Author: Admin

Where The Hell is The Car?

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At the beginning of our weekend getaway, I wrote that we were “open to serendipity.” Well, that happened on Sunday morning on our way to the Annenberg and Hammer Museums. Deciding to take a detour down Main Street, we stumbled across a Farmer’s Market, which couldn’t have worked out any better as we’d missed the big one the previous day. This one was small, but friendly and cozy with a selection of fresh vegetables and food vendors unlike I’d ever seen at any other Farmer’s Market, notably the Laguna Beach one. There was music; there were dogs, people stretched out on a strip of lawn in front and a wonderful Victorian house, which was available for civic events with restrooms for market goers. It was in front of this house at one of the tables that we read the newspaper, shared a mushroom, onion, spinach, and cheese scrambled omelet along with a fresh mango drink and coconut juice, right from the coconut before heading for the Annenberg.

Finding the place wasn’t a problem—as Laural told me when I asked if she needed my GPS for the trip, “I am a GPS”—except there was a bit of a mix-up getting into the right parking garage due to the filming of a commercial. We parked somewhere in the bowels of a structure behind the Annenberg. Instead of taking the stairs or elevator, we walked up the down. That screwed us up when we returned. Couldn’t find Laural’s bright blue Honda Element. She’d parked it right there by the staircase, hadn’t she? Space 182. Thirty minutes later, after charging up and down aisles that must’ve been numbered by some sadistic bastard, all the while becoming more and more sweaty and a tad panicky—we could be tomorrow’s headlines—we finally found the little blue gem parked in a whole other area of the parking structure that hadn’t existed before. In spot #182. During the search neither of us lost our cool; it was all part of our weekend adventure. We mused that if this had happened to either one of us with our husbands—my ex, her current—it probably wouldn’t have been termed an “adventure”.

That evening we took our limo, Santa Monica’s dollar-a-ride Blue Bus back down to the beachfront and had a glass of wine at the historic Georgian Hotel. Couldn’t resist the art deco pizzazz of the place. A celebrity hideaway during the early days of Hollywood, the Georgian used to house a popular speakeasy and is now rumored to be haunted by certain unearthly guests. So there we sat on the verandah, sipping our Syrah’s and gazing up at the half moon above the palm trees, communing with the spirits.

After our less than thrilling dining experience at Border Grill, I was a little anxious about Tar & Roses. I mean I’m the one who made all the arrangements. Would it live up to the hype? Okay, so the place rocked. Well, almost. The wood roasted asparagus with pancetta, frisee and coddled duck egg—listed as a “small” plate”—was one of those dishes where you stop midway through the first bite and explore the food with your tongue trying to decide what made your taste buds do the Blues Brothers tap dance. The duck breast with bloomsdale spinach, bing cherry chutney and hazelnuts—a “large” plate—hit all the right notes, but at the twice the price and as someone who loves little itty bitty sized meals, I can tell you this was stingy. Yes, I’m taking points away for size. Ah, but then came the dessert that we shared: Strawberry Ricotta Crostada. Holy shit! A mix of strawberry and blood orange sprinkled with thyme served on a buttery sugar dusted pastry, along with honeycomb ice cream, almost had me in a fork fight with Laural for a bigger share. I’ve got to tell you, this kind of dessert is usually not my thing, but I absolutely swooned over this one.

We ended the evening in our motel’s telephone booth-sized dry sauna—obligingly opened by the desk clerk after the 10 pm deadline—then headed for the rooftop terrace with its astro turf, bogus ferns and Greek statues where we hoped to lie on the chaise longues and gaze up the moon. It was closed for the night. We trudged back down to our room. Our adventure was over.

Snakes and Ladders, and Roach

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After the Getty that first evening, we took the dollar-a-ride Blue Bus the two miles down to Santa Monica beachfront from our high-priced basic motel room (with its rooftop terrace, complete with astro turf, bogus ferns and a couple of Greek statues). We were rewarded with dancing and singing street acts along Third Street Promenade, as well as the boardwalk in front of the pier. The loin-clothed guy below got the prize for the sheer novelty of his act. As you can see he’s on a ladder, his black skin gleaming with sweat from the effort it took to balance while gripping two writhing snakes.

Okay, the snakes were fake, but there was a certain irony in his expression, along with a couple of comments he made that allowed him to pull it off.  A short walk away, was Border Grill, the place I’d been dying to try where we had reservations; it was a bust for the most part. Except for the fact that it was a hole in the wall–which to me, is essential for a Mexican restaurant–with a wild bold fiesta décor, a long saloon-type bar, and the mango margaritas and the Jicama Orange Salad were fabulous. And then there was that little extra, a tip from the bartender that just across the street lay Harvelle’s, a quintessential blues, jazz, and soul club, in operation since 1931.

Later that night, we squeezed into Harvelle’s dark narrow barroom and found a seat up front against the wall, just in time to see the performers take the stage—the Blues Brothers incarnate, plus Roach, the female singer. They started playing and it took everything not to get up and dance, but then we would’ve lost our seats. The highlight of the night for us was this one smokin’ number from Roach. I think I managed to capture her acting it out in this iPhone shot: “If you ever see me at three o’clock in the morning on Montana Boulevard, you know, a black woman with blond hair, pull over and help me or get the hell out of my way.” Note: Montana Boulevard is in a rich white neighborhood.

It was hard leaving the show but we had a bus to catch before they stopped running and tomorrow was another day of fun, fun, fun. And an almost disaster.


Whomp

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I got a nice big art “fix” this weekend up in Los Angeles. Living in Laguna Beach, all I have to do is head  down the canyon a couple of blocks to lose myself in the art galleries, but not on this scale and diversity. Like the Annenberg’s, “Who Shot Rock and Roll” exhibition; the first major display that acknowledges photographers’ creative and collaborative role in revealing the history of rock music. Fun, but no creative whomp. (Part of the collection and courtesy of Ian Dickson/late20thcenturyboy.com, the photo below of the Ramones is probably what Layne, my youngest  looked like on stage at The Whiskey A Go Go that time when he was fourteen.)

The Getty gave me what I was seeking—“Heaven and Hell and Dying Well: Images of Death in the Middle Ages,” glass making in antiquity, paintings, woodcuts, massive tapestries, sculptures, and ceramics. And then some unexpected nostalgia: pen and ink drawings from the sixteenth century that took me back to Nkana and my fifteen year old self when I took lessons with Mrs. Bingham, the eighty-year old mother of one of my dad’s co-workers on Nkana mine. She’d been one of Queen Elizabeth II’s official artists, rendering Her Majesty’s intricate proclamations with their tiny gold leaf depictions of fox hunts, deer and country scenes along the borders. For a year, I walked the three miles up to Seventh Avenue on Saturday mornings to spend half the day fashioning the alphabet in Old English script and copying pen and ink birds from the English countryside, getting lost in the detail of the fine black lines of the birds’ tiny claws, wings, beaks, and eyes. The one depicted below is by Noah Strycker.

But it was at the Hammer Museum of Art and Culture that gave me the biggest whomp. Talk about unexpected. It was a spur of the moment decision to enter that room on the second floor after scanning the brochure, something about a twenty minute meditation on bodies absorbed in stillness. Hmm. Sitting on the floor in the cavernous room, I watched as seven, twenty-something men and women dressed in everyday clothes walked into the middle of the floor where an arrangement of three ladders on their sides, plaster casts of  blue jeans placed upside down, and a potted plant on a tree stump had been strategically placed. Standing around the various props, they stared out into nothingness. I glanced around at the audience. Twenty minutes of this?

And then they started singing, “We are dead dolls” and moved slowly around the floor. Still singing, they stopped, most of them in odd uncomfortable positions, head through a ladder rung, neck resting on the crotch of the blue jean prop, another balancing in a chair-like yoga position, a woman squatting on the tree stump holding the potted plant. Weird and tense. This was followed by the first line of the song “One is the loneliest number,” more shifting around, back to “We are dead dolls,” voices becoming louder and cacophonous, stacked group hugs., then striding about, toppling ladders with loud crashes. I felt myself becoming more and more perturbed.

Then with voices unbearably loud, six of them gripped one of the ladders while a woman started up carrying the potted plant. At the top, she flung the pot to the ground where it exploded with a loud crash. Then complete silence. It was over. I felt like the pot. Undone, vulnerable, tears at the back of my throat. Rising to my feet, I clapped until my hands hurt.

On the way out, I read the rest of the performance description. “. . . performers act out different phases of physical and emotional transformation. Language serves as both image and object as voices interact with set pieces in this spiraling narrative.”  Yes, indeed.

Change of Plans

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Bad news. My little holiday up to Portland has been canceled, family illness. So, since I already have someone to babysit Jake and Fergie, me and girlfriend Laural are off to spend Saturday and Sunday nights in La Ciudad de la Reina de los Angeles,  better known as Los Angeles, mother to that den of iniquity, Babylon, or as it is known officially, Hollywood.  The city where stubby, stogie-smoking Mr. Klein, owner of the Astra Cinema in Nkana, Zambia, used to travel to get his movies and hang with the likes of Marilyn Monroe, or so he boasted. I would’ve tried to touch his always impeccable suit sleeve in the hope that some of that American juju would rub off on me, but those slimy looks he gave me and my friends put me off.  Hollywood is also where my youngest son, Layne, my buddy, my pal, at fourteen, played guitar for the the Oziehairs at the Whiskey A Go Go. Juvenile delinquent. But we’re not going to Hollywood.

This is where we’re going, subject to serendipity: The Hammer Museum, The Annenberg Space For Photography, and J. Paul Getty Center. So far I have two places lined up for dinner. For the first night, Border Grill–Mary Sue Milliken and Susan Feniger’s modern Mexican restaurant in Santa Monica. Here’s what I’m thinking of ordering: Quinoa Fritters: crunchy aztec grain,  cotija cheese, aji amarillo, and/or Teradito Verde Peruvian Ceviche: tomatillo, lime, jalapeño, cilantro, red onion, mango, and/or Watercress, Jicama, Orange Salad: bacon wrapped dates stuffed with chorizo and cabrales blue cheese, toasted coriander vinaigrette.

For our second night, Tar & Roses, which is also in Santa Monica. Ever since I read Jonathan Gold’s write-up in the Los Angeles Times about this place, I’ve been itching to visit.  It’s a gastropub with “elevated bar snacks.” Everything is passed through their wood burning oven. The following dish got my mouth watering right off the bat. Bone marrow with pickled onion marmalade,  sea salt and toasted sourdough bread.  And then how about this one as described by Jonathan Gold: “English peas drizzled with oil, sprinkled with sea salt and roasted until the tough pods collapse into sweetness and the peas inside become smoky little sugar bombs, like edamame as re-imagined in CinemaScope by David Lean.” And then there’s the shellfish pot: fresh shrimp, mussels and scallops poached in Thai-inflected coconut curry, which brings a “gentle end to a fiery meal.”  Only thing, this dish is for a party of four. Damn.

City of Angels here we come.

 

Big Red

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Yesterday, for Jake’s first longer-than-ten-minute afternoon walk, I took him and Fergie a quarter of the way up the big hill. And ran into Big Red, our resident rattler. Fat little bugger, only not so little, about three feet long and quite good looking as snakes go.  Lazily coiled in an erosion crevice on the side of the fire access road, he had his chin pillowed on a teenage-size dead rabbit with some fur missing and stared at us as we passed.

If it hadn’t been for the young guy sitting on his haunches a couple feet away staring at Big Red in fascination, I wouldn’t have seen him there.

“You just missed it, he had the rabbit in his mouth.”

“Oh darn,” I murmured.

It was bad enough seeing the poor dead rabbit lying there on his side like he was taking a nap, without witnessing that.  And what was with the missing fur? I didn’t want to think about it. I’m always on the lookout for rattlers, what with two hyper curious dogs. Thank goodness this one had a spectator to warn me.

One time, BF (before Fergie) with a leashless Jake leading the way up the third leg of the hill, he trotted over a greyish rattler stretched across the road. Could’ve been a stick as far as both of us were concerned until I noticed the rattles out the corner of my eye.  I shrieked and, jumping over the snake, grabbed Jake by the collar and charged up the hill dragging him. This was before the law caught up with me. Now, I’m a little more circumspect, checking around for Park Rangers before unhooking their leashes. And in case you’re thinking that maybe a leash would help me rein in both dogs upon the sighting of a snake. It won’t.

Like the time I saw what turned out to be a harmless gopher snake sunning itself on a steep side of the hill just as Fergie was about to step on it. Grabbing her muscular little body, leash and all, I pitched her sideways, like one would a rugby ball. The snake slithered away. This little stunt cost me mucho dinero in doctor and chiropractor bills and brought to light a diagnosis of spondylolisthesis—back problems that had been waiting to happen.

One thing I learned from the sighting of Big Red was that Fergie has a girl’s horror of snakes. She gave Big Red one of her classic craned-neck WTF looks, spun on her two heels and all but dragged me up the hill behind her. Good girl. Jake, on the other hand had slammed on brakes—more investigation needed. Have you ever been pulled in opposite directions by two bull terriers, who single-handedly could drag a tractor up the hill? It’s invigorating. Opens up the chest cavity, equivalent to at least twenty yoga Camel Postures, only a little more forceful.

When we came back down the hill, the snake-watcher was sitting on an embankment on the other side of the road, elbows on knees.  There was no sign of Big Red and the rabbit had moved a few feet away.

“The rattler’s behind that bush,” snake-watcher said. “So I tossed the rabbit after him.”

“Wow,” I said, wondering if he’d grabbed the poor little bunny by the back legs, or what? Never mind that he was in striking range of Big Red. What I should’ve said was, why?

Meanwhile Fergie had made a beeline for the rabbit before I realized. Jake followed suit.  Calling upon muscles that the two of them had helped develop, I planted my feet and pulled them toward me.

“How about a GREENIE?” I cried. If you’re not the fortunate caretaker of a dog, what Henry Beston calls another nation, a Greenie, is a very tasty treat. They swung around. Seizing the opportunity I started running, they followed.

 

Jake And The Pill

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Poor Jake’s got aspiration pneumonia. Apparently after he exhausted himself repeatedly retrieving a hard rubber barbell-looking dog toy he found on the “other” hill last Friday, he sucked in water too fast and some of it ended up in his lungs. He sounded like a tug boat. Freaked me out. Anyway, so he’s on major meds. No frolicking with Fergie—that’s a whole other story, keeping her from bugging him—no pogo’ng up and down against the front fence when the UPS or mail truck passes by, and no mini ball playing while I’m on the “throne”.However, for the next week he’s allowed two, ten-minute strolls a day. Ha ha ha ha. Fergie doesn’t allow strolls and of course she has to go along. And when I turn around at Llewellyn Drive, he stares at me, eyebrows furrowed. Seriously? his look says. Sorry, toots, I say. I love you and that’s how it has to be. So after a couple of days of this, Fergie’s energy had built up to where she was constantly goading him, making him cough. So, on Monday, I took him for his itsy bitsy walk, waited until he was back in the house, made furious hand gestures for Fergie to follow me back out, then slowly closed the door, all the while apologizing profusely to Jake. I can still see his stunned expression, eyeballs stretched beyond their limits as he leaned sideways to follow my guilty gaze out the door. He didn’t say a word; no howling followed me and Fergie out the gate.

When we returned home an hour later after doing the big hill, Jake was pressed against the door, a look of reproach in his eyes. You did it, you actually left me. I know, I know, I told him, kissing him on the snout. Hey, how about a treat? I said brightly and went to stuff his pill into a tasty chicken-flavored “Pill Pocket” and offered it to him. It was time. For the first time in his eight-and-a-half years on the planet, Jake turned his head at the prospect of a treat and stared at the floor beside him then trudged toward his leather chair. I followed him. You sure, I said holding out the chicken pocket inches from his nose with a cheery smile. He didn’t even lift his head. A tiny flare of panic. What if he didn’t take it? Painful memories of my dear Sweetpea, who had major medical problems that required daily meds: all the fear and heartbreak that she would die if she didn’t continue the regimen. (She eventually died but not from refusing her pills.) I slipped the pill into a leftover meatball. He liked those. No way. Even a car ride along with the pill wrapped in bacon didn’t do it.

Quieting my fear, I threw the pill away (by now it had to be ineffective) and decided that Jake would come through, he just needed time. Hard for me to do. But I did it. An hour later, he gulped down the med which I had wrapped in a piece of cheese. He even gave me a lick on the nose. All was forgiven. Funny thing, when I leave both of them behind it’s okay; it was taking Fergie that did it. I learned my lesson.

Pelican Yoga

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I carried myself kicking and screaming to yoga yesterday. I’m still a little wobbly after the flu, plus my back has been acting up. My squigglyiotis of the back is now manifesting as a pain in my side. Okay, I made up that name–it sounds better than the real one, spondylolisthesis. All that means is that a couple of my lower vertebrae have taken a hike toward my belly button, so as to speak. And if it weren’t for all the yoga, walking, running and hiking, I’ve been doing for the past twenty-five years or so, I’d probably be in some serious trouble. So I’m not stopping anything, even though some of the moves in my power yoga routine exacerbates the pain.  My task is to back off when I need to. Hard for me to do.

Here’s where I practice yoga (other than at home). It’s on the grounds of the swanky Montage Resort in South Laguna, on a bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The hour and a half classes are free, courtesy of Carl, a licensed yoga instructor, who does it for the love of yoga and whatever donations anyone is willing to contribute to his favorite charity, a Himalayan children’s school. And not associated with the Montage in any way.

There’s usually anywhere from a couple to thirty or so practioners lined up on the sidewalk, mats butting up against the lawn, even in snow and rain and storms and blazing sun. (That’s me, the shrimp, second from the left in the photo above.) Okay, no snow, but definitely blazing sun in the summer. That’s when you’ll find me chasing every bit of shade I can find.

This was a hot day, even at 8 in the morning. I found a spot hugging the side of the pergola there to the right in the first photo and focused on letting go of my obsession with perfection. Pain is a great teacher. But I’m a reluctant student. And then came time for the leg lifts, etc. done on our backs. That’s when a flock of pelicans drifted above, riding the currents, feet pulled in like landing gear.  They measure fifty inches from bill to toe, and have six-and-a-half-foot wingspans, but these numbers don’t convey the heft of their presence. As I lifted and lowered my legs up and down, I watched as they flapped several times then coasted again. I knew from studying them before that a rhythm reveals itself: effort, glide, effort, glide. I’ll get there.

My Next Adventure

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Nine days later, and I can say I’m operating on all but one cylinder after my bout with the flu. This is the longest it has taken me to get up to speed, well, except for that short bout of meningitis. But I’m happy to say that it’s the cylinder that has to do with appetite, just not hungry. A good thing, right? What’s that saying, you can never be too skinny? Now I can catch up with Mexican food, which I intend to do tonight–one whole flash-fried tilapia at Ricardo’s, a hole in the wall up in Lake Forest.

Which brings me to my upcoming trip in a couple of weeks to Portland Oregon, city of the “Keep Portland Weird” bumper sticker, where I will join my people along with my son and his extended family for five days of whoopee and rock climbing and museums and Powell’s Books. And fabulous restaurants and all cooking together in our communal kitchen. That ought to fatten me up.

 

Illuminating Blogger Award

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I’m absolutely chuffed about this award—that’s a good thing, in case you’re wondering. It couldn’t have come at a better time. How uplifting and encouraging to think my blog is illuminating.

I saw the notification in the comment section on my website a couple of days ago when I managed to crawl into my writing studio for a few minutes after spending the previous four days alternating between my bed and Jake’s leather chair with the flu. The real deal. The kind that zaps your nerve endings, that makes you wish you didn’t have so many body parts to hurt, that makes you go from burrowed beneath every blanket in the house to standing naked in front of the fan, that makes reading impossible, that gives you a headache that morphine won’t stop (actually, that might work). Worst of all, the kind that gave Jake one false hope after another that I would throw the ball for him on one of my many visits to the throne. I would’ve if it didn’t take so much energy.

I’m coming out of it. I managed to read Sunday’s newspaper today, the Advil’s starting to work, and I can now drag myself around instead of having to crawl. But best of all, I’m able to throw the ball for Jake on less frequent visits to the old throne.

I want to give a big heartfelt thank you to C.J. at foodstories.com for the Illuminating Blogger nomination. It was the muti I needed. One more thing, I need to share with you one random thing about myself. I sleep naked. Actually, I think I’ve revealed that before, but hey, maybe you don’t know.

In turn I would like to nominate the following four fabulous inspiring bloggers, in no particular order:

Britton Minor Graffensteiner–The Jaded Lens

Irma Oosthuizen–Lily&Rose Design Studio

Jayne Martin–injaynesworld

Julie Farrar–traveling-through

 

 

Confession

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I have a confession to make. I bombed on the 2012 Blogathon. Instead of blogging every day in May, I missed six days here and there. I’m not happy about it. But I have a couple of really good excuses, with which I won’t bore you. But here’s the thing, I finally realized that I can’t keep it up at this point, even though blogging every day since the April A to Z Challenge shifted something in me and my writing. Compelled to ‘snap to’ faster, I became more confident. I stopped agonizing over every word. I was forced to throw my “babies” out there all spindly-legged and wet behind the ears. I couldn’t call them back.

But now I must return to that final edit of my memoir, Loveyoubye, I was working on before my April challenge.  It has been waiting for me, while I built this new writing muscle, poking me in the ribs every time I sat in my writing chair. Every time I did return to my memoir for a short session here and there, I felt the change in my writing. I’m no longer concerned that I might bore with all those details about what really happened. And for some inexplicable reason, I’m also finding that I’m able to dig deeper into my memory for those bygone days. Go figure. Thank you those dear readers who accompanied me on my daily commute. I will continue to blog, just not every day.