Vice President Al Gore Meets Spinal Tap

Last night I attended an evening sponsored by Writers Bloc, a nonprofit organization that brings writers to LA for talks and readings. Yes, the cultural emphasis in LA is on the movies--just go to the Arclight on any given Saturday night to see what I'm talking about. This group, which I found after coming back to LA after grad school, has brought some interesting writers over the years. And last night was Al Gore being interviewed by Harry Shearer at the Wilshire Theater about his new book "The Assault on Reason," on the market yesterday. I'm not particularly wowed by politicians for so many reasons. But I went because it was something 'intellectually' stimulating offered in this vast city. Look, I spent the other night watching the last episode of "The Bachelor," so I'm not all high and mighty about culture. And let me say, that last episode was compelling stuff--how, and why do these women go on this show is something that never ceases to fascinate me.

So, this event attended by many 'liberals' and 'environmentalists,' all driving to the evening in their Range Rovers, Mercedes, Volvos, and Toyota Prius, held the potential for an invigorating evening. The theater, which is quite large, was packed. I mean, it wasn't standing room, but to an oversight on my part, my friend and I sat up in the nosebleed section.

I wish I could say that the evening was scintillating, revealing, inspiring, something close to a revival meeting. All I can comment are the following: Harry Shearer was annoying in his need to be funny; Al Gore's professorial commentary was as exciting as watching one's toenail polish dry; the woman who had brought her crying 18 month old was diverting, if not truly maddening; and the Fait Accompli was in watching all those people, desperate to get their newly purchased copy of "The Assault on Reason" signed by Al Gore, rushing from the auditorium before the talk ended. Let me say, the evening was lacking.

People departing before the end of performances was something I'd grown accustomed from my evenings spent at the Disney Hall when half the auditorium would empty by intermission. I thought this a particularity of concert going, but now realize that it might be symptomatic of the general impatience of our culture. Think about it, we all skip from channel to channel, searching for something that would compel us to sit still. We skip radio channels with the same frenzy, or worse, now we just avoid having to subject ourselves to anything that we don't pick by getting Sirius radio or listening to our Ipods. We barely sit through an evening meal that extends beyond an hour and a half--all of us rushing from the table to get home to our Tivos and remote controls. And then there is the issue of driving to such an event where you can foresee traffic snarls that would test the patience of Mother Theresa. So, people rush, depart, leave before the end of anything they have spent the time and energy planning, attending--requiring driving, by insuring that they get home with their humors in tact.

Today is the day that I will finish the book cataloging. Yes, I'm newly energized to get that task finished. And to confront the boxes of pictures and empty albums. You can see where this is going next, right? Right, endless hours of me sitting, sifting through photos, stuffing in some chronological order in books that I had purchased years ago, but never seemed to get around to filling.

This move, more than anything, has been fascinating as each task offers me the opportunity, some of which is alarming, to traverse my mind at work--or not. Each pile, intended for something or somewhere I'd determined, is, again, another revelation about my mental well-being. Perhaps, well-being is a bit too hopeful. But at the very least, my mental state. And the baking, well, that offers hours of diversion since the ordered steps of baking requires my mind to focus in a way that is impossible whenever I walk into a room to confront the enormity of sorting, chucking, and organizing.

I just read this morning's paper and learned that a Korean restaurant I frequent was the scene of a double homicide. And that one of the men killed was found behind the counter. I can only assume it is the man that always seats me at my table when I enter around lunch time alone and with a book in hand. Here is another secret revealed: I love eating alone. I find it incredibly relaxing. It helps to recharge me in ways that eating with people does not. I usually go to some restaurant with my newest New Yorker or book. I eat, read, and savor this time alone. There's something about being anonymous, unnoticed by other diners, which is a reprieve from my life. And it is something I've done for years.

Well, the oven will be turned on for hours today since I've found another recipe that is luring me into the kitchen away from the endless tasks that I should be attending to.