Livin’ la Vida Polka

Here we are headed to Staples Center, L.A.’s grand canyon, a sexy new arena named after an office implement.

“Know where you’re going, Pops?” asks the little girl.

“Not really,” I say.

“Uh-oh,” she says from the back seat.

She’s been calling me Pops lately, as if I suddenly turned into Fred MacMurray and smoke a pipe and wear a big cardigan, as if I’m headed through life a little befuddled. Fred MacMurray. I take it for the compliment it is.

“Maybe that’s where we turn, Pops,” she says, pointing to an exit.

“That’s Chinatown,” I tell her.

“You sure?” she asks.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” I tell her.

And we head on down the Pasadena Freeway to the Harbor, then off quickly to where we expect Staples Center to be. It’s our first time here.

“See any signs?” I ask.

“I don’t see any signs,” my wife says.

We are on our way to see Ricky Martin, of all people, one of pop music’s hottest divas--a bonbon shaking phenom who filled Dodger Stadium this summer and now has his sights set on Staples. Just like us.

“I love that song of his,” I tell the little girl.

“Which song?” she asks, as if he has more than one or two.

“Livin’ la Vida Polka,” I tell her.

“That’s not what it’s called,” she says.

“It’s not?”

“It’s ‘Livin’ la Vida Loca,’ ” she says.

“I like that one too,” I say.

And we park, 20 bucks, then walk across the street to Staples Center.

Now, if you haven’t seen Staples, maybe you should. Gleaming, stylish, with lots of windows overlooking downtown.

“I’m feeling a little tingly,” I tell my wife as we wander down the shiny hallways.

“That’s just the beer,” my wife says.

“No, I think it’s this place,” I tell her.

Though it could be the beer. It’s cold and tall, and at $6.75, plenty steep, much like the Staples seating. And the wine is no bargain either.

Amazingly, the bartender has to do the math on a napkin to get the total. $6.75 plus $6.25. Quickly, the tingle subsides.

“That’ll impress people from out of town,” I say with a sigh.

“Just drink your beer,” my wife says.

Up to our seats we go, the three of us, up to meet another family and enjoy the show. Up and up we go, almost a straight climb, up to the top of this grand canyon, holding tight to the railing.

I look down. As one friend noted, it’s only a matter of time before some drunk takes a header from these upper-deck seats, straight into the luxury boxes located directly below. Scream. Plop. Scream.

My guess is that it will happen during the fourth quarter of a Lakers game, with all the drunk’s buddies watching.

“There goes Bill,” they’ll say, then turn back to the game.

“Luckily, I landed on a stock broker,” Bill will explain later from his hospital bed.

Scream. Plop. Scream.

“Keep going, Pops,” says the little girl, as I stop to look down at the luxury boxes.

“We’re almost there,” I say, leading them to Row 11.

And before we know it, Ricky Martin is leaping out on stage, gyrating wildly.

The stage is like some sort of spaceship, with moving sidewalks and a center stage that lifts up and down.

Every once in a while, huge piston-like tubes rise high out of the stage, metaphors for something, I’m not sure. Maybe for car engines.

Then there are these dancers, a dozen at least, gyrating like human washing machines, jumping from level to level, barely stopping to take a breath as Martin’s other hit blasts across the arena.

Shake your bonbon, shake your bonbon, shake your bonbon.

Basically, what these dancers appear to do is stick out their sleek backsides, then swing their long hair around in helicopter fashion as a hundred strobe lights flash. Just watching makes me dizzy.

Shake your bonbon, shake your bonbon, shake your bonbon.

Midway through the show, I take a walk around the upper level, which takes only five or 10 minutes. When I return, I have a hot dog. Come to an arena, have a hot dog--that’s my motto.

“How’s the hot dog?” the other father asks when I return.

“Pretty hot,” I say.

The hot dog cost almost four bucks, though that’s not so shocking anymore. A Downtown Dog, they call it. It’s served at about a thousand degrees, too hot to hold and put mustard on, let alone eat. Ten minutes later, it is still too hot. Prepared by welders, this dog.

Shake your bonbon, shake your bonbon, shake your bonbon.

Back on stage, the lights dim and Ricky slows it down a little.

The sound is good for so high up, though at times, there is a sort of echo effect. At times, it as though 10,000 children are singing along with him.

I look around, everyone is singing along with him. Ten thousand children. Five thousand young women. A few thousand moms and dads. Almost everyone singing.

“You’re not singing,” I tell the other father.

“Sorry,” he says.

It is no small measure of our lives that this other father and I missed Springsteen here at Staples but somehow wind up watching two hours of Ricky Martin.

And it is no small measure of our lives that this other father and I are glad to be here, appreciating the wild scene and enjoying the music.

You could do worse. Onstage, the dancers return, doing that helicopter thing with their hair.

Up in the stands, the kids are singing.

You could do a lot worse.

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Chris Erskine’s column is published on Wednesdays. His e-mail address is chris.erskine@latimes.com.