Altadena Hiker

The Word (smithers)

2012-01-25T13:24:00.000-08:00

A friend of mine recently posted an article about the possible mental health benefits of psilocybin mushrooms. Some scientists believe the chemical compound found in the fungus can reverse certain types of depression. So we had a brief exchange as to whether the mushroom wouldn’t make one vomit profusely, actually intensifying whatever sense of depression one was feeling at the time.

I’m not saying my question sprang from any personal experience, or that her answer did either. After all, either one of us might want to work for Rite-Aid or run for president someday.

Then again, judging from our last two or three presidents, it appears one can admit to a couple of drugs on the resume. If memory serves, these drugs would be cocaine and marijuana. But the language of the admission is vitally important. For example, a candidate would never say he had taken a few bong hits in his time or snorted nose candy. No, they have to say they once, “experimented” with drugs. Because this brings to mind a scholarly and clinical environment, where the inhaler is surrounded by people in lab coats carrying test tubes, rather than a roomful of undergrads in ripped denim shorts waving a straw from MacDonald’s.

Which then led me to think of an easy way some people could dress up a few things on their resume. They could say they experimented with shop-lifting, for example, or experimented with breaking and entering. Newt experimented with whatever the male equivalent is to nymphomania. He also tried monogamy, several times, but each of those experiments proved unsuccessful.

In any case, the admission always has to end with an apology and a word from our lord. God is the vital ingredient. The whole thing has to wind up with God and God’s forgiveness. So far, God has been unavailable for comments.

A Very short dog tale

2012-01-24T00:05:00.000-08:00

When my dad died, I left a guy, bought a house, and got a boxer.

My very first dog was a boxer, when I was a kid of maybe 4 or 5. At that age, I had a lot of time to myself. Can’t say how much exactly, but in retrospect, I expect pretty much. I remember dialing the number of neighbors we once knew in far off towns and states.

“Hi!” I’d say.

“Why, my goodness, is this Karin?” they’d answer.

I would call the operator from time to time. He or she was always nice, and I’d ask if they had ever seen a boxer with pink nose. Our boxer had a pink nose. One operator in particular that I remember answered, “Well, no I don’t think I’ve ever seen a dog with a pink nose. Where’s your mom. Can I talk to her about your boxer?”

I don’t know how long this operator and I discussed boxers and pink noses, but I do recall it was a very satisfying conversation.

My boxer’s name was Box. Likely I was to blame for that, but can’t say for sure. I do remember his dog house, which was a perfect replica of our house, same colors, design, trim and everything. My dad built it. It had a mud room, and a main room, with a rubber flap in front that you could push up on to its roof.

When there was rain and lightening, and this was Seattle so probably almost all the time, Box and I would sit side-by-side in the main room, my arm around his shoulder, and it seems his was around mine – but that’s not physically possible, is it? In any case, we watched the weather together.

And sometimes, when the wind would change – south to north, we’d get drops of water on our face. And I’d lick his face and he’d lick mine. Is that gross? It didn’t seem so at the time. It doesn’t seem so now.

When my parents brought home a new baby, another family came to take my dog away. They arrived in a station wagon, and it took some work, getting Box in the car and keeping me out. But much as we struggled, Box and I, we knew this wouldn't turn out well, that ultimately, we had no real say in the matter. Finally, there he was, locked inside, leaping from back to front and side to side. They drove him away and we never saw each other again.

Many years later, and actually many dogs later, I got another boxer. Sometimes Phoebe and I would sit on the front porch when it rained, and we’d watch the weather. I’d have my arm around her shoulder. And she had her arm around me. Or so it seemed.

There's a perfectly wonderful boxer who needs a home, and Petrea at Pasadena Daily Photo and I hope to guide as many eyes in his direction as possible.

So visit Patch to meet Vinnie, a dog who is practically perfect in all possible ways.

Big cocks and other birds at the Arboretum

2012-01-20T01:20:00.000-08:00

While the glamour boys copped some rays

The young guns spread their pin feathers. "Hey baby, come back to my place? I've got a wine cooler with your name on it."

"Please baby, please baby, please baby."

"Are you a model? You look like a model. A super model. I've got the keys to my brother's car and my parents are out of town."

It was a beautiful day, but I don't think our little cock got lucky.

As the crow flies

2012-01-17T10:05:00.000-08:00

They're enthusiastic, intelligent, and socially evolved. They’re also loud, messy, and opportunistic.

They’re crows.

I don’t know about you, but I’ve been seeing more and more crows around Altadena over the past couple of years. Some mornings my camphor tree plays host to 50 crows -- that is, if they can win the daily battle against the parrots for squatting rights. The parrots can out scream them, but my money is usually on the crows. They seem better organized and more patient. One particularly successful tactic is the stealth attack, which startles the parrots into a state of orgiastic hysteria.

Ordinarily I welcome birds to my yard; the more the merrier, but I always had a thing against crows, maybe from living in the Midwest. But the more I learn, the better I like them.

Crows are all over Altadena, but then, they’re all over everywhere, and can claim relations in every continent except Antarctica.

They believe in close knit families. You might say they take family values to extreme – perhaps absurd -- lengths. The kids are spoiled, coddled, and remain emotionally immature for quite some time; apparently many will hang around the house sponging off the parents until well into middle age. The parents don’t seem to mind,
More on Patch

Overheard, while walking the dog

2012-01-16T01:44:00.000-08:00

"Jessica!"
"What?"
"Are you still on the phone?"
"No!"
"I thought you were going to help me plant the lettuce!"
"I am!"
"Well then, get out here!"
"Okay!"

...

"Jessica!"
"What?"
"Are you still on the phone?
"No!"
"Don't lie to me -- are you on the phone or not?"
"I'm almost not!"

Drug of Choice

2012-01-13T13:48:00.000-08:00

Internet addiction causes changes in the brain similar to that normally seen in people addicted to alcohol and drugs such as cocaine and cannabis.

Sufferers have a hard time reining in their use of the Web, and typically spend unhealthy amounts of time online, to the point that it impairs their work or family life. Denied access to computers, Web addicts may experience withdrawal symptoms

-- CTV News, Discovery, and Fox News

I find this news so distressing, I immediately google “Internet Addiction." There are 40,000 entries, including a link to Wikipedia, where, I'm sorry to say, the data looks pretty darned solid. But I like to do my own due-diligence. I cross-check with NYTimes.com, Economist.com, and a guy who blogs from his basement in Omaha. The last vehemently disputes the findings of the other two. He suggests the truth is buried somewhere in Obama's birth records, easily accessible if we all don helmets covered in copious amounts of aluminum foil.

Continuing with the research, I post “Do you have an internet addiction?” to my Facebook Friends. I’m working through the 30,214 replies. The jury’s still out, but most of them say “no.” What a relief.

Except, I suddenly notice, among my Friends there are only 10 names I recognize, and I played dodgeball with half of them.

Now I’m on Amazon, looking up Cannabis. All things being equal, I figure I'll choose my own addiction. I’ve found 50 dealers -- 16 new, 28 used, and 3 collectable. At first glance, Amazon is more expensive, but they promise next day delivery. Plus, the second-hand markets sneak in lots of shipping and handling costs.

What’s a body to do? Thank god for Yelp.

They shoot horses, don't they?

2012-01-12T18:14:00.000-08:00

But best not do it with a canon powershot.

Oh, I'm so sorry I didn't get this right --if only I hadn't been so lazy. This is Nikon territory. Next time.

We get letters

2012-01-10T08:56:00.000-08:00

Recently, a reader took exception to one of my Patch columns. Oh, why be so modest -- she takes exception to almost everything I write, but prefers to send her comments to me, personally and offline.

“Shut up already," she wrote. “Enough complaining about Altadena. I like the town, just the way it is.”

Really? Well, what about the new second-hand store?

“I found a dress.”

Rite-Aid?

“I get a discount.”

Store-front churches?

"What's wrong with religion? The thing is, Karin, I moved to Altadena because it is Altadena. It’s funky, and not an imitation of any other place. You don’t want us to be,” and here she sneered, “another Sierra Madre, do you?”

Well, no, of course not. Just … maybe. Sort of, a little bit.

“Because if you really like Sierra Madre so much, why stay here?”

She has a point. If downtown (more on Patch)

Phoebe

2012-01-08T01:00:00.000-08:00

She always looked me or anyone else straight in the eye. She took each person's measure, but kindly. Phoebe saw everyone in their best possible light.

What I've been doing

2012-01-05T00:48:00.000-08:00

I've written 19,800 words. Who would have thought I knew so many?

Here's the the first couple pages of my long essay or short book. I'm putting this up so I'll stop fiddling with the first 1,000.

Gang way:

Every so often we raise a candle to a new and improved age of enlightenment.

And whenever society reaches a general consensus as to what constitutes one better mankind or another, we convene a kangaroo court for all the famous dead guys. The verdict rarely goes in their favor, but then they never put up much of a fight.

It’s not a bad thing, digging up and hosing off the past, running a tongue over the rough edges, giving the latest version of humanity a chance to point a judgmental finger at what came before. It helps keep the past on its toes.

But this is an exercise we only practice with half our history.

When it comes to the other half, and that would be women, only a few historians bother to buff the surface or even wash the windows. Instead, we view significant females through the same old glass, scratched and ancient though it may be. And with all that patina, they’re practically invisible. You can, without fear of contradiction, write almost any words in their dust.

Most women who shaped history didn’t end up making history, or rather, never crashed the mostly masculine party held in history books. You could argue that it’s hard to right the wrong now, since significant women were rarely recognized as such in their own time and so little was saved. Another reason for the continued lapse, for the ellipses in the chapters, isn’t the inability to unearth the stories, just the inconvenience of doing so. If you keep the story flat, it’s easy to store. No need to make room and send some of the old stuff packing.

In historical accounts of Collis Huntington, the power behind the first transcontinental railroad, and his nephew Henry, Arabella -- the wife of both, successively of course -- generally gets stowed in the trunk labeled southern belle or femme fatale. Lately, she’s been called a trophy wife, as if that gives a fresh spin to the story.

A pretty facile dismissal for someone who, in her time, was not only one of the wealthiest women in the United States but also one of the premier art collectors in the world.

Just a few historians have attempted to pry into Arabella’s life, and only a couple have done so with any imagination. It takes imagination because there are so many gaps, intended and otherwise, in the Caroline Belle Arabella Duval Yarrington Worsham Huntington Huntington story.

She influenced the lives of the two men who shaped Southern California, and she influenced, maybe determined, how they did it, more importantly, whether they chose to continue doing it at all.

2.

We probably have Arabella to thank for any polish Collis Huntington acquired during the last twenty years of his life. Which wasn’t, according to most of his biographers, much.

It’s likely Collis Huntington loved only two things in life – power and Arabella, and probably, ultimately, not in that order. She redeemed Collis, not in the eyes of the public, but he purported to care little or nothing about public opinion anyway.

In 1870, after a decade of building railroads, making his fortune, robbing the U.S. treasury, holding the sword of Damocles over two of his three partners and before letting it fall, Collis Huntington was worn out. In one of his rare moments of introspection, he wondered why he had bothered at all. He was feeling his mortality, and either wanted out of the whole business, or wanted something, someone to make it seem worth his while. Collis Huntington wanted the universe to give him a sign; a justification. He wanted a son.

Perhaps this explains his initial attraction to a fifteen year old girl. A girl who may have been poor, probably unmarried, likely deserted. In any case, she was undoubtedly and unequivocally pregnant.

The girl, once named Caroline, now called herself Belle. She wasn't Arabella; not yet.

Matinee for New Year's Week

2012-01-02T08:30:00.000-08:00

If you’re among the 1% unimpressed by a parade and football, i.e., motorized flowers and a bunch of blokes who can’t find a civilized way to travel in opposite directions, I have a movie you might like.

Gosford Park. It streams on Netflix.

I don’t know how I missed this film first time around. It’s not an Upstairs Downstairs retread.

Even if it were, I shouldn’t have passed on the film, not when it’s directed by Robert Altman and the ensemble cast includes Maggie Smith and Charles Dance.

Truth in advertising, I could spend a whole day watching Maggie Smith do anything -- read a book, eat toast. She captivates me. If Maggie’s face and voice can’t steal the scene, her hands will do the dirty work. Her hands are a law onto themselves; they float and flap and punctuate the air with exclamation points, question marks, ellipses.

Clip one

Clip two

You can view Gosford Park on many levels. Master-servant, almost romance, half-assed mystery. But mostly it's about the bargains we make with others and ourselves, and the stories we invent to justify them.

Charles Dance, as the aristocrat, only gets off the odd line or two. Like when his wife is sobbing for the dead man and he says, “Would you quit sniveling! Anyone would think you were Italian.”

(In case you’re not familiar with Dance, I found this clip. I knew him from Bleak House, Nicholas Nickleby, and Rebecca, and had no idea he’d spent time in the trenches doing action flicks.)

Why add fool to the fire

2011-12-29T20:33:00.000-08:00

If you ever want to hate your house, and I don’t know why you should but we all get strange cravings from time to time, just hire an inspector to look at one little thing. Like the face boards out front, or the drainage out back. Or the fireplace in the middle.

As for the last, I hired an outfit, one highly recommended by folks I trust, and A and C came by, sweet-smelling and handsome (oh yes, they were) at 8 a.m. (oh yes, they did).

“Nice,” said A, patting the brick monolith on the thigh. It looks solid.”

While C cleaned the fireplace, A climbed up on the roof. And that’s when things went south.

“Kar-een!” he said (A is German). “Kar-een! I must show you something.”

And he climbed down the ladder and played back some photos. “Who did this…this – what’s the word to describe the flashing around the chimney, I could say it in my own language …”

“Abomination?” I’m a walking App for the missing word or phrase, thanks to immigrant parents.

“Yes,” he smiled, impressed. “Exactly. Abomination. Let me tell you why we have a problem…”

Well, two things, here. First of all, on a yearly basis, I have some new roofer walk the house and tell me how every guy who ever nailed my shingles has been either an idiot or a scoundrel. I expect they’ve all been right about that.

Secondly, when it comes to almost any problem other than nouns and verbs, I don’t want the back story. I don’t want, for example, to hear all about the history of the Roman sewer system just because my bathtub won’t drain.

Similarly, I don’t want to feign interest in gunky spark plugs or my dental x-rays. I don’t want to look at my dog’s hookworms under a microscope. Why must these people continually parade the incidentals of their disgusting job in front of me, as if I didn’t have my own disgusting job to do. Just hang a dollar sign on the problem, is my motto, and I’ll take two aspirin and think about it in the morning.

But of course, no one cares what I want. For three hours today, it was nothing but, “Kar-een! Kar-een! Come here! I found something …” Of course, that last sentence never ended in “fabulous.”

The estimate to fix all these problems is … well, I don’t know how they say it in German or English, but the French have a word for it.

After they left, and as I was hanging a painting above the indoor structure which we will now refer to as the giant brick easel, it turns out A left the check behind. So twenty minutes later:

“Kar-een, it's me …”

And then, twenty minutes later, he came back again.

“Kar-een, I have a question …”

And then six hours later he delivered a 24-page pictorial of my naughty fireplace. Amazing service, really, from a company that requires a three-week wait for the initial appointment.

Anyway, A could have saved himself the fourth trip of the day. When many, many thousands of dollars stand between me and cozy, cold and bleak looks mighty appealing.

Pretties for you

2011-12-23T10:20:00.000-08:00

It's been a rough year for Santa, so apparently some of you are just going to have to learn to share. It's all about quality, not quantity.

Now let's see, how about we start with:

Kevin, Kenny Mac, and Virg.

Here's a little something to help you with those night shots.

For PA.

I know it's not the Percheron you've been asking for, but it'll get you where you're going.

For Susan Campisi, Brenda, and Musebootsi.

Three words: No Vet Bills.

For Mlle Gramaphone and Mr Earl

Now that they're both community activists, it's time somebody listened to them.

For Des, Petrea, Bec, and Katie

Why, it's practically like having your own personal sous chef.

More to come

Let's see... and this card says...

2011-12-22T13:50:00.000-08:00

From Santa to Margaret.

I talked to your secret Santa, the one who warms his moccasins at your tipi. He said he thought you might like the complete works of Jane Austen, first edition, delivered by Collin Firth personally.

"Oh, no no." I said. "A few lousy books and a washed up British actor for the mother of your children? The wife who just this week nursed you through a temperature of 98.68?"

So I sent him out shopping again, in spite of his 98.63 fever.

And what your Santa has for you under the tree,

is, as they say, the stuff dreams are made of.

Presents, for more of you, tomorrow.

Altadena

2011-12-21T04:02:00.000-08:00

I'm kind of possessive about my hometown

Make that, fiercely possessive

And it's my plan

To get all up in the face

of those who fail to treat my wild and wooly place with the proper respect. More on Patch.

Willpower – Just say no

2011-12-18T12:02:00.001-08:00

It has recently come to light that willpower isn’t a muscle after all; at least, not a muscle like the ab or the quad or that underachiever charged with governing the whole Louisiana Purchase known as the gluteous maximus.

Willpower doesn’t increase in strength with constant exercise. No, an entire day’s allotment of willpower is just a few pinches of fairy dust, dangerously depleted by the mere act of getting out of bed in the morning.

Every time you exercise willpower, you've weakened your ability to resist any other temptation that comes along. Use it, you lose it.

In the morning, should you pour milk rather than cream in your coffee, reach for the oatmeal instead of the doughnut, subject your teeth to a vigorous flossing, then by noon you'll be trading jello shots with the underemployed stockbroker you met at the gas station.

This revoluntary discovery in the realm of willpower explains a great many things, doesn’t it. Why, when you give up smoking, you can’t find the forest for pizza boxes. Or when you go cold turkey on online shopping, you find yourself staring at the bottom of a bottle of Mojito Premix.

Common wisdom seems to indicate (and here I’m talking about this week’s common wisdom, not that soiled, lipstickstained wisdom from a year ago), the only way to ensure you always have plenty of willpower in the hopper is to yield to the very first temptation and stay in bed.

Maybe one day the scientific community will come up with a way to trade willpower credits – borrow from the monk who drinks only water and lives on 900 calories a day, for example.

Until that time, don’t stop with one bear claw on Christmas morning. Then, when something serious comes along, like the chance to reconstruct a 30-year old childhood argument during Christmas dinner, you can smile to yourself and reach for the gravy.

Willpower – it’s not just for breakfast anymore.

What's This?

2011-12-15T18:54:00.000-08:00

Hint -- over 120 years old, seen while on a second tour with Manny Rodriguez of Lincoln Heights. Thank you again, Manny. Father Tom was a highlight, as were the best short ribs EVAH cooked in red sauce with cactus slices at El Huarachito on Broadway.

Pot Luck

2011-12-12T22:11:00.000-08:00

How often can I show up at a holiday gathering with my baggy of Kandy Kane Jo-Jo’s, while others bring their loaf of homemade lemon bread, Angels on Horseback, beef on a skewer with a Dutch-Indo peanut sauce fondue?

I don’t know, pretty often I guess. At least this Christmas season and maybe the next, and then I might need to regroup.

Everyone always takes a Jo-Jo, whether they eat it or not. It’s the gesture that counts.

When I was growing up in one particular city, my best friend was part of a musical family. They all played piano, but one daughter also played flute, another guitar, violin, and so on. For whatever reason, which will always remain a mystery, this family surrounded me like a warm quilt. I was loved and petted, falling somewhere between an adopted sibling and a favorite cat.

The parents parented me, “How are you coming along,” they’d ask, about this and that. And then, “How are you coming along on the clarinet?”

“Good,” I lied. I was used to lying if it would show me a favorable light, and I don’t remember conscience ever waving a hanky to stop me. “My teacher says I have talent!” My teacher had never hinted at talent. I didn’t play, I honked.

“Of course you have talent,” the mother or father of this family would say. “You are a most gifted girl.”

It’s not that my own parents were cruel, they were just hard, hard on me. I think my parents thought I’d take a compliment too personally, or too much to heart, then stop trying to stretch beyond a compliment.

I wouldn’t get to spend the actual holiday with this family, the family of my best friend, though they always put forth the offer. In fact, when my own family moved to another state, they asked my parents if I could live with them, which of course was out of the question.

But anyway, this family and I spent tween holidays together; they were the pillow for my head.

Then, one night, they planned to have a great many guests, and asked that I bring my clarinet to accompany them all on a piece. Prokofiev? Chopin? That I don’t recall.

“You can do it, Karin,” they said. “E Natural, A, E, and F. We’ll give you the sign.”

“No,” in this instance, wasn’t in my vocabulary. Nor was the clarinet in my vocabulary, but still, I showed up on the appointed day, when the family played their instruments most beautifully. Every few measures or so, I came in to honk.

After the recital, my humiliation was so total,so truthfully total, it was practically liberating. I remember, so clearly, thinking, what the hell, now you know, now you know.

“Let me tell you,” said the mother that night. “You hit a rough patch or two, I won’t deny that. But you also played the prettiest E Natural I’ve ever heard. It brought tears to my eyes. Your teacher is right, you have talent.”

I don’t think I’ve ever lied since. With held information, yes, but never lied. Except at certain times with certain men, where the relationship was so exclusive we closed the doors on all intruders, even truth. But that's something else altogether.

Oh, my wild sweet Hahamongna

2011-12-09T00:05:00.000-08:00

To set the mood, scoot Mr. Haendel up to 5:50. (What? You find that excessively difficult? You can complain to the management, though they're generally out to lunch and unresponsive.)

Anyway, we're here to make a point. That LA County and the City of Pasadena are very busy these days turning this

Into that

It Takes a Village

2011-12-07T13:03:00.000-08:00

We can either approach a natural-born emergency as individuals or as a community.

There’s something redundant, inherently inefficient, when we all plan to meet a disaster wielding the same tools.

Some of us should be charged with stockpiling batteries, lanterns, generator, a pantry full of canned goods, water, and closets filled with extra blankies.

Then some of us should have a car full of gas, a case of wine in the trunk, and a list of addresses where we can find the aforementioned stockpile.

This can only work with true foresight, effort, and sensitivity. Remember: Not everyone likes Chardonnay.

Power and other failures

2011-12-06T04:00:00.000-08:00

On Thursday last -- Altadena’s first full day without heat, light, telephone, internet -- I think we all expected power to return at any moment. Rather than wring my hands and fuss with the light switches, I decided to leave town. As they say, a watched pot never boils.

Driving down the tree-littered streets, we all seemed to be on our best behavior. Take, for instance, the out-of-service 4-way traffic signals. Everyone stopped and waited patiently, waving the other driver through.

“After you.”

“No, please, after you. I insist.”

I returned at 8 p.m. to a dark house. Apparently the pot hadn't really cared whether I watched it or not.

On the second day without heat, light, telephone, Internet, I, as well as other neighbors, found there were only three local activities at our disposal – raking leaves, asking if anyone had heard anything, and going toe-to-toe on indoor temperature. "Your house is 50 degrees? Why, that’s practically a sauna. My house is 38." "38 degrees? Paradise. Ours is..."

More on Patch.

Out West

2011-12-04T14:11:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time, the Santa Ana winds were like the Indians in an old John Ford Western. 30 Indians would descend and surround a wagon train, whoop it up, then for no apparent reason, race up the hill and out of frame.

Time for pioneer ladies to wipe the dirt from a child's face and the menfolk to do the menfolk things -- fix a wagonwheel or something. Then you'd see 300 or 3000 Indians biding their time at the top of the ridge.

That was your father's Santa Ana -- a wind that would blow down the mountains, wreak some havok, then inhale mightily back up the San Gabriels, to sit for awhile, discuss evil deeds in deep voices, before the grand exhale.

If last week is any indication, the wind has moved beyond strategic battles; once it arrives, it won't leave; it won't stop to strike a pose, hold a powwow and rest the horses. It will just come down the hill. Down and down the hill, relentlessly.

No time for you to boil water and plenty of it, tether the cow, check your email.

Five days without heat, light, phone, communication.

And the Cavalry? We still have one, of sorts. It will swoop in to rescue the towns. Not in alphabetical order.

A Most Beautiful Thing

2011-11-29T19:50:00.000-08:00

No, not this.

This music

We heard music at the top of the hill and stayed til the end and walked home in the dark.

At the Huntington

2011-11-27T18:00:00.000-08:00

Horsetails against the Conservatory. Packing a concealed weapon -- Canon at ISO 800, white balance cloudy, and some other dial.

I think I've either captured an abstract, or the shower curtain I've always wanted.

Creature comforts

2011-11-26T04:30:00.000-08:00

Contrary to popular opinion, dogs don’t really think we humans are the greatest thing since sliced bread or kibble pie. It’s not that dogs lie to us, exactly; it’s just, for some lovely reason, they like to make us happy.

And if that means implying, from time to time, that we’re funnier, prettier, wiser, and toss a better tennis ball than anyone else – they’re not above a fib or two.

As for cats, well, cats get a bad rap – you know, their reputation for aloofness and silent superiority. There's a cat from down the street who visits me now and then, and she talks endlessly. I pour out the food in exchange for some sparkling conversation. Sometimes we hang out and dish about the neighbors...

Intro to the GOOD STUFF -- More stories from the adoption front by some of our favorite bloggers. Take a look.

(The link works now. Sorry.)

We won't crop these tales

2011-11-25T04:52:00.000-08:00

Some of our favorite bloggers have their dog and cat stories up on Patch today. And some other favorites will have their stories up tomorrow.

When I asked these folks to write a few words for the second annual animal rescue post, most came in with the message, "edit as needed." But taking anything out would have been a crime. So I lobbied to run it for two days.

Hope you drop by.

Before you spake

2011-11-23T18:59:00.000-08:00

Just wait until I dress these babies up in the proper quote.

I'm toying with two I found when I googled 'Wall' and 'Shakespeare': "Simply choose your wall sticker and Shakespeare quote color." and

"Our pre-designed vinyl walls have the words of Adlai Stevenson and Shakespeare in a guest washroom."

An interview with photo pro Ibarionex Perello

2011-11-22T04:30:00.000-08:00

Taking photos at a holiday gathering is like cooking a holiday meal – without proper preparation, the end result may prove uncomfortable for all involved.

The digital age has made photography both easier and harder, better and worse than it was before. Better, because now we just snap, print and publish. Worse, because now we just snap, print, and publish. Today, it’s way too easy to publish photos – photos that look over-exposed, under-exposed. And photos that those near and dear, friends and family, might find less than flattering.

Post in haste, repent at leisure.

The digital photography phenomenon has other quagmires ...

More on Patch

[I took IP's photo class this weekend, and it made all the difference. But you'll just have to trust me on this while I practice.]

Manny's Lincoln Heights

2011-11-19T07:50:00.000-08:00

This is Manny Rodriguez. Other than the first six years of his life spent in Mexico, Lincoln Heights (or at least that same zip code) has always been his home. He's a community activist, preservationist, and talented raconteur.

His childhood was spent in a one room apartment, here, on the second floor.

“And by one room," he said, "I don’t mean one bedroom, one living room, one dining room; I mean, one room.” And the one room was on one floor that his family shared with 12 other people.

"As embarrassed as I was to let my friends know where I lived, I realize we were relatively happy there. Everyone looked after everyone else. We celebrated holidays together, and would set up a huge table for Thanksgiving and Christmas. I had a good childhood."

It was the early 70’s. He learned English by watching cartoons (if I'm not mistaken, he called it the Bullwinkle Academy), and attended local school. Well, sometimes he attended school. And sometimes he went to a Dodger game. The stadium was and still is within walking distance.

After school and on weekends, he and his buddies explored old railroad stations and junk yards. For pocket money, they stole ice cream bars off the truck at the nearby Swiss Miss dairy and sold them to families picnicking at the park.

Manny and his friends played baseball at a field near the railroad tracks, the same field where teenagers, members of the Eastlake Gang, played handball. Though interaction was minimal, the gangsters made sure the boys weren’t bothered.

The men who camped by the railroad tracks (“We called them hoboes"), also watched them play. "When they were sober, they'd give us pointers, as in -- ‘Hey, that’s not the way to catch a ball. Here, let me show you.’”

Like the gangsters, the hoboes kept a protective eye on “their boys,” and chased out anyone who might be trouble.

Manny stayed in Lincoln Heights through high school and college. He married a girl from Lincoln Heights and now they have a son and a daughter, and a house in the hills of Montecito Heights. (His children live a very structured, protected life. It's hard when you have a dad who knows all the tricks, because that means you get away with nothing.)

Though now in a private high school, Manny's daughter attended the local Sacred Heart Elementary School, as had her mother before her. Manny has a friend from childhood who is dying of ALS. The friend commissioned this mural as a legacy to his community and his wife and children. It's on the wall at the Sacred Heart playground. Throughout, it tells two histories --one public, one personal. That's the man and his family at the mural's heart.

Going back and forth to work, I must have driven through Lincoln heights 3,000 times of more.

And I’d notice things – intriguing, mysterious, beautiful, messy, and ugly things -- but not with undivided attention. Whatever I saw was in direct competition with the car radio, phone, pager, and my own eternal internal dialog. I never stopped because, for reasons I can no longer fathom, it seemed vitally important that I rush to meet the stress waiting for me on the other side.

"What's the story behind the park at the base of the Broadway Bridge?" I'd wonder, driving past. Then a month later, "What's the story with the park at the base of the Broadway Bridge," too distracted to just stop the car and settle this question once and for all.

Manny saw one of my posts on Lincoln Heights recently and sent an email.

"If you want a tour, let me know. I love to show off my community."

So yes, I said. Yes.

He's giving me a second tour in December. I figure I should have at least another 2,999 questions left to ask.

Fancy footwork

2011-11-15T05:00:00.000-08:00

It's funny. I always know ahead of time when I'm going to be busted.

Still, I never have a response at the ready.

"Who are you and what are you doing here? And you have a dog? A dog? Dogs can't come in here!" He said, running up to us.

"Oh, I know, I know. I just...I just..."

We both waited for me to say something more as I backed out of the room. "I just...Hah!...well, you know... Oh, say, maybe you can point the way to the garden? I think I took a wrong turn."

Unplugged

2011-11-13T04:30:00.000-08:00

Things are falling apart around here now that I have no television. TV always helped me get through the unpleasant things in life – vacuuming, dishes, bills, taxes, death. Even writing. I can’t watch TV and write, but TV would be the commercial in between paragraphs,or maybe my paragraphs were the commercials in between TV, not sure about that one.

When people permanently pull the TV plug, some say they see God. At the very least, they imply they’re suddenly part of the intellectual elite. And to that I say Mazel tov. If one can be admired for not doing something, that’s a club I want to join, because there’s ever so many things I don’t do. Not to brag, or anything.

Like ex-drinkers, ex-smokers, non-gluten eaters, and atheists, ex-TV-ers spend an inordinate amount of time thinking and talking about their specific area of inactivity.

If you mention something you saw on one program or another, they’ll interrupt in a state of near hysteria to say they haven’t owned a television for 2 years, 3 months, 14 days, 8 hours and 33 seconds.

Personally, I don’t think watching an old Cary Grant movie or sitting through every tennis grand slam has kept me from finishing a novel, saving the whales, grouting the tub, or polishing my nails. As to what I haven't done, the list is long, but TV can't take the credit.

Sure, maybe I’ve seen Once Upon a Time in the West some great multiples of once, and I've happened to watch It Happened One Night on more than one night. As to how many times, I can’t say. Like all of life’s sensual pleasures, it’s best not to count, else you might fit the definition of some unpleasant word.

Anyway, I’m going to get cable or satellite again. If I’m doomed for the next few months to unthinkingly search the house for my recently departed dog, at least I can find Morley Safer in the living room (or whoever it is still breathing at 60 Minutes).

But even though I plan to turn in my membership card to the sanctimonious non-TV club, I recently realized I’ve belonged to another for quite some time.

When someone mentions in passing the insidious practices and usury rates of the credit card companies, my eyes roll back in my head, I wave my arms like windmills, jump up and down and shout, “I never have a balance on my credit cards!”

I truly believe, with some soul searching, we can each take pride in something we’re not doing and how well we’re not doing it.

Cal-Tech Gene Pool

2011-11-10T17:17:00.001-08:00

The long ride home

2011-11-08T04:40:00.000-08:00

I’m not the best rider in the world. I’m probably not even the best rider on the block. Let’s just say I’m queen of the unscheduled, spontaneous dismount and leave it at that. Still, I love horses in general, and my horse in particular. I’ve boarded Vandy at Altadena Stables for twenty years; we’re two very satisfied customers.

... Once upon a time, Captain George C. Hester built, owned and operated the Altadena Riding Academy where Altadena Stables stands today -- south of Altadena drive, north of Mariposa and west of Lincoln. By 1921, it was the millionaire’s row for the horses of millionaires and their horse-loving wives, sons and daughters. The Academy claimed six acres, including a 3-acre riding ring – the largest in California -- and a polo field. Most of the Captain’s 50 horses were thoroughbreds, and all came from Kentucky and Virginia. (This was a point of pride, as in those days, California bred, i.e. “homegrown” carried no bragging rights.)

The stable employed and housed grooms, trainers, a blacksmith, a veterinarian and even some guy whose job no longer has a name -- one tasked with keeping the leather of bridles and saddles well oiled and supple...

More on Patch

Not in the writing mood

2011-11-07T11:40:00.000-08:00

But that's ok. My friend, the artist Dianne Patrizzi, included Phoebe's face in her latest piece. Phoebe's not the star, but I've always thought supporting characters make or break a work of art.

Click here to see Patrizzi's picture and post in toto. Toto? What am I saying? I mean, Phoebe.

Family resemblance

2011-11-03T17:44:00.000-07:00

Take in one minute of each and tell me I'm imagining things.

Lonesome Roads

Rick Perry

Small Favors on Facebook

2011-11-01T18:31:00.000-07:00

You know what makes me mad?

Every time, every fucking time someone refers to my blog, says something nice about my blog, on Facebook, he or she gets one weak, limp, wizened "thumbs up" in response. You know how embarrassing that is?

It's like running for 6th-grade student council all over again.

What, you -- you lone thumb in the wilderness -- voted for me because your mom is friends with my mom and she made you do it?

As for the rest, apparently it goes against your deepest, strictest principles to click bloody Like. It's really that hard to drag the mouse a few centimeters and press the button?

Granted, Like offers no qualifications. No Sorta, Kinda, Maybe if I'm Drunk. But people, it's not going on your resume.

Everyone else I know on Facebook can say something such as, "I love trees!" and they can count on 50 Likes and 30 comments. I write 400 words and get the single digit.

Don't think this goes unnoticed. I'm counting heads and taking names.

Getting your goat

2011-11-01T04:15:00.000-07:00

Was I really thinking about raising goats? Well, maybe ... probably not ... no.

To be honest, I’ll use any excuse to visit the Zane Grey Estate on a Saturday morning. It’s such a pretty place, a connection to old and new Altadena that smells of pine and healthy earth and growing things. So a workshop on raising goats? Sure. Should they ever offer Window Washing for Dummies, Do it Yourself Drywalling, or any other skill I have no intention of practicing, I’ll still be first in line.

The only downside to visiting Steve Rudicel and Gloria Putnam of Zane Grey and Mariposa Creamery fame, is that I feel like such a slacker. I don’t raise goats and chickens, make my own cheese and wine. I don’t own a restaurant like Steve, I’m not an astronaut or nuclear physicist or whatever it is Gloria does professionally.

Long ago I learned to set the bar rather low so as not to be a disappointment to myself.

About 40 people turned out for Gloria’s presentation, “Goat Keeping for Dairy.”

More at Patch

Phoebe

2011-10-29T21:07:00.000-07:00

It’s been three weeks since Phoebe died. And, since we walked everywhere, miles and miles, people knew her far and wide. Every day someone I haven’t seen for awhile, or someone I didn’t even know we knew, will ask, “How’s Phoebe?”

Sometimes I respond pragmatically: “I had to put her down this month.” Or, if it’s someone who met us from the get-go, my throat tightens, I clutch my fist to my chest and fold into a scrunchy face. Best of all, though, thus far, is when I lie, “She’s fine, thank you,” and keep walking.

I remember when Phoebe and I first met. It was at Boxer Rescue.

Boxer Rescue works sort of like a matchmaking service; you give your requirements and wait in a sitting area as they bring out likely candidates, one by one. The first guy was a black and white boxer, nice chap, docile. They brought out another, and another. No, no, not quite right…

Then a van pulled up to the shelter and out popped Phoebe. She had just been returned after an unsuccessful adoption, and they were trying to hurry her through the waiting room.

“Is she upset?” whispered the shelter manager to the handler.

“She’s really mad.”

“Wait!” I said.

Because Phoebe was the most beautiful dog I’d ever seen.

“Wait,” I said. “I’d like to walk her around the block.”

The manager and handler whispered some more, then leashed Phoebe up, and I walked her. I don’t know if you’ve ever been to a breed rescue before, but they are situated in industrial areas, surrounded, alternately, by places that sell broken car parts and then other breed rescue facilities. Phoebe lunged at every fence we passed.

Oh no, I thought, no. The dog I’d loved most in life had had a horrible temperament when it came to other dogs, and I just couldn’t see going through another decade of fights and bites.

And yet…

We got back to the waiting room and I said I didn’t think she would work for me. But a family had entered, with several kids. And the father took Phoebe’s leash and said to his wife, “This, Gracie, is one beautiful dog.”

Phoebe sat perfectly still like a statue -- staring off at some point in the distance, as though none of us existed.

“Alan, I don’t know … she’s so big … and, I don’t know…”

I realized something, suddenly. “Phoebe,” I said to her. “Phoebe.” Just that. And she looked in my eyes.

The father said, “Gracie, I like her.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, and took the leash from his hand. “She’s mine.”

Some people have said to me, “Oh, losing your dog is like losing your child.” I disagree. My dog is not like anything or anyone else. We have a dog to human relationship; we look after each other in unique and lovely ways. We reach across the spectrum of species and somehow find agreement, trust, and affection. My dog is my dog.

Or more precisely, of course, my dog was my dog – though I’m not entirely able to face that yet.

Walking Bobby

2011-10-26T21:38:00.000-07:00

"That's a handsome dog you've got there. What's his name?"

"His name is Bobby. Are you from around here?"

"No, we're interlopers. We thought you might invite us over for dinner. Have you lived here long?"

"All my life. Let me tell you something...what was I going to say... it will come to me ... Oh yes, speaking of dinner, my father was married to Julia Child's mother. Did you know Julie Child grew up in Pasadena?"

"So I've heard. You must have had some really good dinners."

"Oh, yes. But let me tell you something."

"What's that?"

"My wife was a better cook."

Compromise

2011-10-25T09:07:00.000-07:00

I can scare the life out of my friends -- all I have to do is lift my camera and take their picture. Really. Somehow, and certainly without trying, I seem to find the worst light, angle, pose. What can I say -- it's a gift. I've horrified five people this past month alone.

Here are some photos from last week's meet-up with Virginia, Katie, Kathy, Tash, Petrea, Ron, and Judy. But just so these lovely people will speak to me again in this lifetime, I won't say who is who.

Art appreciation

2011-10-23T00:29:00.000-07:00

At the Getty

And Maier

Overheard at the Huntington

2011-10-21T08:00:00.001-07:00

"It's always like this, always! I try to explain how I feel and you never listen. I might as well be talking to this tree or that wall. You never listen to a word I say."

"Shhh. For god's sakes, lower your voice or someone might hear you."

Mud Wrestling -- be there

2011-10-18T05:00:00.000-07:00

Occasionally I revert to the bad-temper and cynicism of my youth. This has been known to happen when I visit my siblings, for example, or after losing a tennis match.

Or when I attend civic meetings, particularly when the meeting is held on a weekend in the early morning at a high school cafeteria and I’m sitting in one of those cement-like student chairs, about to endure an endless lecture and power point presentation. Oh my god, it’s Saturday and I’m back in detention all over again.

This past weekend LA County held a public forum regarding plans for the massive removal of acres of sediment in Hahamonga,

The rest on Patch

Metaphors mixed, with salt

2011-10-16T09:12:00.000-07:00

Of all the ways to exit this world – drinking, fast cars, lion taming, rock climbing – mine will probably be death by liverwurst.

I’m not sure about the exact components of liverwurst, though grease plays the starring role. I’m guessing the ingredients are something like fat, fat, fat, fat, fat , fat, pig organs, fat. Bucking the tide of current nutritional wisdom, I take mine with a dollop of mayonnaise.

It’s my comfort food. What we ate as kids, after a long day skiing. It warmed us up, along with a thermos of tea and a hit of brandy if we complained our toes were cold. My toes were always cold.

At every new school, my sister and I were the pumpernickel kids. The ones who unwrapped sandwiches of thick black bread slathered in suspicious meat bi-products and fragrant cheese, while everyone else tucked into peanut butter and fluffernutter. And just to make sure we could strike the gong on the cholesterol scale, my mom topped it all off with a hard-boiled egg.

Probably I was so popular because I never asked to trade lunch.

Last week, I loaded the fridge with all the foods of my childhood. Let me tell you, that shit tastes foul. I didn’t remember it was quite that bad -- a frontal assault when I opened the refrigerator door. Now even the cream in my coffee carries a whiff of Braunschweiger.

I’ve sworn off equating life to a deck of cards. Though I’m not sure why, because life is like a deck of cards. If you hang around for awhile, you’ll learn to play all sorts of hands. You have to. Sometimes your cards will be sweet, so sweet, and sometimes they’ll just smell like liver. It’s my personal opinion that any hand falling between these two extremes will benefit by a certain amount of bluffing.

The big yes

2011-10-13T17:00:00.000-07:00

Janet Aird and Petrea Burchard took the long walk with me this weekend when I put Phoebe down.

Received this message from Janet today:

Seeing how much you loved Phoebe really made me realize how much I loved having a dog. I hope this doesn’t make you feel sad, but on Sunday I got an overwhelming impulse to jump back into the pool. We met at the humane society in Pomona on Tuesday and this is what she looked like last night after a big day of getting spayed and coming home.

No name yet! Very tempted to call her Stumpy, for obvious reasons once you see her.

Thank you, thank you

2011-10-12T18:24:00.000-07:00

For the comments on my blog and on Patch. For the emails. For the cookies and offers of food (those are like groupons, right? They don’t expire for a year?). For Albert’s dog treats. For the wine, and the wine, and the wine (some people know me too well). For the cards and the flowers. And the poems. For the visits and walks. For taking me to the vet and seeing me home. For sending me forgotten pictures. For taking me to Azusa and Glendora until we were totally lost so we laughed and we laughed. For Phoebe’s painting. For allowing the face wash. For sending my girl off in style and with affection.

Thank you, thank you.

Clear eyes

2011-10-11T04:00:00.000-07:00

As I’ve been crying on your virtual shoulder all week, thought I’d share a couple of things nice. Yours is not the only dry-cleaning I’ve ruined. An amazing number of people in the neighborhoods around here knew Phoebe.

Since Saturday, when I walked Albert, people in passing would ask about Phoebe. And before you knew it they were hugging me and I was drooling on their jacket.

But this evening I ran into someone I’ve known for 10 years. He has a min pin, a friend of Phoebe’s. This min pin is the same age as Phoebe; was brown when was P was brown. They grayed together.

This guy asked after Phoebe, and I told him what happened. And I didn’t dissolve into a wet and sticky mess.

When we hugged, he asked me, “How should I prepare myself? My dog is old, any advice?”

And I thought about it for the rest of the walk. Here's my advice: Don’t prepare. Don’t steel yourself ahead of time as it won’t make a lick of difference. Just give your dog or cat or whatever friend, one more kindness than is usual, every day. This will bring you comfort.

I wrote my Patch piece about Phoebe. As if I could write about anything else. And I like what I wrote; it’s not the slobbering piece you’ve come to expect from me. Really. It’s measured and true. Respectful, loving; what she deserves. At least, I think it is. I wouldn't entirely trust my own judgment quite yet.

Our viking funeral

2011-10-09T20:06:00.000-07:00

My dog tags are really dog tags. I wear them whenever I need good luck or courage. Phoebe's tag is now with two of Bru's. And always a St Christopher's medal for safe passage.

And then, a bit of music that Phoebe and I always enjoyed together.

Cast away, dear girl, if that's the way things have to be.

Miss you, forever

2011-10-08T14:37:00.000-07:00

There was never such a dog. Never.

Well, why not

2011-10-06T22:02:00.001-07:00

FOPS (Friends of Phoebe's) stop by for a face wash.

Phoebe gets her licks in on the charming Roberta, of Latino Heritage.

The lovely Janet Aird came by to get her glasses cleaned.

Courtney, who blogs at Musebootsi

Petrea, of course, Pasadena Daily Photo.

My face is always clean, thank you very much.

Phoebe made a wish, and here's her friend Debbie, AKA Debbies Book. If I had been faster on the draw, we'd have pictures of Bellis and Robert, too. Oh, P is on all fours, these are just her glamour shots.

If you can find your way to my place in the next week, please send an email. I'd like to take a photo of the two of you.

phoebe

2011-10-05T14:48:00.000-07:00

She's been old for a long time in every way but her heart. She got a probable diagnosis of bone cancer today; when I call for the final test results tomorrow it's just a formality. They wanted to show me the x-rays, but I wouldn't let them.

Knowing something was wrong, and something was bound to go wrong anyway, given her 15+ long years on earth, doesn't, oddly, make this one bit easier. It's ok if it's hard on me, I just won't let it be hard on her.

The bad thing about Google is that it leaves, in this case, nothing to hope. This part of her little body will fail, then this, then this.

She's at home, and the pills brought her back to happy today. I won't let her go out sad, so must time this exactly right. She must go out with love and joy still alive in her soul. And that's going to fucking kill me.

Night Noise

2011-10-04T04:32:00.000-07:00

Do you know this one? I love the oboe. It plays twilight.

I'm sure Albrecht Mayer is very popular with the ladies, but this just looks nerdy to me.

Amanda Knox

2011-10-02T21:33:00.000-07:00

Yes, I know, the Amanda Knox trial has been way off your radar. Amanda who? you say.

That’s what happens when all my friends bury their nose in Schopenhauer and Plato. Well, opposites attract.

But if you ever do catch up on this story, here is why I know she’s innocent. Amanda has been tried and convicted of murdering her roommate on the premise that she has insatiable sexual appetites. So, ok; then give us one former boyfriend who has a story to tell. One. Because, you know, you can't be a sex kitten without the sex. And if there had been previous boyfriends, at least one would have come forth to feast on the incredible fortune awaiting him via magazines, television, interviews, books.

You know what scares me? Aside from this case, I mean. What if a young girl, trapped in this same situation, had a sexual history. She'd stand no chance, would she? Unless, of course, she knew Berlusconi.

HaHa, Forget it Jake, it's Chinatown

2011-09-30T13:28:00.000-07:00

You can never take me anywhere, least of all a civic-affairs meeting, regardless of scale. I make faces, roll my eyes way far back in my head, blow up my cheeks and then exhale audibly. I bounce up and down in one of those plastic chairs provided for the citizen’s seating enjoyment. I chew gum.

As I never sit in the front row for anything anyway, my train of thought jumps the track, from the matter at hand to the fascinating phenomenon of male pattern baldness. They’re like snowflakes, you know, no two are alike.

Attended Tuesday’s Pasadena city council – no, sub-council, pre-council, or –take-the-heat-off-us-in-the-real-council -- meeting, held to discuss the destruction of our little watershed area known as Hahamongna.

Actually, I didn’t know we were there to hear from the bad guys because I hadn’t read the party invitation. I thought we were all going to get together and say WE HATE PULLING UP TREES TO PUT IN SOCCER FIELDS, and then hug.

But it wasn’t that kind of meeting.

It was held in some place way off the beaten track, a place with a florescent lighting and furniture usually reserved for the coroner’s office or Midas Muffler.

Then, this panel or whatever it was, took roll call and approved minutes, and engaged in other activities practiced fondly by middle school student councils everywhere.
“Next on the agenda, Fruit cup or jello chocolate pudding. The chair recognizes the pimply fellow to my left.”

Not everyone on the panel was up to speed on the whole Hahamongna issue. Some hadn't even started to peddle. Setting a foot on the actual park was apparently not a requirement for appointment to this committee that was appointed by a committee that was appointed by an advisory committee of the appointed staff of the actually elected members of the city council.

So I ducked out, leaving others to fight the good fight. Which was wrong. But I had already laughed, loudly, without filling out a speaker’s card. It was really best for all concerned.

Try, try again. There’s a meeting with the actual Pasadena City Council on 10/17; another opportunity to press our concerns regarding the preservation of Hahamongna Natural Watershed Park. As Alice Roosevelt said -- if you’ve got nothing nice to say, come sit by me. I’ve got gum.

Ok, it starts with this

2011-09-27T04:07:00.000-07:00

Something’s gone wrong. Let’s say your email is down for the tenth time this month, or the morning paper failed to arrive for the seventh day in a row.

So you make a call and go through the punishing, mind-numbing, soul-zapping, head-splitting process known as the phone tree. And the phone robot says those irritatingly disingenuous words -- “ok,” and “got it,” and “hmmm, I didn’t catch that” -- in hopes you’ll vent all your frustration to a machine.

But no, you’re going to keep your own counsel. You’re going to wait until you reach a real live person, someone of flesh and blood, no matter how long it takes.

Finally, your persistence is rewarded; you’ve clawed your way up to the live-operator queue. A queue with long hold times and looping music that has no beginning and no end.

Then at last a human being comes on the line. “Hello, my name is Matt,”

And ends at Patch.

The great escape

2011-09-25T15:48:00.000-07:00

Ice House Canyon, a friend takes a plunge.

On the list of overused and irritating words of 2011

2011-09-23T00:30:00.000-07:00

“Actually” made the cut.

This actually made me wince.

Because I use “actually” all the time, actually. Actually, I drop “actually” as a punctuation mark. It’s the equivalent of an em dash -- oh yes, I'm about to say something witty.

No, I don't mean now. I mean when I say "actually."

Actually, “actually” is a wink, with my left eye, the cute one -- the one that can also raise an eyebrow, after years of practice.

For god sakes, if they’re going to bully any word, how about “hopefully,” as in “hopefully we will …” How about the “and” in between century dates, as in 2 thousand “and” 11. Because both of those are equally, actually wrong. Whereas “actually” has party manners -- never grammatically wrong, just waving its fan, biding its time. Ready to say in one word what usually takes two or four times as many. “In reality”, or “The way I see it,” or “From my point of view."

Strip “actually” from my arsenal, and there will be unpleasant consequences. For real. When all is said and done. At the end of the day. I kid you not.

Oh yes, the photo. It has nothing to do with any of this. I just liked it. No shit.

My stable

2011-09-21T18:11:00.000-07:00

It always puts a spring in my step. (That's not me springing, that's Marcy, the trainer.)

My stories

2011-09-17T15:19:00.001-07:00

I envy people with obsessions; at least they’re able to focus.

I’m writing a little book, and it’s really difficult to stay on topic, or more exactly, stay on plot. Plots bother me, suspense most particularly. In books, in life, I’m entirely character-driven.

But save some experiments of the last century, no one wants to read about characters sitting around being characters. Your people have to do something, often a series of unpleasant or uncomfortable things, at least part of the time.

It doesn’t even matter if the author forgets who is doing what to whom and why, so long as folks move from place to place. A proof that honest effort has been made.

Writer friends of mine think they understand the misery of slogging through the plotting progress.

“I know,” they’ll say. “I’m stuck at 400.”

“What, words?” I ask.

“No, pages.”

How can you talk to writers like that? If you even try, then they’re liable to drop terms like “seminal” and “exculpatory.” Which gives me something new to google when I get back to plotting again.

So I just tell them I recently read on YahooNews! that sitting for long periods of time leads to an early grave and leave it at that.

In my young and impressionable days, I often traveled to Europe by myself. There’s nothing like the freedom of crossing an ocean when no one you know is waiting on the other side.

I have lots of notebooks from the time, and plan to poach on some real-life adventures and passages to pad my latest effort.

Arrived in Venice. Got lost, incredibly lost today. Venice is a series of circles and it seems your only choice is to walk around, forward, and back again. I either passed ten different cheese shops, or the same cheese shop ten times.

Rounding one corner, I met Claudio, who offered to take me back to my hotel. But first, he bought me a drink. Oh, he’s cute, mighty cute. Beautiful, really. I think he looks like someone in an Italian fresco, but I won’t know for sure until I see an Italian fresco. His English is good, but mostly he says, “Why not?”

Why not?

“Why not?” said Claudio, pushing me against the wall of the Campanile di San Marco. “What would make you happy?” I lied and said I’d like to visit a museum or two. We saw some tapestries and paintings. He took me to the Palazzo Ducale. He felt me up on the Bridge of Sighs.

Mid-Week Matinee Splat

2011-09-15T01:30:00.000-07:00

Oh man, I’ve got it all in my head. A leaping summersault over sunny personalities, trips to Italy that were as far from churches as you can get, love in the afternoon -- as many afternoons as you can count on all fingers and toes, birth certificates, and adoption.

Could I do it? Could I vault them all and stick the landing? No I could not. Now my ankle is throbbing.

Someday I’ll find the wire that keeps me afloat long enough to finish the piece. Until then, I can’t even post a legitimate mid-week matinee, as this movie has fallen off the edge of our flat earth. Toto Le Heros is from Belgium, 1991, or thereabouts. And all that’s left for now is this

A touch creepy? The director was a clown. Really. And only made two films.

It’s about a child who may or may not have been switched at birth. A child who grew up watching someone else live his perfect life.

More to the point, the movie is about memory, what we choose to remember -- how, when we play too long and obsessively with all the moving parts, we'll construct some kind of past, but it won't be ours.

Ya think?

2011-09-13T04:17:00.000-07:00

Let's all deny global warming together, shall we? Less said, soonest mended, and what you don't know won't hurt you.

If you need a good reason to avoid Patch, then how about this: I have a new piece up on Patch.

See? A word to the wise. It never fails.

The girls hit the beach (hubba-hubba)

2011-09-08T12:39:00.000-07:00

=

MG, Finnegan, and Karen cop some rays in Balboa

Katie, Bellis, Des

Petrea displays the impressive benefits of a gluten-free diet.

PA and Laurie

Kaori, Virg, Kelly, and PJ

Marjie, Christina, Carolynn

Oop, what's my photo doing here?

The quick lesson

2011-09-05T21:19:00.000-07:00

I have no quarrel with the pit bull breed. In fact, I’m not even sure what constitutes the breed. Sure, some are type-y, but most dogs that fall under the pit umbrella come in different shapes, sizes, colors. They share, perhaps, a muscular body, broad forehead, and stretched-back eyes.

When I first got Phoebe, some people thought she was at least part pit, but her eyes are saucer-round. In her dotage, she bears a striking resemblance to Estelle Winwood.

Dogs are reactive, and mirror their owners. If treated harshly, they think the world is one pretty bad ass place to live. But they’re also flexible. Change the conditions and the quality of care, and they respond in kind. Dogs are the most forgiving creatures on earth.

Dogs don’t hold grudges because they haven’t the time. They know they’re not long for this world. So if something good comes their way, they take it. No questions asked. Unlike us, they won’t continue to brood about the past; rehash old wars and family quarrels.

In this respect, they have a leg up on us.

Public speaking, nocturnally

2011-09-03T08:08:00.000-07:00

I had to lecture to a packed house. Oddly, given the size of the group, I wasn't nervous at all. The only problem was, I had no topic, which meant I'd have to wing it. The audience had been waiting a long time.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you," I said. "But I'm ready to speak."

They laughed. Oh good, I thought, they like me.

"Today we'll discuss German Expressionism."

Now, this was a real problem, because I didn't know anything about German Expressionism; I didn't even know if there was such a thing as German Expressionism. Fortunately, the audience didn't know either.

So mainly my lecture consisted of saying GERMAN EXPRESSIONISM frequently and loudly.

"Interestingly enough..." I said, and stopped to think that whatever follows interestingly enough is never interesting at all.

"Interestingly enough," I continued, "in GERMAN EXPRESSIONISM characters are lit from within but also defined from without through the use of negative space. Now let me explain negative space."

Chairs squeaked, people started talking, getting up and leaving in droves. I knew I needed to do something, fast.

"That's all," I said. "Thank you for coming."

There was applause from the few who remained.

Garbage In, Garbage Out (if we're lucky)

2011-08-30T04:43:00.000-07:00

I needed two long leggy supermodels to jazz up my Patch article this week, so put out an SOS to neighbor Courtney.

Cute overload. So sue me.

If you want to know why da guys, Hartwell and Beckett, are in (perfectly clean, never-been-used) trashcans, then you'll have to read the piece.

These two have earned some serious cookies. I'll get my people on that straight away.

The boys are back in town

2011-08-28T10:30:00.000-07:00

Yes they are.

It's 105 degrees in the shade, but some guys are always cool.

DB, Earl, Cafe (left to right):

Kenny Mac (of course, he's a New Yorker):

Photographer Kevin, AKA Mr. Downtown:

Bandit, Birdman, Van Helsing, Terry (Right to left):

Ranger Keith:

Patch Editor Dan:

I seek relief camping with a few friends. (That guy who looks like Tom Waits? Banjo.)

Tomorrow we'll visit the girls. In the meantime, You can satisfy all your polyester-stud cravings at Katie's house. And she'll even send you a personal postcard. (No kidding. I'll show you mine if you show me yours.)

First Job

2011-08-24T20:19:00.000-07:00

When detasseling corn, grasp the tassel neck firmly. Bend it a bit and pull in a steady motion. The stem will resist for a second, then slip out easily. If it breaks mid-glide, you’re pulling too hard.

We were a mix of high school freshmen and migrant workers. The only thing we had in common was that almost anything could sound like sex.

The supervisors would pick us up in a supermarket parking lot and we’d ride in a flatbed to the cornfields.

The migrant workers were white like us and about the same age, but you could tell us apart. They had hard little nut-like faces, their lunch was Twinkies and a thermos of Kool-Aid mixed with Vodka. They could put out cigarettes with their bare toes.

It didn’t occur to us to mess with these guys. We knew they could kick our ass for a dime and then ask for change. But we admired them, vaguely, as you admire anyone who feels more comfortable in a given situation or environment.

I didn’t know how they lived, where they stayed. I didn’t know any of their names. But then again, I didn’t know why we were detasseling corn. Still, a couple of them took a shine to me, and I liked that.

Some of my friends lasted all summer and socked away a few hundred dollars. By day 3, I realized I didn’t need the money anyway, and walked off in the middle of a job.

The guy supervising us had an old nut-like face, and told me I couldn’t visit the farmhouse to use the bathroom. That’s what the aisles in between cornrows were for.

We stared each other down.

It took two rides to hitch my way home. Country roads, crows, and corn, corn, corn. The parental units said they knew I’d be too soft to stick it out, and maybe now I’d be more appreciative of home and the country club.

They didn’t know anything. I had drunk Kool-Aid mixed with vodka, and could, if pressed, snuff out a cigarette with my barefeet. I could hitch a ride home. I had quit my first job. I had my first taste of freedom, and it was sweet.

Compelling places

2011-08-23T04:39:00.000-07:00

Persson’s Nursery. This time, it quietly closed.

That’s my Patch piece for the week.

Onto to a related topic, my favorite foreclosed home.

Albert and I have poked around a little, in and out.

And decided

Whoever the owners were, their risk was worth taking.

I'm sorry they lost.

The waterfall

2011-08-21T19:14:00.000-07:00

Some might say my waterfall is

more like a faucet. But I find drama

in privacy.

It's my secret place, as luck will out.

The actor

2011-08-18T20:37:00.000-07:00

French actor Gerard Depardieu outraged fellow passengers by urinating in the aisle of an Air France flight as it prepared to take off on Tuesday…
A passenger on the flight said Depardieu, 62, the star of movies such as "Jean de Florette" and "Green Card," appeared to be drunk and insisted he be allowed to use the bathroom during takeoff, when passengers must remain seated.
When asked by a hostess to return to his seat, Depardieu urinated in the aisle.

Once upon a time, I met Depardieu. And by met, I mean the introduction was probably along the lines of, “This is R’s girlfriend.”

I was in college, it was 1979, at a small gathering. I don’t think anyone at the time could foresee the splash Depardieu would make a few years later, and the splash he'd make a few decades after that. He’s consistent, though; always sets his sights on #1.

But back when I met him, on this evening, a group of French and Americans surrounded this beau of the ball, murmuring things about mise en scene, diegesis. He was, to the best of my knowledge, at that time, still in the habit of using restrooms.

“Depardieu! He’s feral!” said this one director, who was a friend of a friend. “He follows his instincts, like an animal. He has no training, no education, he comes from the streets and has been in jail. He’s brilliant.”

I remember looking at Depardieu, and he didn’t seem so brilliant to me, just clumsy, with lumpy cheeks and a tuber-sort of nose like a sweet potato. The bull in a chinashop of French intellectuals and American guys who had lots of family money. As the night went on, Depardieu drank and drank, and grew increasingly oafish. Which seemed to please almost everyone.

It was a time when most people I knew thought misbehavior the purest form of behavior, but these people could only misbehave, themselves, by proxy.

So then there was a screening of the film. And Depardieu became Depardieu! Tender, strong, hurt, weak, virile. For an hour and a half, he was achingly, painfully beautiful.

When the lights came on, someone was snoring. Depardieu had passed out.

I plucked myself out of blatant misbehavior shortly thereafter. It’s fun to be a wild child, but eventually you’re not wild or a child, just meeting expectations. Besides, if you want to be wantonly mischievous for the rest of your life, you need handlers, around the clock.

I think we all reach a point in life when we decide whether we’re defined from the inside out or the outside in.

The inside out is tough, because you assume all responsibility for everything life throws your way. But the outside in, what artists call negative space, means you have no this, you’re only that. And one day you find yourself peeing in the aisle of a plane because you took this flight all by yourself but never learned to handle your own baggage.

Hiking near Baldy

2011-08-16T15:01:00.000-07:00

When my friend B suggests a hike

I don't ask when

Just how soon

Summer night in Altadena

2011-08-15T21:51:00.000-07:00

Believe it or not, sometimes an accordion is just what the doctor ordered.

Concert at Farnsworth Park

With assorted strangers

And darn it, I'm still shooting a Canon

Good enough

2011-08-11T18:29:00.001-07:00

My third grade teacher wrote “nice” on the blackboard. “Never use this word,” she said, or something to that effect. “It’s dull and vague. Always be precise.”

I wouldn’t have remembered this, except she accidentally wrote it in crayon instead of chalk. You can’t erase crayon from a blackboard, so I had a whole year to stare at and contemplate “nice.”

This “nice,” was in lower case, and looked plain. Not even a Greek E on the end, an affectation I have for some reason developed, don’t know where I got it. I also cross my 7’s. And somewhere along the way, I started saying eye-ther rather than ee-ther, and no one could change my mind.

I grew quite fond of “nice.” As one who doesn’t beg to differ but lives to differ, I’ve been its champion ever since. A home-grown tomato isn’t awesome; trust me. It’s ok, it’s a better than average; a tomato you grow, nurture, and pick from the backyard garden is, well, it's nice.

And the photos, books, and experiences I appreciate on a daily basis – nice.

No, something “nice” will not keep you up all night, nor lift a corner of the tent for a peek at heaven. The awesome and outrageous experiences happen now and again, and usually at some private place.

Nice means something has given you a small reward, a bit of pleasure. A smile.

Which is nice, and that's better than ok.

Walk a mile in my shoes

2011-08-10T16:40:00.000-07:00

Because the cyclists elected me prom queen, I’ve temporarily moved my base of operations to another location. Won’t say where it is, but here’s a hint: There’s no graffiti, no bikes, and almost no hikers but me.

It has been my habit, on the way up the trail, to listen to a local public radio station.

One in particular offers PRI The World, a program that covers international events with real live correspondent-feet on the ground. The host, Lisa Mullins, has – bar none – the best radio voice extant, it’s like an oboe or viola, painting the daily picture in moderate, calm notes. No hysteria in the upper registers.

But this local radio station also produces a few of its own shows – shows which seem to have ambitions beyond the Pasadena stage. In the wake of a major international event, they try to elbow their way inside, with seemingly no budget and no foreign correspondents.

So when the story in Libya first broke, for example, their solution was to interview anyone who had ever visited, known, or seen a Libyan. Bonus points if they could spell Khadafy. (Aside: Bonus points to me if I can spell Libya.)

During this latest market crisis, the local news readers, thirsting for a piece of the action, break in every fifteen minutes to breathlessly pinpoint where in the hell we can now find our handbasket.

They can take a hike. Just not where I hike. But you can come along.

And listen to this, instead.

Or this.

Art appreciation

2011-08-07T13:11:00.000-07:00

Overheard at the Huntington Sculpture Garden:

"Arghhh. No more ass pictures! And no more pictures of taking pictures. Where can we get a drink around here?"

Yes, we have no bananas. And no lettuce, either

2011-08-05T09:42:00.000-07:00

Of course, I saw this coming. According to the economic banometer, the market will continue to peel off some recent gains.

The county extension agent advises shovel pruning this puppy and starting from scratch.

But try not to worry. Things will get better, they always do. And for no discernible reason.

To Can and Can Not

2011-08-03T22:22:00.000-07:00

Just as there are certain things we’re born to do, there are certain things we should try only once.

I took a class on canning tonight. It’s good to feel humble now and again – if one doesn’t make a habit of it.

It was kind of like being back in my ceramics class, or flying a plane, when the teacher sort of takes over at some point, spotting disaster. (Here are the teachers, prior to disaster alert.)

I can grow food, my problem is what to do after it’s grown. Here’s Christina -- talented writer, photographer, dedicated teacher, horticulturist, seed-saver, chef, world-traveler, blah-blah-blah. I think she lacks focus.

After learning many things, including that botulism is not detectable by sight or smell, I said, “It seems there are many ways this canning business might kill you.” They laughed. I was serious.

My jars are safe, pretty, because they required little self-participation.

Meat and Greet

2011-08-01T08:36:00.001-07:00

Sure, I have my faults. Aside from the big-ticket items, and just off the top of my head, I’d say -- big feet, bad temper, atrocious spelling, and the inability to ever return a library book on time.

And there’s that little problem about finishing things I start.

I’ve started as a vegetarian, over and over again. And confronted many a failure with some A1 sauce.

This summer, I joined a group of environmentally concerned carnivores and bought a portion of a a schoolgirl’s 4-H project. Mary had a little lamb, and I’ve got the leg in my freezer to prove it.

My thought was, if I must eat meat, at least let it have been humanely raised and respectfully treated. In other words, happy meat.

Apparently, there's a growing movement promoting spiritual carnivorousness that goes way way beyond my modest attempt at compassionate consumption. This conclusion is based on the emails from the group, emails asking the organizer if they could know the lamb’s name, post a photo, visit the lamb while she was still, uhm, with us. Someone suggested a field trip.

Suddenly it seemed like some kind of virgin sacrifice. And I started feeling pretty darned sad as doomsday approached.

I don’t ever want to meet my meat. I don't want to know the color of its eyes or that it liked to be scratched behind the left ear. I want some distance between us, a cushion of time and space.

All this to say, while shanks and chops and other significant lamb bits cool their heels in my freezer, I’ve once again gone vegetarian.

Which of course means there will be no barbecue. If history repeats itself and memory serves, not for at least another two or three weeks.

The new camera in town

2011-07-28T17:56:00.000-07:00

Oh my Nikon, my Nikon.

Apparently, the world is either too light, dark, hot, cold, vertical, or horizontal for his delicate sensibilities. And that’s when he remembers to take his cap off.

Our conversations usually end in an argument, though he does most of the talking -- driving home his points with lots of charts and graphs and whatnot.

If I disagree, he seeks his revenge, and flashes someone at an inappropriate moment.

So maybe my old camera isn't so pretty, so smart. Maybe he wears an old athletic sock when traveling from place to place.

And maybe he’s a little slow on the trigger; has a problem with focus at certain critical moments.

But at least with my Canon, if I blow on his lens, he perks right up.

Norway: A final thought

2011-07-25T23:15:00.000-07:00

This is a column I wrote for Patch, but I don't think it will be posted. Not their fault at all -- it's quite beyond what I've been charged to write about. And it's not particularly good, just heartfelt. So I'll put it here. (Update: This is also posted at Patch Altadena.)

Next week, this column will return to its regularly scheduled program -- the anmials, neighbors, and hikes; the simple and deep pleasures of daily life. But today, I can’t stop thinking about Norway.

And not just because most of my relatives still live in and around Oslo. The whole world was in mourning this weekend after the terrorist attack in Norway -- for the lost innocence, for all those children who didn’t see the sun rise on Saturday, and will never see the sun rise again. It’s almost impossible to stop imagining the horror of their last moments on earth.

Inevitably, Norway will shed some of the openness and trust for which it has, at least over the past forty years or so, been known. Norway will become a little less like Norway and a little more like – well -- like us.

Immediately after the attack, many outside Norway, including some members of the media, leapt to the conclusion this was a jihadist attack. I don’t recall a surge of retractions when we discovered the terrorist was a blond, blue-eyed, right wing, fundamentalist Christian extremist, a born and bred Norwegian.

No, the 24-hour global news monster just moved on, starving for more content. Now it is busy splashing excerpts from the murderer’s manifesto of madness in newspapers, on the radio, and of course throughout the internet.

Giving the alleged killer, Beivik, everything he ever wanted. World-wide publication, attention, fame. And while his thoughts and beliefs are only of prurient interest to 99% of the readers, for 1%, I fear, I deeply fear, it gives a sense of fellowship, a fellowship in madness. A promise their voice will be heard above all others, if only they can devise an atrocity of equal scale.

It’s at our fingertips -- all the news that’s fit to print, and all the news that isn’t, including the ravings of a madman.

Where is the equal time for those in Norway, the vast majority of Norwegians, who support a multi-ethnic, multi-cultural society? And all the voices forever silenced last Friday.

Today I heard a piece on NPR. An Iranian-born teen had been at the Norwegian youth camp on the day of the shooting. He was leading a discussion on cultural diversity. And I’m recounting this from memory, but in the midst of the attack, he found a young girl who had multiple gunshot wounds. She said, as he held her, “If I die now, just know I think you’re all fantastic. I can see in your eyes you’re afraid, so I know I’m going to die.”

For me, this girl -- this lovely girl – is the story. The enduring story. It's her name we should know and remember.

My thoughts are with Norway

2011-07-22T15:20:00.000-07:00

Some say we shouldn’t think of ourselves as hyphenated Americans.

I’m a hyphen -- Norwegian-American, first generation from two immigrant parents, both of whom, as adults, came to the land of opportunity, and found it.

Children of immigrants can't help but feel they have one foot in another world. When my parents told stories of their youth, it was about cross country skiing in Telemark, not Des Moines.

We celebrated Christmas on the Eve, and ate ribbe, goat cheese, krumkake, and marzipan (though a nasty bit of business that last one was).

We had pictures of uncles and aunts, grandparents and great grandparents. And the flags they waved didn’t have thirteen stripes and fifty stars.

My dad taught us to respect the Norwegians who came before, most particularly the scientists and explorers – Ericson, Nansen, Amundsen, Thor-Heyerdahl. “Hey Dad,” I’d say, just to needle him. “How come the rest of Europe has so many great artists and writers, and all we have are Ibsen and Grieg?”

So he told me about Knut Hamsun and Svendsen, Bull, Munch, and some of the half breeds like Raold Dahl. I think he wanted to work out some way to claim Mark Twain.

He taught us all the fables, and stories of the Norse Gods. Some pretty good proverbs, as well.

“A minority may be right; a majority is always wrong.”

And

"Bak skyene er himmelen alltid blå."

I’ve always relished my hyphenated status.

I never feel more American than when I visit Norway. I always feel at least half Norwegian when I’m here at home.

But today, I’m Norwegian, only Norwegian.

News of the news: The biggest story of them all

2011-07-21T09:32:00.000-07:00

A photographer won a Pulitzer for a snap he took during the Malibu fire. It showed flames leaping in the background and a fireman dipping his head in a backyard pool. When it was discovered the photographer had suggested the pose, he was stripped of the prize and the shit hit the fan throughout the other major papers. They assigned me to help mitigate the public outrage that would surely follow.

We received one letter. From the same guy who wrote every Monday with a catalog of our previous week's grammatical errors.

The media are never so fascinated and frantic as when it's one of their own.

Like when the roughing up of Anderson Cooper stole the headline from the Egyptian revolution. The molestation of the 60 Minutes reporter made the revolution disappear entirely.

I'd never heard of the News of the World, but by most accounts, it is, was, typical junk news. I'm shocked, shocked to know corruption has been going on in there.

And now, the breathless accounts of every bit of testimony and every apology, then the editorials and critiques on every bit of testimony and every apology.

"After listening to Rupert Murdoch today, would you say we learned anything we didn't know before?"

"No, what I find particularly interesting is that he didn't tell us anything new at all."

"And James Murdoch?"

"The astonishing fact is, there were no new revelations in his testimony, either."

"Thank you, Lisa."

"Thank you, Steve."

(By the way, the picture I saw of Rupert and his young wife reminded me of this.)

Midweek Matinee: Double Feature!

2011-07-19T09:26:00.000-07:00

There’s a dead rat in my pantry, but his loss is your gain. Because rather than deal with the elephant in the next room, as it were, I have been watching movie clips.

So while I go don my hazmat gear, I'll leave you to it.

Waiting for Guffman

Corky St Claire was an off-(off, off, off, off) Broadway director who now directs community theater in Blaine, Missouri. And he thinks Guffman, a Broadway producer will be in the audience for the upcoming show.

Here
Here

Lost in America

Albert Brooks plays an advertising executive. He and his wife sell their house and all their belongings and go off in an RV to discover America and touch Indians.
They stop in Las Vegas where his wife promptly loses their entire nest egg on the roulette wheel.
Brooks tries to convince the Casino owner to give the money back.

Here

Variations on a theme

2011-07-16T19:12:00.000-07:00

There are two kinds of people in the world. Or a hundred thousand million, math escapes me. But for the sake of argument, let’s say two: Those who play maudlin and heavily orchestrated songs after a bad break-up, and those who – well, come on, there are no others.

Enter Phil Collins. This American Life, my favorite radio show, devoted the hour to break-ups, and this would have probably flown beneath my radar, except someone mentioned a Phil Collins song. Not THE Phil Collins Song.

It’s the mid 1990’s. I'm getting divorced. And I think I weigh about 10 pounds. Because when I’m extremely unhappy, I’ll indulge in every vice except gluttony. A sad me is bad enough; I think a sad and fat me would be more than the universe could bear.

But I'm at work, and feel hungry for the first time in days. So I visit a bank of vending machines. In this room, usually the TV plays soaps to an empty house. This time it's tuned to MTV. Almost on cue, as soon as I punch in the Snicker’s code, this starts to play.

And I think about when I was a kid, with long free arms, out of control and twirling, constantly sweeping fragile objects off the shelf. Breaking things, and wishing to turn back the clock.

I sometimes wonder whether it gives me comfort or pain to know I haven't been heartless, only careless.

That was the second and last time I would ever miss, regret, someone so badly again. The skirt slipped one more inch down my hips. There would be no Snickers today. It was the punt out of Eden and the beginning of a philosophical outlook. Learning to touch living things gently.

Because, while some of us may find true love, all of us at one time or another will surely lose it.

The new addition

2011-07-14T13:31:00.000-07:00

Yes, it's adopted, but comes from a good family, with the right sort of early training.

Still, we're both a little shy.

It needed some extra equipment, so I took it to Samy’s. “Uhm, I’m not sure how this all works. Maybe you can help explain a few things. See, I’ve only ever had a point and click.”

“You mean like that one?” he said, gesturing to something very unfamiliar indeed.

“No,” I said. “Like the one in your window, the one with the tag that says ‘Even Your Toddler Can Save a Memory.’”

“Oh,” he said. “You know what? Excuse me for a second, I just remembered something. But if I take more than a half hour, feel free to talk to my assistant.”

After awhile, I figured a better place to start would be to let the Nikon tagalong with my Canon. Get to know the lay of the land and how we function around here. Explain the process, as in, we see a thing, shoot, upload, download, and sharpen that thing, then go to bed.

Given its upbringing, the Nikon finds this rather strange. But when in Rome…

We’re making progress. So far, it enjoys the outdoors

is willing to give sports a try

gets along with animals

and after a little effort, takes a pretty picture.

A favor

2011-07-12T02:56:00.000-07:00

I don't often ask that you visit my Patch piece. Perhaps for good reason.

But would you give a little foot traffic today? It has something to do with community responsibility, outsourcing, and how fundamental obligations got lost along the way.

Don't worry about this guy, though. He lucked out.

I forgot the camera

2011-07-09T20:20:00.000-07:00

Ok, so on the Huntington tour today, I had a family – father, mother, daughter, son -- from Central Mexico, near Monterrey. And the father, aside from being a total dish, knew everything about every succulent that grows in the Americas.

We had a bet about the euphorbia. I said they were only indigenous to the Old World; he claimed some came from Mexico. We made other bets along the way about this and that, and sealed them by shaking hands, over and over. “You’re wrong.” “No, you’re wrong.”

But we were in total agreement on convergent evolution.

I liked this family immensely. They’re visiting every desert garden in California, and have already made the trip to LotusLand, with some side trips to the wine country. In addition to the usual succulent garden suspects, they’re also stopping in Anza Borrego and Joshua Tree. Apparently, their private collection back home is pretty extensive.

When I asked my usual stumper question about the five Mediterranean climates in the world, he immediately named them, but added Argentina.

“You’re wrong,” I said. “No, you’re wrong,” he said.

I think he is the great grandson of Don Evaristo. I know he’s descended from the family that owned the oldest winery in the Americas, Casa Madero. Likely, because we argued about wine, and there were other indications as well, he is the current owner.

He asked how we’d settle all these bets, and what was at stake. I said they were bets of honor.

Turns out, I was wrong about the euphorbia. Upon my honor. But I was right about Argentina.

The other family on the tour – a mother and father originally from China and daughter born here, translated some of the Chinese characters in the Chinese Garden. “This one is a poem. It says, ‘When something gives you pleasure, you should paint a picture.’”

To have and have not

2011-07-07T18:12:00.001-07:00

How do you suppose they got here? Hard work, nose to the grindstone? Maybe investments – buying low and selling high (now there’s a concept). Or lawyer, doctor, Indian Chief.

My friend guesses inheritance. He says this dismissively. My friend is six foot one in his stocking feet, which of course he did all by himself. And he takes full responsibility for his own blue eyes, ear for music, and 140 IQ.

If he is right about inheritance, though, I think it takes a very clever person to be born rich -- true foresight and excellent planning. While most of us wile away our pre-life playing pong in the primordial ooze, a very few spend the time in lengthy negotiations with fate and the universe.

I couldn't live here -- for several reasons. Too much dusting involved. Grouting and whatnot. I'd misplace car keys, library books, and other important things. I have enough to lose already.

My adventures in babysitting

2011-07-05T20:56:00.000-07:00

For reasons good or bad, in the late sixties and early seventies, 12-year old girls took charge of neighbors’ home and hearth every Saturday evening, from 7 to midnight.

Times have changed, of course. These days, friends of mine with young kids hire only sitters who can produce proof of a PHd in physics and clean FBI scan.

But back in the day, we pre-teeners had our selling-points, mainly in the realm of availability and price.

I don’t know what parents expected us to do if a real emergency occurred, call one of the numbers they left, I guess –Drinks at the Pattersons, Dinner and Dancing at the club, Nightcap at the Paulsens.

Fortunately, my babysitting career passed without major incident, particularly before boys entered the picture.

I was a popular choice, if not with the parents, at least with their kids. The youngsters and I agreed on a live and let live code. They went their way, I went mine. They had things to do, and so did I.

First on my agenda was an excavation of all frozen desserts, followed by kitchen cabinet surfing. Twelve is a very opinionated age, and I handed down harsh judgments if a family stocked Hydrox rather than Oreos, or popsicles instead of Heath bars. Outright condemnation if the only thing on offer was fruit.

Next on the docket, a few chats with my friends on the Princess phone (“He likes you.” “No, he likes you.” “You’re crazy.” “No, you’re crazy.” “Want to spend the night next Saturday?” “I can’t, I have to babysit.”)

But mostly, I spent my hours in the bathroom at the dressing table. Her bathroom, her dressing table. The one belonging to the glamorous mother who left the house in a cloud of L’air Du Temps, with L’Oreal eyes and Revlon cheeks.

I emptied all the make-up drawers, and studied then applied everything in the arsenal. Eyeliner, kohl, blue mascara, eyeshadow, at least five different lipsticks. And perfume. Shimmer stick on the cheekbones (or someplace approximating the cheekbones), and Maybelline brows. Some dressing tables had an overhead sunlamp, so I’d camp out under the lights for awhile and tan.

By the time I was finished, the kids would be crashed in front of the TV, and that’s where I’d end up too, until the parents came home.

The father would carry the kids to bed (“Were they any trouble?” “No, they’re always good.”), and I’d pocket my $15 and wait for the ride home, shiny and rosy with my iridescent eyes and You’ve Got the Look blush.

If they noticed I began the evening as a 12 year old and ended up as a pocket Raquel Welch, they never said anything. Probably because good help was hard to find.

On the ride home, the fathers were easy to talk to, or more exactly, listen to. They’d be expansive, philosophical, with lots of advice about how being young is this and happiness that, and enjoying my time and freedom. Whatever it was, I’d nod my head, giving off a cloud of L’air du Temps.

Because with these fathers, if they drove you home after midnight, and I say this with no subtext implied, all you had to do was agree and smile, and, when we got to my house, they’d pull out the wallet and tip an extra dollar or two.

“I don’t suppose you’ll remember what I told you,” a father would say. Time would prove him wrong -- I do remember that I don’t remember. And yet I know.

America, my corner

2011-07-04T01:00:00.000-07:00

The leaves of a certain mimosa plant shrink away from the touch of a human hand. Here, we call it the sensitive plant; in Viet Nam, it’s known as the shy bush. I have yet to meet a man, woman, or child who didn't find this fauna-like flora behavior absolutely irresistible. You can't not touch it.

The tours I lead at Huntington Gardens never get old. They all kind of start the same way – like it’s my duty, as touree, to say something, and their duty, as tourist, to listen.

But I let them know, pretty much off the bat, that’s not the sort of tour they’re going to get.

It’s going to be a conversation.

And there’s always a person or ten or twenty visiting from another country. When we reach a garden that is more their area of expertise than mine, not only do they have more information about the plants and culture than I, they start to share it.

Stories about India, Mexico, Brazil, Korea, Japan, Russia, England, Kenya, Germany, Australia … “When I was a child, we always picked this flower because…” or “We believe this tree brings…” and “Oh, I remember this from…”

At the end, we always shake hands, sometimes we hug, occasionally, they take my picture. I've decided to start taking theirs.

Half of the folks on most of my tours traveled from the four corners of the earth to get to my backyard. What an honor.

Happy 4th.

Why wait?

2011-07-03T08:37:00.000-07:00

You Go, Altadena. At no charge.

Desert Island Books

2011-07-01T00:05:00.000-07:00

There was a time in France when it seemed wise to hop the next train from Paris to Marseille and then points south. And it was late afternoon and the train would arrive in Nice around midnight.

My seat was on one side and across the aisle there was seating for four. Directly across from me there were two men and a woman. They talked the whole way. But rudely, you know – in French. With absolutely no consideration that the person on the other side of aisle had only basics enough to order a ham sandwich, call a taxi, and say my husband will be arriving early tomorrow morning. Not necessarily in that order.

I hadn’t slept in two days. And usually the motion of a train is so soothing. But my brain kept trying to puzzle out the conversation on the other side of the aisle.

Worse, the woman was very animated, with “Oooo, la,” and “Non!” and “Oui, oui, oui.” I couldn’t puzzle out a story based only on punctuation.

Torture. Those were probably the most irritating hours of my life.

So that’s why Finnegan’s Wake is off my list.

Washed up on shore, with plenty of food, potable water, dry clothes, and eyeliner, I need these five books to survive:

Marcel Pagnol: My Father’s Glory, My Mother’s Castle
Defoe: Moll Flanders
Kundera: The Unbearable Lightness of Being
The Wind in the Willows
A dictionary

And then, what ho? Another box washes on shore with E.B. White, Huckleberry Finn, and a Secret Garden. Oh, that’s cheating, I know.

Well, let’s crack that coconut. Life doesn’t get much better than this.

Gimme your top five. Oh, please. Because I love to read, I almost live to read. But most especially. I love to read in summer.

I Read

2011-06-28T20:07:00.000-07:00

There’s an axiom that’s been floated for a long time (how long? A century or two?), that the act of reading, in and of itself, is somehow intellectually nutritious. A noble pursuit.

I wonder how many books I’ve read. How many I’ve cracked for a one-night stand, with plots hell bent for leather, salivating to a destination.

I’ve read many books, not beginning to end, but beginning and end, skipping over the middle. To the there, there.

I’ve bought books based on the covers alone. Pretty, pretty faces. I’ve read parts of books that have been passed along, for my consideration. Just to get them off the shelf.

I’ve read cereal boxes, comic books, toilet paper wrappers, junk mail, license plates, the labels on my fruit.

Not instructional manuals, I never read instructions. I feel I’m the only one who can write them well. I could be wrong, since I never read instructions.

But I read and re-read stories. For their incidental music.

Miss Maudie, Miss Maudie, in your flower print dress. Eternally watering the roses. Atticus will never notice, I can tell you that now, as I told you ten years ago, and twenty.

But you still call out to him – it is to him, isn’t it? “Your father can make a will so airtight no one can break it!” He doesn’t turn around. He never will. He’ll just raise a hand and say, “You be good, children.”

Maudie will dress up again tomorrow, and fill her pitcher with water. The plants won’t wilt and flowers will bloom.

We Are the Champions

2011-06-25T22:12:00.000-07:00

Are you watching Wimbledon? If so, chances are we have a lot in common -- High cholesterol, low testosterone, restless legs, dry eyes, nail fungus, arthritis, clinical depression, and erectile dysfunction.

Fortunately, after our pills, odds are we feel an irresistible urge to walk barefoot on the beach, fly a kite, paint a picture, catch a fish, kiss a blond who is much too young for us.

Which is pretty impressive, considering some of us now suffer the unlikely side effects of kidney failure, liver disease, corns, warts, difficulty breathing, suicidal tendencies, and erections lasting four or more hours.

Things could be worse. We could be watching golf.

Keeping Hahamongna on the map

2011-06-22T13:53:00.000-07:00

Hahamongna Watershed Park is our little bit of wet and wild land, bordered, cornered, by three towns -- south, east, west. It's at the mercy of temporary bureaucrats, and we know just how merciful bureaucratic mercy tends to be.

Hahamongna is safe for now, maybe, from development and destruction, but only because the cities and counties are broke. So, safe until money starts churning its way through the system again.

I don't think picking up a mantle is particularly difficult; I've bench pressed a mantle or two in my time. The only challenge is in carrying it around.

Dianna Patrizzi and the battle for permanent protections for Hahamongna

Do you

2011-06-21T00:10:00.000-07:00

ever wait for the longest day of the year and then miss it?

I always wait for the longest day of the year and then miss it. -- Great Gatsby

A good ride

2011-06-18T18:21:00.000-07:00

The best movies challenge our assumptions.

Thanks to the English costume drama, for example, I’ve learned that, whatever their faults, the aristocracy in and around the Elizabethan period, most particularly if they bore a strong resemblance to Peter O’Toole, flourished in Britain’s halcyon, albeit brief, period of straight teeth and solid dental hygiene.

Strange how a country can start down one path and veer to another.

Just to digress a bit, I don’t know when the Brits decided to pull back from world domination and concentrate their best brains on dry wit. But it worked; in the latter they’ve reigned supreme for at least two centuries. And to that, I say god save the queen.

Here’s a couple of clips from the newly released The Trip.

Clip one

Clip two

It’s a road movie, with lots of good bits by two British comedians. I assumed the whole film would be a string of snappy impressions. But The Trip is actually a profound examination of communication, and the irritations and comfort we find in personal relationships. It makes an understated argument for companionship, accepting both the weaknesses and strengths of our friends.

There’s more to say, but I saw the movie with a guy who didn't like it. Missed the nuances, subtext; thought it dragged. Isn't that life? Just when you want to talk about about the subtleties of human interaction and tolerance, you're sitting with a fucking idiot who gets on your last nerve.

Father's Day

2011-06-14T21:00:00.000-07:00

There was a death in the house this week; not anything of weight. In other words, not a person, dog or horse. A parakeet died, one foisted on me by a friend who one day found it shivering in the corner of her garage.

This bird hated me from the day it entered my house and never came round on that issue.

What I didn’t expect was the attachments it had formed with other members of the household. Phoebe the boxer had known this bird for seven years. After the bird died, Phoebe took to pacing. Tap, tap, tap across the hardwood floors. Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap.

I couldn’t bear to touch the bird, dead in its cage. The bird never had a name, I had tried a couple – Petey and Junior -- but in the end, he just didn’t invite that kind of liberty.

I moved the cage to the driveway and left it there for the night.

The cockatiel, another rescued bird, and one of much sweetness, picked up the mantle of loathing. Murderer, he cried, dive bombing my head. And then he landed where the other cage once stood, pecking at leftover seeds.

Well, this too will pass, I assumed.

The next day, the cage was still in the driveway.

And I started to imagine bugs getting inside, which is even worse than a dead thing just lying there dead. So, I wrapped my hand in a plastic bag, picked the bird up, put it in a paper bag from Trader Joe’s, and threw it in the trash.

Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap. Oh, for god’s sake.

I retrieved the bag.

I dug a hole and planted the bird underneath some wildflowers that needed a transfer from pot to earth anyway.

And I thought about how my sister and brother and I handled my father’s death, and his ashes, at the turn of this century.

We hiked for miles into some place in the Cascade Mountains and divided the ashes into thirds. Something we hadn’t reckoned on – you can cast stones, you can’t cast ashes. Ashes float, suspended in air, then travel and swirl, some come back to stick in your hair, on your eyelids and mouth.

And so we laughed. Because we hurt so bad, had walked so far, and tried so hard for something perfect and poetic, and instead, we were covered in Dad.

And I, who hate death more than anything in life, wasn’t horrified. This surprised me. To find when you love someone, death isn’t disgusting, it’s just loss. And loss isn’t horrifying or disgusting or any other adjective at all. It’s just big, bigger than anything. Pain, fear, and despair are only poor country cousins.

There was a dusting of Dad all over my face, and I touched my tongue to my lips.

Old Movies

2011-06-08T20:58:00.000-07:00

I like the screwball comedies from the 30’s, war stories from the 40’s. But the movies from the 50’s have a gothic quality; there’s a woman in a black sheath and pearls, whose only purpose is to walk to the door when the doorbell rings.

“Yes,” she says as she opens the door. And it’s never a question.

And then, touching her pearls, she says, “She’s not here,” or “We haven’t seen him,” or “I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

I think she’s the daughter of a 30’s movie, a lighter time -- the Boston granny in diamonds and sequins who spent a lifetime on the staircase, listening for another doorbell, until she could say, “Smithers, tell them I’m not in.”

But in the 50’s gothic, she must sit in her chair, three steps from the door, and wait her whole life for the doorbell to ring. Day after day, she must put on her slip, slip on the sheath, wait for the bell, until someone will ask so she can say no.

Knowing

2011-06-06T21:02:00.000-07:00

When I was in first grade, we moved to a new state and a rural neighborhood. One with horses in the backyard – not in our backyard of course, but other backyards, up the street, not far away.

My dad had a temporary assignment, we knew that. Which made our assignment temporary; we knew that, too.

I liked the school and made friends easily. After several months, I skipped a grade. Then another grade. My first day in third grade math class, we were told to turn to the chapter on long division. And like everyone else, imitating everyone else, I turned.

It might have been a chapter on long division. Then again, it might just as well have been a chapter on the Pythagorean Theorem or a Shakespearean sonnet in Mandarin Chinese.

I did the only thing possible. I asked to go to the bathroom. And on my way up the aisle, I looked over everyone’s shoulder. Most were making notations of no sense at all, but one girl was copying, neatly with her number 2 pencil, the problems exactly as they appeared on the page.

Well, is that all there is to it? What a relief. I went to the bathroom, pretended to tinkle, then came back, copied the problems, and turned in my worksheet.

That afternoon I spent at the doctor’s office. It seems in those early years, my sister and brother always had pneumonia or asthma or scoliosis, and my mom and I spent hours and hours in waiting rooms. That afternoon, my mother taught me long division. I didn’t find the concept intuitive or interesting, but after hour 2 or 3, the lightbulb came on. Dimly, perhaps.

During the lesson, maybe I got impatient, maybe mom got impatient, but how impatient can you get, really. You’re in a waiting room.

That was my first and last experience with homeschooling. My mom must have done a decent job. At six or seven or whatever age I was, during that year, I made the cut. I stayed in third grade. I was in a tunnel with a flashlight. But you don't care if the batteries are weak when you know the tunnel is short and the exit is near.

In other words I didn't get demoted. Until we moved to a better school district.