Election Debate---LA Style

Last night's debate, held at the Kodak Theater, home to the "American Idol" finale and the Academy Awards, was a revelation in the cultural mores of LA. The debate was hosted by CNN and the Los Angeles Times (a paper that is just a cut above one of those small town regional papers), moderated by Wolf Blitzer (could that really be his name?), and much anticipated by those politically obsessed. It was a big night, no doubt, and each of the candidates worked hard to convince us, and the world, that they were ready to take the helm as President. It was the most nuanced debate, thus far. There was substantiative discussion and dissection of their differences, or lack thereof, in policies.

But one had to remind oneself they were watching CNN and not the E! Channel since there were so many celebrity cut aways, those 'dignitaries' sitting in those coveted seats. Let's just say the camera panned to Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa and Police Chief Bratton just once. The rest of the evening felt like we were watching one of those inane award shows, such a specialty of Los Angeles, where every opportunity is taken to show celebrities sitting, and trying to appear serious and intelligent.

So, who, you might ask, was in attendance? Well, here's a run down (it became sport as the broadcast wore on) of those noteworthy attendees: Steven Spielberg, his wife (what is this woman's name? Does it really matter?), Leonardo DiCaprio, Diane Keaton (in her trademark hat, looking as if she'd just stepped off the set of 'Annie Hall'), Rob Reiner(who is the stereotype of a liberal Hollywood person), Roger Ebert(does he live in LA?), Stevie Wonder(could be really mean and point out how pointless it was to give such a good seat to a blind man, but will refrain myself), Alfre Woodard (black actors had to represent), Isiah Washington (that homophobic actor), Pierce Brosnan(really, he's Scottish or something, right?), Topher Grace(hmmm...his name, what can one say about it?), West Wing Actor (don't know his name, but does it matter?), Louis Gossett Jr., Gary Shandling, Fisher Stevens (what, exactly, has he been in?), and Fran Dresher.

Now, it might be important to point out that Jane Harman, the 7-term, Democratic member of the House, was seated up in the balcony, and not given one of those front row seats. Hmmm. I did point out this night exemplified the cultural mores and problems with Los Angeles, right? Yes, actors do vote. But did they really need to be given those prime seats? Where were the bastions of the Democratic party? You know the ones I'm talking about, the Steel Workers, the housekeepers, the taxi drivers, and all those other worker-types.

Now, it might be the celebrities' feeling deprived from prime time coverage since each of the award shows seems to be a non-event. Or perhaps it is the historical event itself, and the star power of Barak Obama that had them clamoring (oh, come on, you can picture all of their agents calling in favors to secure those seats for their clients and themselves) for those coveted seats. It was a spectacle, truly. And CNN did a masterful job of making themselves look less like a credible news organization with each shot where the camera lingered on the face of one of these inconsequential persons.

As I scrambled to write down all of these celebrity names, keeping track, I felt such relief we were no longer Angelenos. This evening's broadcast crystallized all I found reprehensible about the city's inability to become serious about anything other than celebrities and Hollywood. The evening would have been perfect if Paris Hilton had been sitting behind the homophobic actor, trying to look sexy, kittenish, and scholarly, all at the same time. She would, much like Demi Moore, have had on glasses to make herself appear more intelligent. But someone in the Los Angeles Democratic Party machine, CNN, and the LA Times drew the line--no matter how narrow it may have been. Perhaps Spielberg's attendance (he is considered royalty in this town) signaled the seriousness and gravitas of this evening. Unfortunately, for the city and its lost citizens, the rest of the world didn't quite see it that way. But that is the beauty and tragedy of Los Angeles, isn't it?

Golden Globes, No More

LA, I'm sure, must be in a tizzy about the latest fall out from the writers' strike--the cancellation of the star-studded, glitzy, self-congratulatory, fashion show, freak show, known as the Golden Globes. This award show, created by Dick Clark, is a booze-filled night where the winners can, sometimes, give surprisingly candid speeches. But really, it's the night that kicks off a three-month long extravaganza, the culmination of which ends up with people holding parties to see the Red Carpet stroll of actors at the Academy Awards. This night is the unofficial holiday for the city of Angels.

But with the cancellation of the Golden Globes, and potentially, the Oscars, one forgets how many industries are hurt by such a calamity. The trickle down effect (such an 80's phrase) on the city's economy is huge, and not really reported. Yes, the Wall Street Journal did a woeful assessment of all the designers, whose wares will not be seen draped or strapped into the nearly perfect bodies of Angela Jolie, Cate Blanchett, and others. But think about the vast numbers of people, those responsible, for the Goddess or God-like images that are splashed across the television screens around the world, later recycled in the pages of half a dozen magazines, and soon replicated by the likes of AB Schwartz for teenag girls to buy for their upcoming proms.

Not only are designers the ones suffering. There are the stylists, whose jobs of procuring the perfect gowns for their celebrity clients, must now be put on hold indefinitely. What about the hairstylists? The jewelers? The nail salons? The caterers? The limousine companies? The alterations people? The valets? The grunts who put up the stadium seats outside the halls? The hotels? The restaurants? The liquor stores? The trainers? The colonics specialists? The facialists? The body waxers? The make up artists? The photographers? Joan Rivers and her annoying daughter? The E Channel? The musicians? The dancers? The tanning salons? The dry cleaners? Those people whose job it is to put together those ridiculously exorbitant swag bags together? Wolfgang Puck?

Can you see how this non event for the rest of the country is such a humongous deal in LA? Yes, the primaries are going on, but really, THE GOLDEN GLOBES HAVE BEEN CANCELED!!!!! I'm sure every coffee shop, every deli, every restaurant in Beverly Hills is all abuzz about this. And rightfully so once we realize what a huge industry these award shows have become for the entire city's economy, particularly the blocks west of Doheny Drive.

But that is the cost of a one industry town, which LA is, for better or worse. Hollywood, although not the driver of the economy in the city, has the perception of being the main industry. Therefore, any blips such as the cancellation of an awards show will feel cataclysmic for the entire city, especially in Beverly Hills.

It will be interesting to watch the Academy Awards, if they occur, from a distance. It will, more than likely, be put into the proper context. It will be something we may, or may not, watch, but not an event that we have to participate. I doubt we will go to any party where we will bet on the winners or losers. Again, I somehow don't see that happening here. I'm sure we will be nostalgic about how this non-event is such a big deal there. But that may not happen this year since they may not occur at all. God Forbid for Los Angeles.

What I Love and Miss About Los Angeles

It seems impossible that I would miss anything about Los Angeles, but there you have it. You need some time away, some distance, to be able to gain a perspective about a place that had seemed the cause of so much of your unhappiness. I've compiled a list of sorts to describe what it is about Los Angeles I do love.

1. I love that the sun, which seems to shine every day, glints off of every surface, casting a light of indescribable beauty.

2. I love the time spent alone in the car, listening to NPR.

3. I love the palm-tree-lined boulevard of Santa Monica Boulevard, heading into Beverly Hills, which seems the epitome of the California Dream.

4. I love wearing a dress with bare legs in December, January, well, all year long.

5. I love driving past a Starbucks or Coffee Bean, noticing the hordes of people sitting outside.

6. I love driving the length of Sunset Boulevard from the PCH to downtown, all of the city's economic landscape on display as you make your way past gated mansions, West Hollywood, Hollywood, Silverlake, and finally downtown.

7. I love the immense Korea Town that stretches as far north as Santa Monica Boulevard and as far south as Pico, and from Western to Vermont, where English is rarely spoken, all the store signs in Korean.

8. I love the Korean spas where Russian women, Korean women, American women, lounge around the tub naked.

9. I love the Los Angeles coffee shops that offers an opportunity for people gazing and the leisurely sip of a Latte.

10. I love the spectacle of the Oscar Awards--an unofficial holiday for the city.

11. I love the melange of architecture on any given street.

12. I love the sound of the sprinklers turning on, signaling the start of the day.

13. I love being able to purchase a large bag of oranges or a box of strawberries while waiting for a light to turn green.

14. I love the ArcLight Theater where you can call ahead to reserve, not only tickets, but your seats.

15. I love the diagonal crossing signs for pedestrians in Beverly Hills.

16. I love Crustacean Restaurant's food, but more importantly, walking over a Koi pond floor.

17. I love that roses can bloom well into November.

18. I love the hummingbirds that danced from flower to flower in our garden.

19. I love the black crows that would swoop in our cul de sac.

20. I love that coyotes can come down from the hillside, reminding you nature's door is so near.

21. I love that you can arrive at a party, knowing every other person will work in the 'business.'

22. I love that writers on strike drop their kids off at the same school as the producers, network executives, and heads of studios.

23. I love that Neiman's has a bar in the men's department, so that you can sip a martini after a strenuous day of shopping.

24. I love the Peninsula Hotel's high tea where women can pretend to be ladies from a different era as teas are sipped, scones are eaten, and the harpist plays.

25. I love the patrons of Cafe Roma, where old Hollywood, including the governor, holds court, reliving a hey day long past.

26. I love that women, even those who are brunette, come to LA to become blonds, proving this city is the place of reinvention.

27. I love the Hollywood Bowl on a warm summer's night.

28. I love the Getty Museum, which is more about the space than the art work on display.

29. I love seeing the entirety of the city below from a Hillside home.

30. I love that Larchmont Village feels more like a Midwestern town than a part of Los Angeles.

31. I love Yuca's taco stand on Hillhurst Boulevard, proving the point that a place run by an old Mexican woman and her daughter can win a James Beard award for excellence.

32. I love Little Tokyo's Village where you can get cheap sushi, shiatsu massage, and the most perfect mochi ice cream.

33. I love the mayor of Hollywood, Johnny Grant, who is one of the best promoters of his little domain.

34. I love the skaters, who congregate down on Venice Beach, to perform as music blares out of large boom boxes.

35. I love that Santa Monica feels like a separate state.

36. And I love that all of this world can be processed from behind the safety of a car windshield, proving that LA is truly a city of the new millennium.

24.

Ghettos Behind Gates

The writers' strike is slowly affecting most Americans' television watching. The news reports very few shows have many episodes left to air, which can only mean more of the nonsense that proliferates the airwaves--reality television. One of shows I find myself watching in horror and utter disbelief is "The Real Housewives of Orange Country," a show that follows a group of forty-something, Botoxed, silicone-enhanced, bleached blonds as moms, real estate agents, and BIMBOS. There are so many shows that mirror the debasement of our culture, but this one is all the more disturbing because they are women, who are, supposedly, raising kids--the future generation.

What's fascinating to note, once you've watched enough episodes, something I found myself doing during Bravo's marathon last night, is how all of their "money" is made by selling something. Whether it is real estate, insurance, cars, or worse, themselves, they are all hawking a commodity. The show's purpose, I assume, is to highlight the life of privilege that these women live. But somehow behind the facade of shiny, fancy, expensive cars, and the horrific McMansion subdivision that is the center of their universe, their lives appear small, shallow, and a step above middle America's mall-shopping, chain restaurant eating, and endless turnstile life of gluttonous behavior and endless dieting. Each restaurant scene shows, yet, another restaurant that is essentially a chain restaurant where the size of the portion is more important than quality.

All of these superficial judgments about their lifestyle is nothing compared to their roles as mothers to their troubled, troubled, out of work, barely in school kids. A few of their progenies turned 21, which meant these women felt it appropriate to take their kids out to nightclubs, downing shots to show their children they are still 'with it'. It does make one question the state of our country when you watch these barely intelligible kids and their mothers on television acting more than a fool.

The other thing that is shocking is the profligate use, or rather, misuse of grammar by each of these morons. It goes beyond split infinitives. Someone should clearly give them a thorough lesson on the use of subjective and objective pronouns. Really, if you closed your eyes and simply listened, they sound no more educated than the stereotype of a 'ghetto' kid, who delights in the use of Ebonics. The difference is the ghetto, in this instance, is behind gates in Orange County. There are cab drivers in New York city from places like Nigeria, Trinindad, or Dominican Republic, whose English use is more proper and articulate. I'm sure it is shows like this that give fodder for the extremists in the world, the ones ranting about the moral lapses of this great nation.

I can only imagine what the networks will come up with to fill all those hours in the day since writers on both coasts are busy walking up and down blocks holding their placards. You would think the dearth of quality shows, always questionable even when writers aren't on strike, would propel to read more, spend time with their kids, or take up other meaningful hobbies like crochet. I'm sure once this season's "Biggest Loser" reveals another obese person (there are so many of them, the statistic say) to be booted off the show, leaving the 'champion,' we will turn into a show about the fastest pie eater in the country. And we learn each day just how big it is, this country.

Only in LA

For those long time residents, most are familiar with the sight of a man dressed in black tights, usually shirtless, dancing to a boom box in front of an antique shop on Robertson Boulevard just south of Third, across the street from Michel Richard. Sometimes he uses skates, although the outfit never varies. His body, from the excessive dancing, is sinewy and tanned. His strange dancing didn't seem to cause much concern for the shop owner or anyone else on the street. Most of us assumed he was homeless, for whatever reason. The urban myth, something all of us promoted, was that he was a wealthy man, who happened to be crazy and loved to dance. I, as most can imagine, have been fascinated with him all the years I lived there. When driving down Robertson, I would always look for him, a human signpost to a life that doesn't change much despite its big city pretensions.

When I was in LA for the wedding, this man came up in topic about those strange sightings in LA so synonymous with the city's eccentricities. He was like Angeline, the aged starlet whose billboards belied her actual physical age, and Dennis Woodruff, the wannabe actor whose cars were as much billboards about the hopelessness of Hollywood dreams as anything Nathanel West could have written. All of us speculated that he was a trust fund heir, whose eccentricities were the topic of much family distress. There was nothing sympathetic in our tone about this man's obvious mental condition.

The Wall Street Journal reported on the exploitation of this man, whose name is John Wesley Jermyn. It seems a couple of Beverly Hills kids--we can assume they grew up there--decided to capitalize on this man's obvious mental illness by befriending him, getting him to agree to use his likeness on clothes sold, aptly, at Kitson, a boutique up the street from where Mr. Jermyn dances. The t-shirts with his likeness say, "The Crazy Robertson" with the back touting "No Money, No Problems." This store, a staple for the young starlets copiously followed in the tabloids sells anything that is 'of the moment' and uber-trendy with a particular focus on HOLLYWOOD and LA. Mr. Jermyn, who suffers from schizophrenia, has a surviving sister, who, obviously, is distressed about the exploitation of his brother's mental illness. It seems all of our assumptions were wrong, or rather not as romantic. He grew up in Hancock Park, attended good schools, was a good athlete, and even a year of college before mental illness took hold. He refuses medication to help his schizophrenia, choosing to dance his days away, protected by his sister and others who have kept him shielded from the dangers of living on the streets.

What was so distressing about this story was the lack of remorse of those who are benefiting from this man's condition. The young people defended their decision by insisting Mr. Jermyn is cognizant enough to have a say in what is used or how it is sold. Hmmmm....A man who chooses to sleep on the streets and whose only focus all day is to dance is well enough to sell his likeness. The article pointed out how Mr. Jermyn was happy to get some 'fame'...

For me, this story encapsulates all that is wrong with that city--small town. There is a grotesque quality to these characters that are a part of this city's landscape as much as that Hollywood sign. If Flannery O'Connor lived in LA, she wouldn't have to make up a great deal to write many stories of woe that litter the boulevards where tourists flock to take pictures of their favorite entertainer's hand prints. This constant pressure for notoriety, even if negative, is the moral code above all else. This excessive narcissism of everyone makes for a strange land. And each year, as the sun gets hotter, the air drier, the air more polluted, the roads more congested, the more extreme the behavior of all those strange people. It is as if the social, moral compass were on the brink, turning and turning without ever stopping for itself and for the citizenry to take a moment to reflect.

The upside of this story was that the t-shirts sold out in no time with more orders placed. The creators, a term I use loosely, have stressed how little profit they have seen, thus neither has Mr. Jermyn. Surprise, surprise, Mr. Jermyn has seen so little of the 5% net. For those who bought the t-shirts, pleased they were part of the zeitgeist, even if completely regional to the westside of LA, will wear them until another new 'it shirt' replaces this one. This shirt like the ones voted for Jennifer Aniston over Angelina Jolie will end up in the bottom of some drawer, forgotten until a garage sale at some later date. This shirt will eventually end up the back of some recent immigrant, whose dreams of a better life, fuels them to take jobs that most of Americans would never want. He, or she, will never know the cultural significance of the image of this man dancing on roller skates. They will think it a peculiarity of the American life they are so desperately trying to adopt.

Friends from LA

Someone said if you live in New York people will always come see you. How true that is. It seems, not an exaggeration, we've had friends arriving for visits (not staying with us) to the city every week since moving here. I've found my calendar full of lunches, dinners with friends that I knew from LA. December, a magical time here, seems to be a busy month for us as more people arrive to the city.

This continued connection with our former life is nice in a sentimental way. It's allowed us to feel less cut off from a life that had been our entire existence until just a short time ago. It is as if both doors, the one of our current life, and the one of our past, are both open, revealing to us our future and past simultaneously. What's been amazing is how these old relationships are being re-imagined with this physical distance. Longtime friendships, those that extend beyond ten years, feel more anew, a different intimacy getting established. It's as if this physical distance has each of us reevaluating the importance of the bond, thereby making the relationship a priority. The usual empty promises of, 'let's get together,' are now becoming a thing of the past as each realizes such casual assurances about a future bond is not so assured anymore. Why hadn't we made such concerted efforts when we the distance separating us was a mere few miles and not the thousands?

I see how this new focus to old relationships will chart a course much different than if we had stayed nearby. These relationships that may not have survived the affection and annoyances of daily contact will now remain intact, insuring a longevity that neither of us may have imagined. My old friendships are just another layer to the many layers that make a life feel whole. New friends, those becoming more familiar every day, are now the calls that come more often. Those calls from out west are the happy surprises on those days when you need such a call to lift you up.

As another friend arrives this week, and we head to a dinner to see them this weekend, I marvel at our luck in having friends that would make a trip to this magnificent city, and call us out for dinner.

Los Angelenos Are Crazy

I hate to generalize again, but there you have it. There is no other way to describe the 'characters' I know from that city. My old neighbor, a woman I never shared a meal with when we lived next door, came to the city for a visit. She had phoned a few weeks ago expressing an interest in having lunch. Since she was always personable, I said 'of course.'

The lunch was fine. We sat at the Mercer Kitchen, eating and talking about various topics. I found myself asking lots of questions since my knowledge of her life was not substantiative beyond her career--set designer--and marriage status--single, but dating same person. I asked if she was currently working on a new project to which she replied she was working on two, one of which is a children's book. I thought her response intriguing since she's single, and does not have children. Was it possible she had been a secret aficionado of children's picture books? I know as voraciously as I read, I hadn't glanced a children's book until my son entered our home. So, the fact that a childless, single woman read enough children's books to feel confident to write one was quite intriguing indeed.

Here's where the craziness became apparent. She doesn't read children's books beyond the books she'd read from her childhood. And her book, based on her two dogs as main characters--yes, she's one of those crazy dog people--is a story about the dogs (young children) who are left by their mother with a credit card because she has to get to work, and therefore, doesn't have time to feed her two young children before their first day of school. The kids, being precocious tots, want to eat sushi, so off to Japan they go with the, said, credit card. Instead of green eggs and ham, they eat green sushi. Instead of an American school, presumably to attend Kindergarten, they go to a Japanese school where the learn Japanese. Hmmmm....

Where does one begin? The fact I didn't laugh out loud in her face with incredulity is a sheer feat of restraint on my part. I didn't know how to delicately put it to her that even the most inane kids books are based on reality. The idea of a mother, in our current culture of hyper-parenting, leaving her kids alone with a credit card to feed themselves is beyond implausible. I did try and point out that perhaps there should be a babysitter there to whom the mother leaves the credit card with the instruction to take the kids to whatever restaurant the kids desire. She thought this a very good idea since she hadn't thought of the need for some adult presence in the story. Again, where does one begin? I told her that there are kids in our world who are left alone for whatever reasons, but those parents are usually involved in some institutional system: welfare, child social services. And the fact the mother has the means to leave a credit card probably rules out this possibility.

There is something marvelously adventurous, courageous even, about people getting the gumption to try and do things without previous experience or training. I mean, she is someone who has never, ever written a children's book. And yes, this story may not be the most telling of her capabilities after she wraps her head around how parenting and children work in this 21st century. She may very well be the next Kevin Henkes or Dr. Seuss for all we know. And if not for this gumption to try, well, she may never know whether this little idea of hers, this impulse to try this thing could open her life to an entire new direction. I applaud this spirit, such a part of the mythology of the wild, wild west, something people who are drawn to this part of the world inhabit so completely.

But again, as I sat and listened to her rambling on about the process of writing this book, I couldn't help marveling at how crazy all of it sounded to me, this single childless woman writing children's books. After our thorough discussion of her project, we moved on to other safer topics. As I left her in Soho, I walked away thinking what an interesting afternoon it had been. And how it takes so many kinds of people to make up the world.

Beach Towns--Southern California

Redondo Beach, Manhattan Beach, Hermosa Beach, all towns south of Los Angeles, centered around the fact they are adjacent to the Pacific Ocean. These towns are nondescript, squat--much like all of Southern California, and indistinguishable from one another other than the town markers alerting you to the fact that you have now left Hermosa and are now in Manhattan Beach, that is. With the exception of the grandiose houses built along the waterfront, blocking out the panorama of the Ocean for those who can't afford such beauty, the towns are a string of small store fronts and ugly apartment buildings with names like Windward Court. These names, and the places attached to the names, were places I'd vaguely heard mentioned, but never compelled enough to go visit. That's the irony about Southern California and its beaches.

Despite the azure of the water lapping up to land, this body of water and the towns built around the beaches are uninviting. It might have something to do with the fact that the few truly public beaches are crowded, parking nonexistent, or worse, as expensive as a down payment on a beach property--ha. Or worse, the public beaches are not available to those who weren't lucky enough or crooked enough to have paid off some official to have a home built right on the water's edge, thereby blocking any, and all public access to this public beach. David Geffen being the worst offender of this offensive deed. This division of those with, and those without is a recurrent theme in the culture of California, particularly Southern California. The only silver lining in this inequity is those homes on the water front are subject to all of Mother Nature's fury. And I say, bring that fury on. Let those homes burn, slide, and be crushed with a true Tsunami. Yes, they're worth fantastic sums of money, but again they are built on land that is not rightfully the owners'. Let the homeowners, those complicit souls, deal with this sticky issue with their insurance carriers when trying to collect on their ten million dollar home.

My time back in LA, the city experienced behind the windshield of our compact sedan, only reinforced what I'd always thought and expressed ad nauseum--this city lacks character, and is downright ugly. There is very little real charm to the row upon row of houses, some uglier than others, and strip malls with stores for pet salons--don't get me started--and other businesses that somehow survive the fleeting loyalty of the population. What I'd noticed this time was a film of dust over the sun filled setting. It makes sense that this film of dust would be ever present since this land was once the desert despite the contrary behavior of everyone who lives there. Yes, there are enough trees and flowers, each garden an attempt to replicate regions, gallons and gallons of water wasted to keep the blooms flowering.

Perhaps the offense of the city's ugliness would be tolerable if it didn't also live up to its stereotype of vacuousness culturally, intellectually. Let's start with the Los Angeles Times, the largest paper in the city, a city that is number two in population in the United States. During my five days there, I scoured the paper for real pertinent news. The recent human rights abuses in Myannmar, formerly known as Burma, was never covered. But they did a thorough expose of the uproar of the crazy denizens of Santa Monica, their outrage about ficus trees covered assiduously as one would cover the real life threatening issue of the shortage of health care facilities in this city.

There is some equality among those who have and those who have not in one area. See, if a pandemic were to occur, a highly likely scenario given the city's porous borders, everyone, and I mean everyone, rich, poor, insured, uninsured, will all be f***ed. The dearth of hospitals, a tad bit more relevant than the dearth of public parks, would create a scenario of devastation that no one wants to discuss, other than KPCC. The fifty cent tax hike, which could have offset such a disaster, was voted down by the entire state in the last election. Yes, foresight is what the citizens of that state have in spades. But then, the state's problems, a myriad of them, are a result of its citizenry thinking, deluding themselves into believing they can legislate for the entire population. Prop 13 anyone?

A friend asked me if I missed LA. Hmmm....how can I lie? This question, posed to me on more than one occasion, is answered by a sh*t eating grin on my part, and a gleeful response of, "No!" I know, it is childish and a bit churlish for me to be so happy to have left. Despite the litany of offenses of this place, it was where friends, great friends were made. And yes, I would never go back, but it is a place that is home to some of the dearest in my life. And hence, the conundrum of it all.

LA Whirl

The real reason for our journey to LA was a wedding for one of my husband's LA colleagues. She is normally a very reasonable person, but then the most reasonable woman turns into something quite unreasonable when getting married. Or rather, she turns into a SheBride, the operative word being bride since once the event, a culmination of months and months of planning, ends in a few short hours. Hopefully for the groom's sake, once the bouquet has been tossed and caught by some other hapless singleton, she will return to her former reasonable self. I thought watching the groom and bride seal the deal in that long-held tradition of kissing, 'and so it begins.' See, for all the marrieds out there, the fun truly begins once your lips have touched. But so be it for any of us cynical marrieds to thwart her certainty that married life will be more than she had ever dreamed. Yes, more being the key here.

I know she had spent countless hours planning this event with painstaking details. And since we're in Southern California, she had planned with the reassurance the wedding day would arrive with the sun rising at its usual hour and setting at another expected hour. It seemed Mother Nature had something else in mind as the hundred or so guests shivered in our various states of undress or dress of evening attire. Gale force winds,which felt like a Hurricane on the precipice we were perched, were making the waves of the Pacific resemble a tsunami. The rest of the event like all weddings had normal reasonable people drinking too heavily, the barely edible meal gobbled up in a wine or hard liquor fog.

What struck me about this wedding was the hodge podge of religious symbols the couple along with their Minister had decided upon. There was a reading from Rainer Maria Rilke's, "Letters to a Young Poet," which the officiant erroneously referred to as a poem. Yes, Rilke was a poet, but this little tome, much beloved by those seeking artistic freedom--usually devoured and read as religion for those who are seeking validation to pursue whatever 'artistic' pursuit--was read along with the expected poem from Pablo Neruda, whose poems are all a meditation on love, and St. Paul's Letter to the Corinthians. This non-denominational, religious potpourri was capped off with an American Indian blessing. Neither the bride or groom are Indian, that any of us had ever known. This service is much like most California outdoor weddings where religious symbols are chosen and discarded to fit some homogenized religious smörgåsbord. With that said, this service leaned a bit more toward the Christian half, which I'm assuming was the religious background of both groom and bride. If they were of the truly United Nations approach to religion, I'm sure a Hindu or Sanskrit reading would have been included. But alas, this service's only nod toward the non-traditional--signaling a wee bit of Liberalism for the couple--was that strange Indian blessing.

The flight home was interminably long. When LA was home, the flight Eastward seemed bearable since I was usually thrilled to be heading back. The return flight back to LA never felt long enough since I was usually reluctant to go back after however many days away from the sun soaked city. This time, the flight there felt quite short, but the flight home was another story. Each of us, despite having a good enough time, was anxious to get home. For my son, his impatience had less to do with home as the two suitcases crammed full of birthday toys from his LA friends. The five hours felt like ten. There is that moment when you're trapped on an airplane where you can understand those stories of people losing their sh** on a flight, having to be restrained.

As our driver headed toward the Mid-town tunnel, Manhattan in all its steel glory stood, welcoming us back home after our long journey. I could only think about that indelible image in Woody Allen's "Manhattan" where the city seemed to burst forth from the ground in all its beauty with Gershwin playing in the background. And now, this place full of so much mystery and beauty is our home.

LA Life

My son and I made the five hour journey, both of us kept amused by different things: my son with his portable DVD player, me with a stack of trashy magazines. The flight while long was uneventful, the food now only available by purchase, drinks sparsely doled out during the long flight, the movie something no one had seen or ever wanted to. Air travel, unless you pay for the luxury seats up front, has become completely utilitarian. We landed, the plane descending over a squat structures, which seemed to stretch for miles. My irritation was almost instantaneous upon landing. Yes, the sun was shining, the temperature that mild, temperate 70 something degrees. The baggage claim, notoriously slow, was much faster this time, so our bags were retrieved in a timely fashion. A car was rented, one of those nondescript sedans that is only memorable if in a bright color, and soon we were headed north on the roadways of LA.

Fear is not the apt word to describe how I feel when driving here. It is much more complicated than that, which has been, unfortunately for the readers, exhaustively detailed and chronicled on this blog site. Needless to say, many cars whizzed past us, their annoyance so noticeable in how close they were to our slow moving vehicle when they passed.

My son was beyond excited to see his Tia. And she equally excited. There were phone calls exchanged, plans for pick up as I realized how fruitless it would be to stand in his way of spending time with this woman who had figured so prominently in his little life. My feelings were a bit hurt to see his anxiousness, something I had assumed children only reserved for their mothers and fathers. I know all of this was irrational, but then the emotional avalanche of being here was making me less sanguine about any of this.

My friend, who is graciously putting us up, and I caught up effortlessly. It felt seamless how easily we fell into conversation, as if these last three or so months since I departed was a mere blip. There are many more reunions planned for today. Many more opportunities for me to feel the observer, watching all of it unfold without me really present.

LA Bound Again

We are heading to LA for a wedding and to see friends, who are not yet 'old,' but simply friends. I have a calendar full of coffees, lunches, therapy, and dinners. In the midst of all the social whirl, we are throwing my son his 5th birthday party with friends from his preschool. It has been a trip on our calendar since finding out we were relocating to New York. How I feel about going back is still something I'm contemplating. There's no doubt I'm thrilled to see friends, to catch up, and to see my son happy to have a birthday party attended by friends he's missed.

However, I've not yet nostalgic about the city, its environs, by any means. There hasn't been enough emotional distance or time to eviscerate my general antipathy about this place I had grudgingly called home for so long. Yet, I can't seem to fully remove the tentacles of my former life as I meet friends of friends from LA, the ties between East and West becoming significant for other reasons.

So, we will leave this island, something we haven't done since arriving that early Sunday morning from the Vineyard. A jet plane will take us three hours backwards to a land full of sunshine and palm trees. My son is undoubtedly excited about seeing his Tia, his nanny. She is equally excited, having cleared her calendar for our entire trip. This reunion is sure to be a happy one. Our four days will zoom by, my days spent behind a car wheel, muttering about having to drive once again. Then the day will arrive when we will be picked up my our usual driver to take us back to the airport.

For some of our friends, they will convince themselves our move was merely temporary since we have come back so shortly. For others, they may realize how fruitless such delusions as they say 'goodbye' to us yet again. This farewell will, for me, feel more like the real one since I will know it will be a long while before I head westward again.

The quiet of the phone will again signal the end for most of these relationships. Most of the people in LA will now regard us as another family that had lived there but now live in New York. We, our family, will take a place in the New York mythology, a way for people to grapple with the many symbols of this place so familiar to us through the loving homages of Woody Allen movies, yet so unfamiliar and scary for those that have no intimate experience with it.

I hold my breath now as I ready my son for our long journey back. Sleep, such an elusive thing, has been even more elusive the last four days, an appropriate preparation for the emotional stirrings this trip is having on me. I know all of this will settle into a muted strain as I get our bags, our rental car, and drive to my girlfriend's house for a loving reunion. And a loving reunion it will be with so many. I pray it will be so.

Party Like a Rock Star--Old School Style

Despite all of these years coming here, we never knew about the nightlife on this tiny island. It was like Rip Van Winkle waking up when I learned about this whole sub-culture of adults, who come here and get their groove on. The place that seems to be the center of this nightlife is a restaurant called, Lola's. We'd been there a few times for brunch, and for dinner, but never for a night out. Well, that all changed this summer. With my girlfriend from LA in tow, we headed to Lola's last night to check out what all the fuss is about since everyone I meet at the Inkwell seemed to live there once the sun set.

Well, the music was old school, but the crowd was many generations, all out to have some fun and to dance. A well kept 'grandmother' asked my girlfriend and I to dance with her grandsons, who were 19. Yes, 19! There was a dad dancing with his daughter, who was no older than 7. It was as if all the boundaries that separate us in our every day lives were removed, so that old, young, black, white, and everyone else gathered to have some fun. We hung in there for a few songs, each of us soaking in the evening. The room was packed as we made our way towards the exit, each of us doing a little shimmy. It was the perfect end to a great summer! And what a preview for next summer.

TV Viewing

My time on the island is about getting unplugged from our hyper kinetic, hyper connected world, only half accomplished since I've become a Crackberry junkie. The television, which is never on during the day at home, remains black here. It's the evening viewing that is different since I don't have HBO to follow with lurid fascination the melodrama of the polygamist family. Instead, I have found myself idly watching whatever is on the three PBS channels on this island--it seems the island is situated to receive the Boston PBS Network, Rhode Island Channel, and one other that seems to come out of Connecticut. The other night I was caught off guard to see the MVY channel--usually relegated to televising the various towns' selectmen meetings, scintillating, really--airing a documentary about the momentous decision of Californians voting into law Proposition 13. It was odd to be watching this thorough documentation of the devastating effects of this one moment in the state's history--the long lasting effects will continue for so many more generations to come--while sitting so many miles away, so removed from the concerns all of these issues raised for me as a Californian.

The documentary laid out what I've known, witnessed, and predicted for the state and its upcoming years, a grim picture, indeed. This one proposition decimated one of the premier public school systems in the country in a matter of years, all accelerated by the boom of illegal immigration, the sheer number taxing a system already burdened by the shrinking budgets. What the documentary also pointed out was how this short-sighted law will continue to create ongoing problems for the state and cities, namely LA. If half of what they predict comes true, LA will truly resemble the fictional city of "Blade Runner," without the science fiction aspect of robots and such. Anyway, it was depressing in tone, view, and predictions, only reinforcing my general relief to no longer live there.

Another show that also added to my relief to not be in LA is the Bravo show, "Flipped." For those who have not had the enjoyment of viewing this fine, fine show, well, all of you are in for a real treat. A brief synopsis: a gay man with some means, although not unlimited, buys decrepit homes, refurbishes them to gay tastes, and the sells them for a profit. He is prone to psychics for guidance. He has held cleansing ceremonies for homes that have not sold. He is abusive to his assistant, a woman, who upon closer inspection is too old to be someone's punching bag. It is all meant to be entertaining, but is ultimately depressing. Some nights, I just find myself watching reruns of 'Law and Order,' since I know what to expect with them. All these other shows, so many of them reality based, make me despondent for our culture, our world, the world for our kids, and just life in general. It does make one want to drink heavily, if only I could find someone else to get up and be functioning for our son in the morning.

Just two more days till we get off island, ferrying away from this place, heading to our new life, as they say.

Babysitter--Goodbye

Our sitter worked her last day with us. We ended her last day with a nice meal, although this year my son picked a loud restaurant that serves Mexican fare. She will get on an early morning ferry, heading to Logan for her final destination. It was a sad day for us all, as it is the signal of another summer's end. During these past three summers, she has become my 'summer daughter,' another child I care for when I'm here. When my husband is in the city, the three of us--my son, sitter, and me--become this family unit, doing things, eating meals, sharing stories and soaking up experiences of this island.

Watching her grow up has been wondrous for me to witness, a sneak peak into what is ahead for me with my son. She's more adult now than ever, feeling her way around the specter of who she may become. Our conversations reveal her desire to experience a world beyond the strictures imposed by parents, religion, and friends. Her need to explore is as it should be for someone her age. Her questions reveal her intellectual curiosity, characteristics which will keep her steady in turbulent waters.

After our dinner, we came home to give her some more time with my son. I could hear them giggling in his room, the drift of words floating down to me every so often. Too soon, we were all in my car, her load of clean clothes in a trash bag, her gift from us clutched in her hands, as we drove the short distance to the apartment she had shared with her cousin. We drove her up to a row of apartments that had seen better days, if they had ever seen them at all. My concern must have been written all over my face as I watched her searching for the keys among a small clump of bushes outside the door.

She walked over for our final farewell, her eyes watery. I hugged her tightly as we said something about talking soon. My son wrapped his arms around her neck, pleading with her to stay with him. An overwhelming wistfulness wrapped around me in a tight embrace. It seems our time now is about farewells, each of us saying goodbye to our past and those relationships of our previous life.

I drove away, noticing the beauty of the lavender sky as the setting sun revealed itself among the clouds that had lingered during the day. I drove down familiar country roads, the car reaching a small hill, where I glimpsed the blue waters of the Sound over the horizon. My son and I were quiet as we entered our house. Our wistfulness seemed to permeate from the walls of this house, as if it, too, knew that our season had come to another end. Sleep was fitful, awaking finally to the rustle of trees and the sun's filter through the tufts of clouds. Somehow the wistfulness of the night before seems to have evaporated, leaving behind a quiet. Another summer has been enjoyed, the laziness of sun soaked days now just a part of the cascade of pictures from this beautiful place.

Values: East versus West

The inherent difference of values between the East coast and the West is most apparent in the offspring of the leisure class. Those children, fortunate enough to have parents who own houses here, work around the island, their summers a healthy combination of work and play. Kids, despite their parents' affluence, start babysitting or working as young as 14. Yes, they spend plenty of time hanging out at the beaches, traipsing around the three towns, and enjoying being young and here on this island.

As they get older, the jobs seem to get more taxing, their college summers spent waiting tables at any number of eating establishments. This parental expectation of kids working must be a result of the Puritan work ethic. Their counterparts in LA rarely pushed their kids to take on such responsibilities. In fact, my friends, whose kids were of working age, never seemed to view this as a possibility--as if working were something beneath their kids' stature in the world. This is not to pass judgment on their decision to keep their kids shielded from the grind of having to work since most will spend the bulk of their existence doing just that. Yet, is this prudent? Even for those with trust funds--although so few will be so fortunate--the drive to do something should be fostered, right? Isn't it realistic for those kids, who will have to face the reality of a life where they don't have the luxury to do nothing, be given some forewarning? To be given a preview, so to speak, when the stakes aren't nearly as dire.

Our baby sitter's work ethic, which is astounding for someone her age, is not a fair measure. She can out work even most grown adults, it seems. But her assumption she will work, and work hard, is something I didn't witness in most of my friends' kids. Most of my friends spent their time fostering a charade of life where their kids' main job was to move from one 'enrichment' activity to another, as if this were a preview of what their lives will be. And again, so few will be lucky enough to avoid the reality of life: going to work each day to pay for mortgages, cars, and all the other necessary every items. I can imagine the sense of disappointment these kids will feel once they realize that life isn't simply about merely doing things they want, that much of life is doing things that are far from exciting or enriching.

You see these teens, standing behind candy counters, ringing up your groceries, taking your order for a pizza and clam strips, all over the island. Some move from job to job each season, this dance for the perfect job an early preview of what their twenties, and possibly, their thirties will be. They may have missed some revealing moment about themselves and their interests from not having spent their summer at drama camp. But I would bet my money on these kids faring better than their counterparts, who spent their summers at camp or traveling. This advantage may not be apparent at the moment, but will reveal itself later, when the stakes are more important. My son, who is a mere four and a half, has identified places he would like to work once he gets of age. Of course, this list of potential jobs changes each day, but his expectation that he will work never wanes. We hope this imperative lesson of life will provide a sturdy foundation for him as he enters adulthood.

Martha's Vineyard Agricultural Fair

Each August, the agricultural community of the island gets together to put on an old-fashioned fair to help promote the agricultural community on the island. They have exhibits where baked goods have been judged, an orange chiffon cake winning one of the prizes. The other exhibits celebrate and promote talents of those on the island. There are canning contests for the best berry jams and preserves, exhibits of children's artwork, and quilts and a kayak as drawing prizes for the raffle.

This enormous open field, which is normally home to a farm, is turned into a fair ground with rickety rides, stands doling out sugary confections and fried foods, and vendors selling home made items. There are pig races along with a barn full of roosters, chickens, cows, miniature ponies, for display. The best attraction were the Llamas. Yes, Llamas. The Llama farm is near our home and they were brought out for the fair, so that all of us could take a closer look at these exotic animals. There were sweaters made from Llama hair for sale, as well as hats and mittens. My son found all of it exciting and fun, especially the super slide, which he made his sitter go down with him four times in a row.

The drive out to West Tisbury for the fair is one I love. Imagine me admitting to loving driving anywhere. The scenery is pastoral, big open meadows and fields gracing each side of the two lane road, a canopy of trees shielding your car from the sun. The woods are interrupted by a dirt path, a mailbox at the entrance, letting you know there is a house tucked deep among trees and brush. My favorite part of this incredibly scenic drive are the 'stores' that you pass. There is the famous Eileen's pies shop, which is really her home turned into a store for the summer season. Eileen, a woman I've never met, but imagined, makes these delicious home made pies all summer, which people drive out to purchase. She sells her pies from a gazebo on her property. Chilmark Pottery is at the end of a windy dirt road. All the pottery is hand made by potters on the island. These delicate bowls, vases, and jars are in the hues of this island: greens, blues, some red, and yellows. There are a few antique stores also on this road with antique chairs placed outside to entice the driver to stop and browse.

But my absolute favorite part of the drive are the stone walls that border some of the properties. They are large sandy colored rocks, all different shapes that have been placed gingerly, one on top of another until a wall has been created. They are stunning in their simplicity. I always imagined Indians from long ago had made these walls, but of course that is not the reality. It is usually at this moment when I am passing a large farm, its borders defined by these walls, that I sigh in sheer happiness. I don't know what it is about these walls, but each time I see them I rediscover their singular beauty. Perhaps they are what each of us imagines when we read those Jane Austen novels, all set in the English countryside of sweeping meadows, trees, and these walls.

The news is full of gloom and doom about the ravages of hurricanes, high heat, and flooding. The onslaught of so much extreme weather should be worrying for us all. But yet, so few of us really consider our every day behavior and how each simple, uncomplicated task like driving two blocks to the market, can have such a devastating impact on our world. When I was in LA, a city that is not beautiful by any means, I thought less about the environment, other than how annoying it was that this issue had become so in vogue among the Hollywood set. But sitting here among the graceful wonders of nature, I consider the possibility of losing all of this to our thoughtlessness. The one outcome of this global warming is that the weather here has been glorious all summer. The heating of the planet has made this island ideal for all summer activities.

We left the fair, tummies full, each of us satisfied in this afternoon outing. There was nothing special about this fair, but the lack of special effects was what was so reassuring for me. The only disappointment was the fried dough stand, which was nothing like the funnel cakes of my childhood.

House guests!

It is an accepted expectation and burden once you own a summer home you will have visitors. I've heard, although yet to be substantiated, that people, relatives--even the most distant--, and acquaintances all vie for an invitation to come out and stay once word gets out you have a place in whatever idyllic setting it may be. I find this idea of visiting someone during their vacation, well, odd, really. It isn't as if those who come have invited us to join them on their holiday to the Hawaiian islands or some other far flung resort. Yet, this expectation that friends will come stay for free seems universal for those who have homes where visitors want to come.

During our time here, even when we were, ourselves, renters, we have had a flurry of guests come and stay--all free of charge. There are some friends, whose visit is simply a part of our annual ritual on this island. When we were in LA, it offered us an excuse to catch up with those whom we love, but don't get to see very much because of the sheer distance. But all the others, well, we are fond of our friends, but the idea of having them sprawled in your living room all week, waiting for meals to be served is too wearying even for this 'wannabe cruise director.'

We, as a family, have decided on a family 'one time only' rule. If you've been to visit once, your next visit should occur at your own rental or one of those lovely B&B's all over the island. If you have fallen so head long in love with this place, an easy thing to happen, then please avail yourself to the countless websites for rentals. We would love to have you over for dinner, meet up with you at the beach, have the kids run around in our meadow. Obviously, this rule doesn't apply to family members, who are expected to come, stay, and make a nuisance of themselves since they are family.

Since I've had the occasion to have hosted countless visitors, I've amassed a list of 'dos and don'ts' for those who want to come visit anyone. So, I will start with the Do's, a much shorter list.

-Do help out during meal times whether setting the table, stirring sauces, or simply standing around with a wine glass in hand offering company for the cook.
-Do offer to pay for something, even if the offer is rejected by the host.
-Do bring a very nice hostess gift--it's not what you bring, so much as the idea of this gesture that is paramount to setting a tone for your stay.
-Do clean up after yourself more assiduously than you would at home.
-Do offer to babysit, so your host can have an evening off--again, this will be rejected, but it is the gesture that matters.
-Do rent a car and plan activities that are for you and your family--never, never, expect chauffeuring duties to be included in your visit.
-Do follow all rules of the house, particularly pertaining to rules for children.
-Do offer dish washing duties nightly, even if rejected by your host.
-If babysitters are used, offer to help pay since it is more than likely your child was 'watched' in the process.
-Do invite your hosts for a visit to some place you are thinking of going, even if this offer is never taken seriously.
-Do leave a thank you note and a little token before you leave the house. Again, it is the gesture that is important.

The list of 'dos' are not as exhaustive as the list of 'don'ts.' We have some great family stories of people who have visited, whose conduct during their stay has helped create this exhaustive list.

-Don't let your child rule the roost--if your little one is known around your home as Emperor, it is advised to not let him or her run the show during your visit. This would mean the parents should spend all of their energies, making sure their Emperor or Empress is sharing, is not demanding, is following proper protocol of being a visitor in someone else's house.
-Don't go around changing things in the house, like moving furniture out of the way because your Emperor or Empress might hurt themselves in their frenzy to be the center of attention.
-Don't impose your differing parenting philosophies on to your hosts. If you don't believe your child has to share since you are raising the next Ted Turner or Rubert Murdoch, well, do force your child to make this concession during your time.
-Don't let your rigid food issues--other than severe allergies--be a source of consternation and anxiety for the hosts. If you don't like to eat meat, for whatever particular issue, just eat everything but the meat. If what the hosts serve is too offensive for your picky sensibilities, then go out and get your own food, which you should prepare once the kitchen is empty.
-Don't leave your rooms a mess each time you leave the house.
-Don't sit around sipping cocktails when you see your hosts working hard doing things for your comfort.
-Don't bring two kids and have only one parent be the one in charge. If you have two, then both parents should be actively parenting. For those with families where kids outnumber the parents, well, good luck since it is unlikely you will get invited to this house.
-Don't take over the house by having your things all over the place.
-Don't invite yourself to every outing your hosts may need to be attending--remember they are longtime residents here, so they will have occasions when they will need you to be self sufficient.
-Don't expect your hosts to drive you around, for whatever reason.
-Don't use up the last of house hold items without replacing it. Remember things on the island are three times the price of things you usually pay for at your neighborhood Costco.
-Don't invite others over to your hosts' home, for whatever reason. If you have others you know here, then meet them out.
-Don't hog up the home computer. If you need to stay connected to work or friends, bring your own equipment.
-Don't be a couch potato, if that is your idea of a vacation.
-Don't leave your dirty dishes in the sink, ever.

I'm sure as the years progress, we will be adding to this list. Those you hold with much affection don't necessarily translate into commendable house guests. We have had our range of great visitors--those usually get invited back--to the most horrifying. Again, we're waiting for that invitation for us to join our friends on one of their vacations, something that has yet to happen. We're quite happy to go to Puerto Rico--we are on the East Coast now--or any other tropical locale as guests of others.

Cable On--Oh, What I've Been Missing

Our cable got turned on yesterday. The few days of not being plugged into that black box came to a careening stop. And because I'm like everyone else when faced with the banalities that are offered hourly from that box, I sat down to flip channels--all ten of them--to find something entertaining. And what did I find? None other than VICTORIA BECKHAM, the former Spice Girl, who has spun herself off as style setter, wife of the very famous footballer, and now best friend of Katie Holmes. Yes, I do read that gossip rag, US Weekly, like everyone else to keep up the many downs of Britney Spears, Lindsay Lohan, Paris Hilton, and Nicole Richie. Now, seeing that Bobble Head of a woman--no woman's head should be so much bigger than her teeny body, minus the unnaturally big boobs--being chauffeured around in a black SUV as she shops for an appropriate home, and meets with 'dignitaries' of Hollywood, well, what can I say? It was beyond compelling, it was more like a Farce.

Isn't it telling that a woman who was mocked, ridiculed, and made fun of in her own country--a place full of absurdities--is now being feted, petted, and treated like royalty in LA? The best part of the show was when she would speak directly into the camera to us, her barely concealed lower-middle class accent saying pithy things about her sons and her husband. Great television, I'm telling you.

I know summer is when the networks are off season, getting ready for that onslaught the public will suffer when they trot out their new shows, all promised as the new, "Friends," new "Seinfeld," or just plain new something. But really! I know it's bad when that maniacal chef, Gordon Ramsey, who does seem to froth at the mouth, is the most entertaining thing on. Granted, we don't have many channels here, in fact, it's almost like when I was growing up with the three networks and the two other channels.

What's so fascinating and also a terrible commentary on our current culture is how these "reality" based shows have taken over our national psyche. What about watching inane people doing inane things is important enough for us to sit for an hour? Very few of us could, or would, sit through an hour documentary on any number of important subjects, but a show where Victoria Beckham struts through one mansion of ridiculous proportions, well, that's a whole other proposition entirely. This reality show about Victoria Beckham is a new breed, indeed. You know I'm dying, absolutely dying, to watch Paula Abdul's newest addition to the growing shelf of stimulating shows. I think the tide turned to this strange voyeurism we are currently suffering when everyone watched, "Being Bobby Brown," another classic.

Tonight, since I have the option, I may or may not turn on the tube to see what other stimulating shows are on the air. Or I may just turn on C-Span and watch those law makers standing in twos and threes, their heads together as they gossip, I'm certain this is what they do when the microphones are turned off, about John McCain's Presidential campaign imploding.

Summer Reading

Summer reading, the required books we had to read during our breaks as students, is still something we, as adults, attempt to do during the summer months, as if somehow the days between June through August are any less hectic and stressful as the days during any other months. But this ritual of gathering books, usually much too ambitious than can be accomplished, is something all of us does consciously, much like getting ourselves mentally prepared to put on that bathing suit.

My summer reading has been eclectic, staring with a book I picked up during my conference in Aspen. I, like everyone else I know, read, devoured, savored, Ian McEwan's newest book. This wisp of a book is filled with the full emotional weight of a love that is lost forever because of the foibles of our nature--pride, unspoken words, hidden gestures, naivety, and the childish belief that you can recover what is lost.

I am now slogging my way through an annoying book, "Ten Days in the Hills," which is set in the hills of Pacific Palisades and Bel Air. The writing is not the problem, but rather the days the author describes. It is her attempt to provide a glimpse during the first ten days of the Iraq War, the war used as a pretext for the suspension of life for these assembled characters. None of it is believable, in the sense that the start of this particular war was so devastating for each of us to have barricaded ourselves within our houses. I don't recall the start of this particular war feeling ominous, really. I didn't see many of us fighting to prevent it from becoming a reality. Rather, it felt like each of us accepted it as a fait accompli. I think our passivity about this war was more a result of our country's collective shock over 9-11. It's only as the war has become what it is today, a terrible mistake, that people have become less passive about what is happening.

The characters are Hollywood types, or rather, people who live in and peripherally around The Industry. I guess if I hadn't left LA just a few weeks ago, I might be a bit more forgiving of this book. Each of these characters embodies one or more annoying characteristic of Angelenos. They are privileged, shielded from the ugliness down below those hills, and a caricature of the many types of LA people. The houses where the book is set is a character as much as any of the people speaking within the endless quotation marks. In many ways, the author did a remarkable job of describing characters, whose lives are untouched, unblemished by the vagaries of life lived below those eerily quiet hills. All of it feels much like a movie set, a replica of the real thing, all to be taken apart when the last frame of the movie is shot. Even their 'conversations'--and believe me, the entire book is one long conversation-- feels vaguely familiar, an assemblage of chatty talk lifted from various movies where the characters try hard to be seen as thinking, intellectual, and cerebral. It's as if the "Big Chill," got mixed with any of Woody Allen's movies, except there are no references to Kierkegaard. The worst insult about this book is the length. It is a very large book, and despite the size, the scope of what this author has to say is so slight. Funny, isn't it? Ian McEwan accomplishes within pages, about the size of one chapter in this tome, what this author is not able to in endless pages.

My compulsion about starting a book and finishing it is preventing me from giving up. Really, if I could dump it, I would. But my crazy, finish it at all costs nature is making me read on, regretting ever spending money on the hard cover, no less. I'm already looking ahead to what I will read next. After this fluffy ridiculous book, I am ready to sink my teeth into something that will give me pause, make me reflect, savor each sentence as one does a perfect summer berry.

Our cable at our house got shut off. It's fascinating what happens when you are no longer held hostage by the Box. Instead of the comatose viewing of endless PBS shows our child was doing earlier, he is now playing with his action heroes, his imagination engaged. Instead of getting our news from the local stations, we listen to NPR on the radio as I prepare breakfast. And after my son has drifted off to sleep, I sit and listen to music as I needlepoint. It as if we had transplanted back to the 19th century when women sat by the fireplace doing their needlework. The first few days without cable threw us into a bit of a panic. But as I thought about my son playing instead of numbing his brain by watching Clifford the Big Red Dog, I thought it might not be a bad idea to not have cable for the rest of the summer. I'm sure I will be singing a different tune at the end of this week if it doesn't get turned on. But it is still reassuring to know that one can survive, even thrive without being so plugged to the endless stream of dribble--otherwise known as television. I do admit I am missing some compelling new episodes of those obese kids Shaquille O'Neal is trying to whip into shape. But I'm sure that show will end up at some Video Store, so that I can view the entire season in one sitting.

News Bias--The West Coast as Dante's Inferno

It is fascinating to see how each region portrays news events occurring in other parts of the country. It does give you pause to see the inherent bias--all for ratings--in the news, so that maybe the rabid Iraqis with fists up in the, air chanting for the downfall of America, covered nightly are not representative of the entire country.

For instance, the New England stations' descriptions about the West Coast fires feels like a post-modern rendering of Dante's Inferno. And yet, I know if I were in LA, the fires would be raging, covered assiduously and portentously by Paul Moyer--one of the most idiotic anchors ever--but the sense of foreboding and danger would feel far removed from the tree-lined street where we lived. Like everything else, 'those fires' raged somewhere else, places I've never been or had any desire to go. It's also fascinating how my allegiance has shifted--not a big surprise given my disdain for Los Angeles, the idea of, the reality of, the place itself. Whenever we get a snippet of the coverage of the West Coast fires, I watch it as everyone else across the country must watch it--mild interest, some clucking of the tongue in sympathy, but no more emotional investment since it is far removed from the reality of my current life.

And the fires is all I hear about--oh, yes, there is the new pay out by the Los Angeles Archdiocese for the sexual molestation cases, apparently the largest in the country. I'm certain LA news stations would cover the heat on the East Coast, making the rising temperatures and humidity seem as devastating as fires, drought, and mud slides--the cycles of doom that passes for weather in Los Angeles. The coverage would show fire hydrants opened, water spraying into car-lined streets as kids, mostly brown in hue, jumped and splashed, seeking relief from the oppressive heat. These pictures of urban life would be played and replayed across the nation, so that all anyone saw or remembered about the heat wave is that kids, mostly poor, living in high rises where poverty is stacked, sometimes 24 or 48 floors high, use water reserved for disasters as entertainment. Again, bias? Or not?

The news coverage in New England is much like local news everywhere else, inane, sometimes silly, and provincial. You know it's been a slow news day when a fallen tree on a house somewhere in Massachusetts warrants a segment. The anchors are not as tanned, their faces not as smooth as their counterparts in Los Angeles. Any reference to world news is always focused on how poorly the Iraq war is going, again showing those unforgettable pictures of Iraqis foaming at the mouth in rage against their occupiers--us.

This perspective of viewing the way our own country views the other parts of our own nation is telling. We are a nation of multiple views, perspectives, peoples. Regionalism reigns, and should given the sheer size of our country. If we were a country the size of Denmark then our national identity would be easily described, easily categorized. So, I turn on the news each day, noting how we, each region, tells the stories about our own country.