of some of my colleagues who are also parents that understand the need to flee the house before nap time. I’ve compiled a list of fun mini adventures that you can start early-ish.

For an activity close to home, Michelle Woo, The Times’ West Coast experiences editor, suggests renting a toddler bike trailer or bike seat from one of the local shops and taking a ride along the Strand from Manhattan to Redondo and back to Hermosa for a stop at Good Stuff, a beachside restaurant where you can enjoy a refreshing smoothie, mimosa or Woo’s go-to order, “the Good Stuff Breakfast with a pork sausage patty — simple yet comforting.” Then let your daughter play in the sand for a while. And if you haven’t been to the Roundhouse Aquarium before, it’s definitely worth a visit. The free, donation-based marine educational center is home to swell sharks, sea urchins, jellyfish and more that will leave visitors of any age in awe.

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About 12 miles up the coast in Venice Beach is the newly renovated Windward Plaza Playground, a nautical-themed fun zone equipped with slides, swings, climbers and more. The best part is that it’s located on the sand at the beach just steps away from the famous boardwalk. Before you get to the park, my colleague Amy King suggests stopping by Breakaway Cafe for yummy breakfast burritos or Menotti’s for coffee.

For an early morning adventure, Times entertainment and features editor Brittany Levine Beckman recommends visiting the Riverside bike path in Frogtown, which opens at 6 a.m., so you can start as early as you’d like. She and her husband usually take turns pushing their 18-month-old daughter in a tricycle along the pathway and get their steps in. Afterward, she suggests going to Lingua Franca, a restaurant situated along the river. “We’ve arrived a few times as soon as the restaurant opens at 10 a.m. on the weekend and been the only early-bird brunchers,” she tells me. “We grab a table outside in the back and our daughter meanders without us feeling annoying.” The restaurant also serves a toddler-approved Dutch baby and a parent-approved bloody Mary, she adds. If you prefer to just grab a coffee, go to Tadaa.Coffee, which has a sand pit that your daughter can play in.

Another fun option is the Natural History Museum in Exposition Park, where you can wander through the awe-inspiring Dinosaur Hall, learn about the evolution of mammals, roam through the enchanting nature gardens and admire more than 2,000 gems and minerals from across the globe. The museum opens at 9:30 a.m., but there’s still plenty of time to explore before nap time. Levine Beckman also enjoys taking her daughter to the museum. “Our toddler loves the animal dioramas,” she tells me. “She likes staring up at the dinosaur bones too (and can say “roar” now), but the big stuffed animals are her favorite.” For food, my colleague Sophia Kercher recommends South LA Cafe, which is located at the museum.

Now for some rapid-fire ideas: Kercher suggests the Stoneview Nature Center, which is a plant-filled city sanctuary nestled in Culver City’s Blair Hills. Here you can chase hummingbirds, roam through the never-crowded garden and “visit Stoneview’s resident quails, which have their own fenced-in compound called, ‘Quallywood,’” she says. Times contributor Rachel Kraus, who recently wrote about the rise of mall parks in Southern California (and why parents are loving them), suggests the Proud Bird near LAX, which she calls “a one stop shop parent and kid utopia.” She adds, “You can order food and drinks (including from a full bar) and let your kids run around on the outdoor play structure, kick a ball on the turf or explore the vintage airplanes.” Also, be sure to check out our list of L.A. playgrounds that are close to coffee shops where you can get a jolt of energy if needed.

I hope these suggestions are helpful with planning your next morning adventure with your toddler and that you are able to create some fun new memories together. Happy exploring!

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Zendaya brings ‘The Drama,’ we bring the spoilers : Pop Culture Happy Hour

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Zendaya brings ‘The Drama,’ we bring the spoilers : Pop Culture Happy Hour

Zendaya in The Drama.

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The Drama is a dark and twisty comedy starring Zendaya and Robert Pattinson as a storybook couple preparing for their upcoming wedding. But just days before the big day, she reveals a horrifying truth about her past self that threatens to undo their nuptials, and their bond. In this spoiler-packed episode, we’re getting into that reveal, and all the surprising drama of the movie.

Follow Pop Culture Happy Hour on Letterboxd at letterboxd.com/nprpopculture

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At Catch One, a funk concert transports you to 1974 — and it’s immersive theater at its finest

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At Catch One, a funk concert transports you to 1974 — and it’s immersive theater at its finest

The man I’m talking to tells me he has no name.

“Hey” is what he responds to, and he says he can be best described as a “travel agent,” a designation said with a sly smile to clearly indicate it’s code for something more illicit.

About eight of us are crammed with him into a tiny area tucked in the corner of a nightclub. Normally, perhaps, this is a make-up room, but tonight it’s a hideaway where he’ll feed us psychedelics (they’re just mints) to escape the brutalities of the world. It’s also loud, as the sounds of a rambunctious funk band next door work to penetrate the space.

Celeste Butler Clayton as Ursa Major and Ari Herstand as Copper Jones lead a group of theater attendees in a pre-show ritual.

(Gabriella Angotti-Jones / For The Times)

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”Close your eyes,” I’m told. I let the mint begin to melt while trying to pretend it’s a gateway to a dream state. The more that mint peddler talks, the more it becomes clear he’s suffering from PTSD from his days in Vietnam. But the mood isn’t somber. We don’t need any make-believe substances to catch his drift, particularly his belief that, even if music may not change the world, at least it can provide some much-needed comfort from it.

“Brassroots District: LA ’74” is part concert, part participatory theater and part experiment, attempting to intermix an evening of dancing and jubilation with high-stakes drama. How it plays out is up to each audience member. Follow the cast, and uncover war tales and visions of how the underground music scene became a refuge for the LGBTQ+ community. Watch the band, and witness a concert almost torn apart as a group on the verge of releasing its debut album weighs community versus cold commerce. Or ignore it all to play dress-up and get a groove on to the music that never stops.

A soul train style dance exhibition.

Audience members are encouraged to partake in a “Soul Train”-style dance exhibition.

(Gabriella Angotti-Jones / For The Times)

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Now running at Catch One, “Brassroots District” aims to concoct a fantasy vision of 1974, but creators Ari Herstand and Andrew Leib aren’t after pure nostalgia. The fictional band at the heart of the show, for instance, is clearly a nod to Sly and the Family Stone, a group whose musical vision of unity and perseverance through social upheaval still feels ahead of its time. “Brassroots District” also directly taps into the history of Catch One, with a character modeled after the club’s pioneering founder Jewel Thais-Williams, a vital figure on the L.A. music scene who envisioned a sanctuary for Black queer women and men as well as trans, gay and musically adventurous revelers.

“This is the era of Watergate and Nixon and a corrupt president,” Herstand says, noting that the year of 1974 was chosen intentionally. “There’s very clear political parallels from the early ‘70s to 2026. We don’t want to smack anyone in the face over it, but we want to ask the questions about where we’ve come from.”

This isn’t the first time a version of “Brassroots District” has been staged. Herstand, a musician and author, and Leib, an artist manager, have been honing the concept for a decade. It began as an idea that came to Herstand while he spent time staying with extended family in New Orleans to work on his book, “How to Make it in the New Music Business.” And it initially started as just a band, and perhaps a way to create an excitement around a new group.

A huddled group

Ari Herstand as musician Copper Jones in an intimate moment with the audience.

(Gabriella Angotti-Jones / For The Times)

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A scene during Brassroots.

Celeste Butler Clayton (Ursa Major), from left, Ari Herstand (Copper Jones), Bryan Daniel Porter (Donny) and Marqell Edward Clayton (Gil) in a tense moment.

(Gabriella Angotti-Jones/For The Times)

Yet as the pair became smitten with immersive theater — a term that typically implies some form of active involvement on the part of the audience, most often via interacting and improvising with actors — Brassroots District the band gradually became “Brassroots District” the show. Like many in the space, Herstand credits the long-running New York production “Sleep No More” with hipping him to the scene.

“It’s really about an alternative experience to a traditional proscenium show, giving the audience autonomy to explore,” Herstand says.

Eleven actors perform in the show, directed by DeMone Seraphin and written with input from L.A. immersive veterans Chris Porter (the Speakeasy Society) and Lauren Ludwig (Capital W). I interacted with only a handful of them, but “Brassroots District” builds to a participatory finale that aims to get the whole audience moving when the band jumps into the crowd for a group dance. The night is one of wish fulfillment for music fans, offering the promise of behind-the-stage action as well as an idealized vision of funk’s communal power.

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Working in the favor of “Brassroots District” is that, ultimately, it is a concert. Brassroots District, the group, released its debut “Welcome to the Brassroots District” at the top of this year, and audience members who may not want to hunt down or chase actors can lean back and watch the show, likely still picking up on its broad storyline of a band weighing a new recording contract with a potentially sleazy record executive. Yet Herstand and Leib estimate that about half of those in attendance want to dig a little deeper.

At the show’s opening weekend this past Saturday, I may even wager it was higher than that. When a mid-concert split happens that forces the band’s two co-leaders — Herstand as Copper Jones and Celeste Butler Clayton as Ursa Major — to bolt from the stage, the audience immediately knew to follow them into the other room, even as the backing band played on. Leib, borrowing a term from the video game world, describes these as “side quests,” moments in which the audience can better get to know the performers, the club owner and the act’s manager.

A woman interacts with audience members.

“Brassroots District: LA ‘74” is wish fulfillment for music fans, providing, for instance, backstage-like access to artists. Here, Celeste Butler Clayton performs as musician Ursa Major and is surrounded by ticket-goers.

(Gabriella Angotti-Jones / For The Times)

An audience member's costume.

An audience member’s costume.

(Gabriella Angotti-Jones / For The Times)

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Yet those who stay in the main stage will still get some show moments, as here is where a journalist will confront a record executive. Both will linger around the floor and chat with willing guests, perhaps even offering them a business card with a number to call after the show to further the storyline beyond the confines of the club. If all goes according to plan, the audience will start to feel like performers. In fact, the central drama of “Brassroots District” is often kicked off by an attendee finding some purposely left-behind props that allude to the group’s record label drama. Actors, say Herstand, will “loosely guide” players to the right spot, if need be.

“The point is,” says Leib, “that you as an audience member are also kind of putting on a character. You can stir the spot.” And with much of the crowd in their ‘70s best and smartphones strictly forbidden — they are placed in bags prior to the show beginning — you may need a moment to figure out who the actors are, but a microphone usually gives it away.

“They’re a heightened version of themselves,” Herstand says of the audience’s penchant to come in costumes to “Brassroots District,” although it is not necessary.

“Brassroots District,” which is about two hours in length, is currently slated to run through the end of March, but Herstand and Leib hope it becomes a long-running performance. Previous iterations with different storylines ran outdoors, as it was first staged in the months following the worst days of the pandemic. Inside, at places such as Catch One, was always the goal, the pair say, and the two leaned into the venue’s history.

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“Brassroots District: LA ’74”

“It’s in the bones of the building that this was a respite for queer men and the Black community,” Leib says. “There’s a bit of like, this is a safe space to be yourself. We’re baking in some of these themes in the show. It’s resistance through art and music.”

Such a message comes through in song. One of the band’s central tunes is “Together,” an allusion to Sly and the Family Stone’s “Everyday People.” It’s a light-stepping number built around finger snaps and the vision of a better world.

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“We are stronger when we unite,” Herstand says. “That is the hook of the song, and what we’re really trying to do is bring people together. That is how we feel we actually can change society.”

And on this night, that’s exactly what progress looks like — an exuberant party that extends a hand for everyone to dance with a neighbor.

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