Un-American

I've had two otherwise reasonable people argue with me recently, saying that English should be the official language of the USA, and that everyone who lives here "should" learn English. Apparently, not learning English is "un-American," and we "waste" tax dollars on teachers who teach in other languages (I've yet to find proof of this).

What I find un-American is this attempt to undermine the First Amendment to the United States Constitution. The First Amendment guarantees freedom of speech. The most basic part of speech, before you even get to the words, is which language you are using. So not only does our Consitution guarantee you the right to say obnoxious or offensive things, it allows you to say them in any language you choose. AND - the government cannot dictate which language you say things in, just as it can't dictate what words you say. So this attempt to dictate which language people speak to each other is little more than thought control, which is expressly forbidden in the Constitution. These folks who think they are being so very "American" in their assertion are in fact attempting to undermine the founding document of our government. They themselves are thus un-American.

As for tax dollars, I'd like to know how my friends would pay to make sure everyone in this country spoke English. Are they willing to drag folks to classes against their will? How would these classes be paid for? What standard should we hold people too when we test them? Should those born in this country be assumed to speak English and thus not be tested? (I've encountered many who think they are fluent in English because they were born here and yet don't know good grammar from a hole in the wall -- should these people be taught too at taxpayer expense?) If someone takes these classes and these tests and fails, what punishment should be meted out? How do we pay for the bureaucracy necessary for all this?

Apparently English just somehow, magically, is the language of this country. When I asked where that was written down, either in the Constitution or in some other legal document, I got a blank stare and and the assertion that it just is true. I was told that in France, people must learn French, and it's the same in other countries. Even if that is true, which I doubt, why should America become more like France? Should we violate our own Consitution to become more like a country where you are guilty until proven innocent? The freedoms guaranteed to Americans are what make this country great, and they are what draw immigrants here, including every single one of our ancestors, barring those of Native American descent.

I think mostly people just don't want to be inconvenienced. I have a Russian landlady who struggles with English, and I've had my frustrating moments trying to communicate with her. But guess what? The Constitution doesn't protect you from frustration. It doesn't protect you from being offended. In fact, it very specifically allows people to be offensive and frustrating. That's freedom, people. It's messy. It means we all don't think the same, look the same, talk the same, and act the same.

Welcome to the messy, polyglot economic powerhouse that is America. Welcome to every shade of skin from whitest white to darkest black. Welcome to every language, every creed, every orientation. The US Consitution is a document outlining a country based on the principle of freedom. This is what it looks like. This is what it sounds like.

Adorable Children

I know I'm biased in thinking that my friends have particularly well behaved and adorable children. But really - they just are! Herewith, proof, at least of their physical cuteness. I visited my friend Ruth this weekend, and took these photos. First, there's Emma, now five.


















And here's Dash, all of two. He has a fondness for machinery already. At this point he can't operate a car or a saw, so he has fun with simpler tools, like this juicer, or the mop and bucket. He needs to come over to my place and make me some fresh squeezed orange juice before tending to my hardwood floors.

As you can see, Dash is a redhead, so I sometimes feel like he might be mistaken for mine when I'm pushing him on the swing at the park while Ruth is off playing hide and seek with Emma. But both kids really do look like their lovely Mom.

For more proof that my friends have adorable children, scroll down to see Hunter and Logan playing with sparklers. Although my obvious talent for photography might have something to do with it too... cough cough.

Sparklers

Remember when sparklers were the coolest thing, and you couldn't wait to write your name with them on the Fourth of July? I got a chance to recall that kind of excitement at a friends' BBQ on the 4th.

Maritza lit up the sticks for the kids, who reacted warily at first to the jumpy fire at the other end.

But pretty soon they were jumping around, throwing down poppers, swinging those sparklers like swords.

You gotta love Burbank, that bastion of suburban life. You can't buy sparklers there -- Maritza had to go all the way to Asuza to find some. But they had a fiery display spurted out from the Starlight Bowl that led to a traffic jam of SUVs in the Burbank foothills.

We adults, full of barbecued meat, veggies, and Death by Chocolate, lounged nearby and awaited the fireworks, which burst nearly overhead thanks to Pam and Scott's excellent location. We concluded, that amortized over 30 years of July 4ths, the view of the fireworks had to add at least a quarter of a million to the value of their home.

Young Hunter's commentary during the display was even more entertaining than the fireworks themselves. During one burst he said, "It's a puppy!"

The Emmy's - Now with Only One Foot in the Grave!

My latest and most popular column so far is up at Monsters and Critics (http://smallscreen.monstersandcritics.com). I take the Emmys to task and am rather opinionated, shall we say, in my views. One opinion begets another, so there are already a few comments from readers. Some praise me. Some say I am "very small in my thought." Whatever -- it's all good! Hate me, but read me!

What to Watch This Summer

My latest column shamelessly uses the tried and true "List" to get your attention. I'm sure you've noticed how ubiquitous lists are in magazines these days. People love debate. They enjoy comparing their own thoughts rankings with a writer's opinion. We writers are happy to use that to get you to read our stuff.

So check out my list of top ten things to watch on TV this summer season at http://smallscreen.monstersandcritics.com and compare it to your own private list. Curse me for a fool, or laud me as a genius, but just check it out. We writers love attention!

Movies for the Dead

I joined a group of friends at the cemetery for a movie the other night. Every summer, Hollywood Forever, cemetery to the stars, hosts movies on Saturday nights. Yes, it's rather appalling to think of "Philadelphia Story" (a great movie, by the way) being projected onto the wall of a mausoleum while picnickers enjoy wine and cheese not far from the tomb of Douglas Fairbanks and one of the Ramones. It's disrespectful, I suppose. When I discussed this outing with friends at work, they expressed a distaste for disturbing the dead in such a manner.

But I enjoyed it. I've always liked cemeteries -- they are not only peaceful, but fascinating. We're all so afraid of death. How we decide to mark our deaths provides a fascinating show for those left behind. And Hollywood Forever contains the remains of Rudolph Valentino and Mary Pickford. What better way to celebrate them than to watch the very medium that made them famous amongst their crypts? When I went to Paris, I visited Pere-Lachaise cemetery and found Oscar Wilde's tomb covered with lipstick kisses. I couldn't help wondering - were most of them put there by men or women? Was Oscar's shade uttering excoriating witticisms on this foolishness, or did he appreciate it? Just how long does a lipstick kiss last when smooched onto stone, anyway?

Just to clarify - at Hollywood Forever, picnickers are not actually seated on or near tombstones during the films. There's a big grassy area where you can drop your blanket or set up your beach chair. We established our enclave at the foot of a large mausoleum, but we did not touch it, since the resident had fortuitously built an iron fence around it to keep picnickers at bay. Port-a potties, with electric lights inside, stood by at the other end of the grassy area to accomodate those particular needs. Loud, bass-heavy dance music pounded incongruously at us as DJ continued to pick songs utterly inappropriate to either our location or the movie selection. I think I recognized a Prince song at one point, but the vocals and upper registers were so faint, it was nearly impossible to tell.

As Valerie and I ate grapes, salad, and cheese, sipped a fine merlot, and chatted with her friends Vanessa and Monty, a full golden moon rose over the palm trees. Night fell, and I reclined as the movie revved up and took the crowd by storm. At first the sound was almost too echoy to for comprehension. But my ears quickly assimilated. The only obstacles to enjoyment were my aching back (note to self: next time bring a beach chair), the couple in front of me, who would snuggle and kiss at unpredictable intervals, blocking my view at crucial dramatic moments (note to self: curse all couples for snuggling while I recline alone), and the fireworks, which began around 10:30 on the Paramount lot a few blocks away (note to self: develop contacts to get invited to cool Saturday parties on the Paramount lot that feature fireworks.) Normally I'm a fireworks fan, but the loud cracking and popping interfered with the ripsnorting dialogue that drives "Philadelphia Story" to its hilarious conclusion. Nonetheless, we all applauded as it flew to its end.

Dodger Cathedral

Spent a hot day at Dodger Stadium with friends, sweating in the shade while downing dogs and Diet Coke. The city stole it from the poor immigrants who lived here years ago, but it's a gorgeous cathedral of a place, complete with beautiful hills, blue sky, and palm trees.



Having good friends there to sweat by my side helped make it worthwhile. John Mark wore his Krusty the Clown hat rather than his Yankees hat, since it was a Dodgers-Phillies contest. The heat was astonishing. While standing in line for a Dodger Dog, I thought I was going to keel over. To top that off, the Phillies won, 6-2. Don't know if I'll venture out for a day game again, given my heliophobia.



Mike and Caroline brought along their adorable daughter, Sabrina, who was amazingly good throughout, despite missing her nap. A nice woman in neighboring seats loaned us one of those mini-fans that also squirts water to cool Sabrina down. But that was it -- Sabrina had to have one of her own. But we all ended up taking turns getting squirted, particularly John Mark, whom she seemed to take particular delight in tormenting.

Latest Column - Phone TV

I babble in fascinating fashion about the latest thing to hit the airwaves, television series on your phone, all in my latest column of "Notes from the Wasteland" at www.monstersandcritics.com.

Forget "Lost" on your Ipod, soon you'll have short episodes you can subscribe to that are available exclusively through your wireless provider. What will work in a such a medium? The fields is wide open. And a lot of money rides on the answer.

Bellows at Noon on Friday

Also known as Paradise. Just got back.

Bellows is on an Air Force base, so it's only open to the public on weekends, beginning Fridays at noon. This is the best time to go to the best beach on Oahu, and one of the best beaches in the world.

The waves were small this time, but I still caught a few. After all, it was just me, bobbing in the warm, blue green water. I think I spotted these people waaaaaay down the beach, futzing with their boogie boards.

It's home, this water.

Lobster Night

My friend Pam held a girls-only Lobster Night at her house in Burbank the other night. That's her adorable son Hunter eyeing the cooked product. What a feast!

Sort of...

I arrived to find the lobsters alive, of course, in a cooler full of salt water, awaiting their demise. I lifted the lid and glanced inside -- and that was my undoing. There the ugly little creatures lay atop one another, feebly waving their antennae. Lack of oxygen in the water had reduced them to weary acquiescence. I hadn't ever met my food before I ate it before. I felt a stab of pity as I realized these creatures were already dying. And soon I would help cook them alive and eat them. Oy. My stomach gave a lurch.

Then Pam's friend Dorothy, expertly grilling the veggies, told me how sometimes they try to scuttle out of the pot as they cook... Dorothy laughed at this thought - and at my face as I felt another jolt of queasiness.

I did not enter the kitchen as the live lobsters were taken in for the finale. I was later told how they reared up to avoid the boiling hot water as they were lowered into it. Maritza told me that she just convinced herself that they were big ugly bugs who deserved to die. I tried to convince myself of that. I really did.

We began with salad, grilled veggies, corn on the cob, bread... All delicious. I was filling up fast. Then the lobsters, now a beautiful red, were brought out. I watched as the other women ravenously dismembered the shellfish, plucked out the juicy meat, and ate it.

I felt sick. And hypocritical. I eat meat. I eat pork, chicken, shrimp, fish... why couldn't I eat these lobsters? They were already dead. If I didn't eat mine, someone else would. But I just couldn't do it. I had one bite of one of Dorothy's claws, all buttery deliciousness, and that was it. I tried not to watch the exoskeletons and black/green guts pile up on everyone else's plates.

Ann-Marie took my lobster home for her husband, and she even paid my share of the lobster cost, most generously. Later on there were strawberries and shortcake. The conversation and company were wonderful. But I couldn't help feeling the ghosts of those eaten lobsters hovering over my shoulders.

No, I haven't turned vegetarian. I love meat - as long as I don't meet it first.

Tag, I'm It!

My friend Wendee tagged me (check out her cool blog at http://thefridgedoor.blogspot.com) in this thing going around amongst bloggers. I'm supposed to list five things in my fridge, purse, nightstand, wallet, closet, and car.

Normally, I'm not keen on "chain" stuff, but this one holds no dire warnings if you don't participate and promises nothing if you do. And it's all about ME. What could be more fun?

Fridge (covered with postcards from foreign lands and photos of my friends and their children, by the way): Britta water filter, Diet Coke, cat food can with one of those rubber cover thingies on it to keep it fresh, veggies, grated Parmesan/Romano cheese mix from Trader Joes, Ginger Ale, beer, wine, leftover veggie pasta, leftover refried beans, tortillas... Okay that's way more than five, but my fridge is always packed with food. I like knowing that I can open it and find something to eat.

Purse: Notebook and pen, sunglasses, checkbook, mini-purse with lipstick, phone.

Nightstand: Moved a few things out of this recently because my Mom is coming to visit and if she snoops I don't want her to find anything. So it's rated PG for now! Four books (Great Expectations [finished reading, haven't put it away], Capote [the biography] The Story of the Amulet [classic victorian children's book] and one of the Calvin & Hobbes collection I inherited from my friend Brian), a glass of water, my glasses, linen spray in supposedly soothing tones of lavendar and something else, which I haven't used in ages.

Wallet: Cash, a couple of credit cards, license, insurance cards, stamps.

Closet: Usually there's a cat in there somewhere. Luggage waiting to be used for a trip, scarves I never wear, clothes I do wear.

Car: Relatively clean! Leather interior that kinda smells like french fries. A paper bag full of tennis balls, two tennis racquets, container 'o kitty litter, notebook.

Gonna tag my friend Valerie and her cool blog Artifical Sweetener (http://foothilldrive.blogspot.com) to see what she's hiding...

"Notes" on the End of the TV Season

The editor of Monsters and Critics says that of the six or seven new columns featured on that website, mine vies for most popular, along with one called Wedlock. I know - small potatoes in the big world of media, but nonetheless encouraging to a writer like me, who assumes no one is paying any attention.

My latest column (go to: http://smallscreen.monstersandcritics.com/ and click on "Notes from the Wasteland") lays bare just how new shows are picked for the fall season.

Here's a hint -- it's all about the money. No surprise there, but in the column I go into the behind-the-scenes machinations that make or break a new TV show. Also included - my picks for which shows "on the bubble" should be picked up for fall, and which should be dropped. Take a look.

LA Book Fest

I attended the Los Angeles Book Festival this weekend. It's quite an extravaganza that takes place on the grounds of UCLA. There are hundreds of tents, filled with books, representing publishers, writers groups, authors, organizations (everyone from the Getty Museum to the Scientologists) and anyone else with a connection to books.

I arrived late on Sunday - around 2pm, and got a chance to listen to Sebastian Junger talk about his latest book, A Death in Belmont. Here's the sort of author you dream about, a handsome man in his early forties, tan, fit, smart, liberal -- who can write! He discussed getting shot at in Afghanistan, and how that educated him on how little people remember during a violent event, since his own memory of a fire fight agains the Taliban turned out to be faulty. He was thoughtful, and able to talk about his life or death experiences without sounding self centered or pretentious.

I almost bought his book, but I'd already spent a bundle on a lithograph -- you can see it above. It's a limited edition, signed by one of my favorite illustrators of children's books, the legendary Garth Williams. Those who read Charlotte's Web or Stuart Little will recognize his soft, warm, expressive style This drawing is from A Cricket in Times Square, by George Seldon. If you have kids from 6 - 10 who like to read, and they haven't read this book yet -- BUY IT! It's simple, sweet and funny. Here you can see Chester Cricket, Tucker the Mouse, and Harry Cat feasting in Tucker's drainpipe home near the subway in Times Square. When I read the book, I'd never been to New York City, and this book gave me a marvelous picture of it's crowded, skyscrapered, multicultural life. I know very little about Garth Williams, but I know he must've loved animals, given how beautiful and full of character his drawings of them are.

Looking at this drawing makes me smile and feel warm inside. When I bought it, the woman taking my order said, "Garth Williams. Sometimes I think I learned to read because of him."

And that's it -- exactly. The power of art is incalculable. Even something as simple as the illustration in a children's book can be something you carry with you the rest of your life.

Sexual Harassment or Creative License?

The California Supreme Court ruled against the plaintiff in a sexual harassment case involving a writers' assistant and the producers of "Friends."

What did I think of the ruling? As a former writers' assisant, I feel free to give my opinion. Check out my latest column at www.monstersandcritics.com. Click on "TV" in the upper right, then on the name of my column, Notes from the Wasteland, to find out.

Outing Myself...

...as a cat owner.

Almost gotcha with that headline, didn't I?

No, it's time to end this ridiculous stereotype about single women of 40 who have cats. Every time I read something about aging, there's a woman in there somewhere moaning that soon she'll be living alone with cats, and then her life will be over.

Well, I'm here to buck that bullshit. I live alone. I have two cats. I've owned three and had up to five living with me at one time. I've rescued wild kittens and taken cats from shelters to find them homes. I've trapped feral cats and had them neutered before releasing them. I give money to Alley Cat Allies and the Feral Cat Alliance, along with the Humane Society and SPCA-LA. I've never been married, and I have no children.

But you know what? I have a life. I'm not some lonely spinster with nowhere to put her love. That idea is just, well, ridiculous. People need to find a new metaphor for loneliness, because the "Cat Lady" stuff won't fly anymore.

Single women with cats DO:

1. Have sex. In fact, I've had more sex since I became a cat owner. I get a lot of attention from men (not that this validates me as a human being -- but it just blasts the "Cat Lady" stereotype all to hell, and, hey, it's good for my ego). I love men. Yeah, I'm still looking for one great one to spend my life with, but in the meantime, let's just say that life has been good to me. No, I won't go into details. A survey of my single friends indicates no correlation between cat-ownership and lack of sex. Get over it, people.

2. Clean their house. Yeah, I've probably got more hair in my carpet than non-cat owners. But the constant battle against fur and litter prompts me to sweep my bathroom (where the cat box lives) every single day. How many non-cat owners can make that claim? My house does not smell like cats. I've queried my most honest and critical friends to make sure I'm not deluding myself on this point. The worst smells usually come from outside, when my nutty neighbors pee in the hallway or leave their garbage outside to rot. People shed more hair and skin and leak far worse odors than cats do.

3. Love dogs. If I had the space for a dog, I'd get one. Apartment living in a town where few can afford to buy is the culprit here, not cats.

4. Have good taste in home decorations and clothes. Every cutesy cat object I own was given to me. I do not buy them. It just doesn't occur to me. In honor of my dear departed Aunt Janet, I do have one of her cat magnets on my fridge. Cat-wise -- that's it. I don't wear t-shirts featuring fluffy kittens or cats hanging from tree limbs with the saying "Hang in there." Do I go "awww" when I see the Puppy Bowl on Animal Planet? Sure. But I've seen grown (married!) men babble like children when they see a cute animal. That's human nature, whether you are single, young, old, married, lonely, or busy.

5. Have a life. This hooey about the lonely cat-loving spinster who never leaves the house would be hilarious if it wasn't so ubiquitous. I've lived in many different cities, traveled to Europe more times than I can bother to count, and floated down the Nile, taking in the sun. I work in what some consider a glamorous industry (TV - believe me, it ain't) and have attended parties and premieres surrounded by famous bozos. I've had drinks at world famous "see and be seen" spots. Hell, I've partied at the Playboy Mansion. Sure, I don't feel like I fit in at these places. I find Hollywood's shallowness and greed dispiriting. But it's yet another strike against the Cat Lady cliche. Take that!

This coming weekend I have plans for Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights, each with a different person or group. Not to mention yoga, brunch, and writing plans for the weekend days. This is typical for me. Sometimes my social schedule is so busy that it exhausts me, and I shut down and cancel everything to recharge. I'm not complaining -- I'm pointing out the utter lack of correlation between cat ownership and loneliness. There are many nights when I say "no" to invitations so that I can have some quiet.

But I love my life. I've created one that's full of activity, fun, support, and love. I love my cats too.

Goodbye, Grandma

My dear grandmother, Christine Blythe, died of lung cancer on Friday, April 7. The loss is still too fresh for me to really wax eloquent. But my grandmother was a fascinating woman. She was tiny, compared to me, and you could see the Cherokee heritage her family tried to deny in her jet black hair and killer cheekbones.

Born in Oklahoma, my grandmother was the treasured youngest of thirteen children. When she was 17, her 21-year-old boyfriend, LT Moore, was killed while driving drunk. A month later, young Christine found she was pregnant. After my mother, Jacqueline Kay, was born, my grandmother remarried the man my mother thought of as her father. Four more children were born to her -- Jerry, Barbara, Michael, and Tommy. Five years after Tommy was born, she divorced, remarried, and divorced again. Now living in Key West, Florida, my grandmother worked hard as a bartender, in what was mostly a gay bar. She served drinks to Tennessee Williams and Truman Capote, among others.

She later said that she really enjoyed her life -- that she liked her job, and that she had many good times with her friends. In fact, she was quite the partier, smoking and drinking enough to put the current Spring Break kids to shame. Even as she suffered with lung cancer, she said she never regretted the smoking and parties. She lived her life the way she wanted.

She must've been an excellent bartender, because she chatted easily with anyone. Everyone liked her. Even in her last three weeks of life, when she was taken to an in-patient hospice, she won the hearts of all her nurses and attendants with her easy-going nature and interest in their lives. She hardly ever complained, and enjoyed nothing more than juicy gossip, baseball (especially the Atlanta Braves) and football, particularly her beloved Miami Dolphins.

Nine or so years ago, she came to live with my mother. She was suffering then from various lung ailments and osteoporosis. For the rest of her life she moved around the country with my mother, uncomplaining, making new friends, and reconnecting with Mom, her oldest daughter. This was when I got to know her best. I didn't see her much when I was a child. Grandma was closest to those who were closest -- physically closest. With her in Key West and me in Hawaii, I never got to know her. But when she came to live with Mom I finally got the opportunity to really find out who she was, and to love her. For that and many other reasons, I'm grateful to my Mother for making a home for Grandma. She made a mean martini, watched "Regis & Kelly," and could quote baseball statistics till my eyes crossed. She loved chicken 'n dumplings, and baked carrot cake so good I'd end up having dessert for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

She always carried her soft southern drawl, and wasn't afraid to make tart observations. Her bartender training gave her a sharp eye for character. I asked her what Capote was like. She shook her head: "Mean drunk." And Tennessee Williams? "A flaming faggot."

"Grandma!" I said. "That's not a nice way to put it."

"I can't kindly help it," she said, shrugging. "I had a lot of gay friends, but I never liked the ones who were, you know, flaming. And he just always wanted attention, saying 'Look at me, I'm the big writer.' Well, nuts to that."

I tried to plumb her memories about the man who had been my grandfather -- the biological father my own mother had never known. But she couldn't remember much, and she didn't seem to care that she'd forgotten. Oh sure, she'd been upset when he died, she guessed. But that was all a long time ago. She wasn't a sentimental woman. That served her well during difficult unmarried teenage years with a baby, perhaps. It also lead to some estrangement from her children. And for an unsentimental woman, she nonetheless came to regret that distance. She knew that she'd created it. It had helped her lead the life the she wanted, but it had its cost. In those last nine years together, she and my mother came to an understanding, I think. And I came to love her more than I ever thought possible. She is missed.

Possum Central

I don't understand why people don't like opossums. I mean, look at this cute little thing. She's an arboreal marsupial, not a rodent. And that long, naked tail is prehensile. When she gets old enough, she'll carry her children in a pouch, like a kangaroo.

Her name is Leia, and she's the daughter (or son, possibly) of Lana, the first opossum I started feeding at the Cat Food Bowl of Plenty on my little back porch.

She's very shy. I tried to take photos through my screen door, but the flash just turned the screen into a blur. So I sneaked out, and she fled. I lurked. She toddled back and drank some rainwater out of an empty can of cat food left outside by my neighbors. (They are nice but tend to leave garbage out back for weeks at a time. I'm refusing to clean up after them, until I just can't stand it any more.) Then she made her way back to the cat food and began crunching. Guess she got used to the flash, because she stayed and ate while I got a few shots.

The other night I heard a scrabbling outside my front window. I pushed aside the curtains to see Leia's little paws clutching the ivy growing over the windows. I shone a light on her, to see better and perhaps discourage her from trying that too often, since if she fell, she'd crash through my screen. But she was gone. Opossums are arboreal, dude. They don't look as dextrous as monkeys, but stick 'em on a vine and watch 'em zoom upward.

Latest "Notes"

My latest column's online today at www.monstersandcritics.com. I review the first four episodes of "The Sopranos," a series which is reaching new heights in its final season. If you aren't watching it now, be sure to view it later, when it comes out on DVD.

The Chateau by Night

It's a rainy day here in Los Angeles. Rivers criss-cross the parking lot at work, making it an adventure to get to my car. Twas just such a night when I took this photo of my apartment building, not many days ago. It's got the word Chateau in its name and was built, or so I've heard, in the 1920's by movie stars Elsa Lanchester (aka the Bride of Frankenstein) and Charles Laughton (Henry VIII) to house their guests.

In spite of noisy neighbors, difficult parking conditions on weekends, and occasional hooker sightings, I love my neighborhood and my building. I won't live there forever. After all, a woman needs real closet space. But I've been there for nine and a half years -- longer than I've ever lived anywhere else in my life.

At night the lights glow forth from the apartments, and you can see the silhouettes of pet cats staring out the windows.

Wild parrots nest in that jacaranda tree out front. My upstairs neighbor keeps a birdfeeder dangling from a high branch to make sure they never leave us.

Late Night Eats

Another reason to love Los Angeles is Jan's. On a rainy night, if you need to mull over life's idiosyncracies with a hungry friend, the place to head is Jan's, here on Beverly Blvd, just east of La Cienega.

Want pie at 1am? Got a taste for bacon and eggs for dinner? Jan's is happy to oblige.

I've spent more evenings than I can count here with friends. The coffee keeps coming, no matter how long you sit. Across the aisle you might see a bent old man with a walker. He's a regular, wearing that green sweater and hopeful combover, doing a crossword puzzle. And the cops? They love this place. Venture here after midnight, and you'll often see three or four police cars, one of them a K-9 unit, parked outisde, while the officers sit inside, chowing down on fried zucchini or a spinach salad.

There's one particular waiter I recommend -- and whose name, of course, I've never gotten. He's latino, tall, slightly burly, and he's right there with your coffee. We always tip him well, and he always obliges me with an ice cream sundae simply swarming with whipped cream, cherries and nuts. The booths near the windows are nice, but it's worth it to sit in the back if that's where he's serving that night. Darn. Wish I had a photo of him. Maybe on my next visit.