Thursday, October 28, 2010


It's one of those insanely beautiful SoCal days today. The winds have swept the basin clean and you can see details on the mountain range, and Catalina looks like it's 20 feet away. This kind of day is responsible for our staying here in spite of being sick to death of the traffic, the politics (at work and everywhere) and our tiny little apartment. Of course, in NYC this apartment would be considered huge, but we are chaffing at the bonds and ready to find a house with a yard.
Which is where I would be typing this right now. Actually, I should be working, but I can't concentrate with this pretty day outside my window. Tom and Susan's play, Caddie W, is about a week away from being published and T and I have been frantically editing, rewriting, formatting, Sibeliusing. He has contracted a phenomenal graphic artist to give us a recognizable logo/brand/cover (the talented BM, an old friend and a huge talent.) My back aches from sitting on the couch, on the bed, anywhere possible, to try and find a comfortable place, as I clack away on the computer. It's pretty fab to see the proofs with the venerable Samuel French logo right under the names. Actually it kinda makes me sick to my stomach with excitement. T and I are suffering from major stress, but neither of us can pin down why. Everything is on track. We weren't able to get the rights to the original drawings, which led us to get a better one, that will reflect SleepTillNoon's brand. The piano score is almost perfect, even if I did go crazy when his Highness demanded proofing and re-proofing and re-editing, but damn it, he was right. So why the stress? Maybe because it feels like a huge door is about to open, and we are gearing up for the challenge.
I have to get back to work, deadline is a week away. Once more unto the breach.

Sunday, October 10, 2010

Not so lovely Rita

"Tell the truth, if Osama bin Laden and a meter maid both came strolling toward your car, you'd probably think, "Oh no, here comes a GD meter maid."
The parking Nazi bastards have done it again. But this time... bwahaha! This time Officer Hoohaw has got another think coming. He came around at 14:37, he tickets me at 16:23. Getting past the bloody annoying military time, that means I had 14 minutes to move the car! Oh over-eager donut eater, the sign says 2 hours. 2 complete hours. Not 1 hour and 46 minutes. My vengeance will be swift and terrible.
What must it be like to be the most loathed of the service sector? What does a meter maid or daddy have to redeem hisself? Nuthin'. They save no kittens, escort no old ladies across the street, earn no teary smiles of gratitude for forcing one to move ones car.
My street is not a particularly busy one, especially during the day. There is no great NEED to move the car every two hours, when the majority of the parking is taken up by the apartment dwellers. But as someone pointed out, two tickets is nearly $100 for the city of LB. You watch a street sweeper and the army of PNazi's cruising in front of 'em. "Writing" a ticket (they come spitting out of a dear little machine) takes 2 minutes and I once counted 10 cars on a 3 block stretch of Belmont shore. $500 in 20 minutes.
Maybe instead of hating them, we should come up with a bribe scheme. I'm willing to slip The PN $20 a month to leave Alfie alone. C'mon, you know they are making a sad little just over the minimum living! Who's in? A new campaign, learn to LOVE the meter maid.
Ah, who'm I kidding. They must hire sadists for that job. They get a frisson ticketing the over worked mom with 2 baby seats in the car outside of the hospital. Or the guy who is at his first job interview in a year, who had to dig under the couch for enough quarters to get a gallon of gas.
Well Officer Hoohaw, I challenge you to a duel. Or at least a lesson in telling time.

Saturday, October 09, 2010

Food Hood

The best thing about living in the 'hood, is the availability and variety of INCREDIBLE food. We have had Cambodian, Salvadorean, Vietnamese, Korean, Armenian, Lebanese plus a Mexican roasted chicken that puts Pollo Loco to shame. All of it great, and all of it cheeeep.
There is a little Pho place on Anaheim where we get change back from a twenty for 2 HUGE bowls of soup and 2 iced coffee (Another smackdown for a chain, these coffees would kill Starbucks)
I had Pupusas for breakfast from our farmers market. And the place I got the roast chicken also makes fresh tortillas and salsa. I found the place by following the huge cloud of smoke, and found a man cooking in a sketchy looking parking lot, but the smell was pure heaven.
T and I always say that we are going to let ourselves get fat and happy and eat our way around the world.
I don't really trust people who don't love food. Food = love, sex, joy, happiness. Mind, I mean good food. I would rather eat dry chicken and overcooked quinoa than put myself through fast food restaurants.
And before anyone gets all hoity toighty about food intake and calories and blah blah blah, I do control my portions, and I go to the gym every day. I'd rather run on the treadmill an extra 45 minutes than forgo something delicious. Those days where I have dieted, I have been grouchy, irascible and impossible to put up with. Besides, the joy of the kind of food I am describing, is that generally the portions are MUCH smaller than, say, your average TGIFridays, the ingredients are fresh, and there is so much fun in trying something new.

Monday, October 04, 2010

RIP Tony Curtis

It started at his funeral. The girl in the iconic white dress, the too blonde hair and the overdone makeup found herself weeping. She had come to Vegas as a lark, put her wigs and shoes in her car and hurriedly picked out the white dress with the pleats. She loved Marilyn, and the guy had been the blonde goddess' old flame. But the old 8 x 10 of the beautiful lips, the eyes, bluer than rainwater knocked her in her tracks. The loud Bronx accent. The old Hollywood glamour, that was dying every day. Studio stars were almost all dead. The TV people from the 70's were going, so that meant the real glamour was almost all gone. And for HIM to be dead. Well, it was the end of Hollywood. When Liz Taylor goes, it's gone for sure and if Hollywood was gone, there was nothing left to live for.