The dog days are upon us…

I’ve been away from my blog for a bit – as those of you, my silent readers who never comment – must have noticed. It’s been a challenging 10 days. The temperature has been in the triple digits since last weekend, and the humidity is relentless. The skies are brown from smog and a fire that has been burning north of Santa Barbara since July 4^th. People get on my nerves – they drive like idiots and remind me of the flies that seem to be everywhere all the time now. I take three showers a day and still feel unwashed. If kitchen trash sits for more than half a day, it takes on a lingering stench usually associated with 3 day old dead bodies – this you will be relieved to know, I understand more from instinct than from any actual experience.

As a result, I and my foul temper stay inside with the air conditioner and two fans going (Al, I’m sorry, but I will buy my wind power card at Whole Foods tomorrow, I promise). The shades are drawn and liquids full of electrolytes are at the ready. Every so often I register a change in the atmosphere as an intensification of the headache I’ve had for the past week. I don’t get allergies in Los Angeles, I get headaches; nasty ones that make me feel like my right eyeball is on fire, to be precise. It’s hard to write about my reluctant love of L.A. in such conditions.

In fact, it’s almost more than I can bear to lift an icy glass of Spanish rose to my lips, and nibble on the few organic lettuces that accompany my store bought pissaladerie for lunch / dinner. I can barely rally the strength to focus my good eye on the Fall fashion issues of my favorite glossies. Vogue, is so heavy I can’t even lift it, which is probably a good thing, since the thought of anything except for lightly chilled ocean salt water touching my skin makes me ill – let alone all those lovely tailored lightweight wools and leathers worn over tights and this season’s must have booties.

To be honest, I haven’t even made it past the cover of Details with Clive Owen on the cover – he’s not as moody as he looks – but note to the writer: I do not want to know how what he really wants to do is take his wife to a soccer match. I want to know how he’s pining away moodily after the amazing woman he saw when last he was in Los Angeles, the one that he can’t get out of his mind- with the lustrous pewter and platinum hair, the amazing eyes, and the –lets be honest – gorgeous breasts just recently relieved of 6 excess pounds and now floating perkily under the kinds of summer dresses they could only dream of supporting in years past…oh, oh, where is she?- cries Clive. Staring at a picture of you on the cover of Details, mate. I’ll be back as soon as I add just a smidgen of vodka to my strawberry lemonade…

I actually did leave the house twice this past week, once to go to the beach, which was worth the painful sunburn, and once to go on the oddest job interview of my life. Details follow.

This interview was with a media luminary who I actually admire quite a bit. I won’t name her, but her initials are A.H. and she’s written many books – most recently about being a woman and being bold – and she runs an online media empire. She used to represent hateful things; marriage to and rapacious campaigner for a rich, closeted queer neocon creep attempting to take over my beloved California. And then there was her biography of one of my favorite artists, Pablo Picasso, which focused almost exclusively on his dark personal life – not fair!! Note to all intelligent people: Personal lives of creative geniuses are almost always strange and often sordid –witness this month’s profile of Arthur Miller in Vanity Fair. But she had the courage (and nerve, some would say) to divorce the creep, grab his money and reinvent herself as “a compassionate and progressive populist,” something that appears heartfelt and admirable, or utterly calculated, which just seems like too much work.

Being interested, I arrived ahead of schedule, with sweat dripping down my back from the heat of the drive in an un- air-conditioned car, hoping that maybe this woman would pay enough that I could replace it –maybe with a Prius, like the one she drives. I waited a few minutes to let the Brentwood breezes cool me down a bit, and then I rang at the gate. The door opened, and I was admitted into one of those short front yards peculiar to Los Angeles mansions, after which I walked through an open door into a cool foyer to be guided by The Voice into a large airy office with twenty foot ceilings and floor to ceiling windows that framed her large desk. There were books and comfortable furnishing all around and I just wanted to plop down on the sofa, kick off my shoes, pick something up to read and say – hey, what have you been up to? Can you believe the f***in’ weather? But my Mother raised me, and I walked to my designated seat instead, and commented on the room’s handsome appointments. “Yes, isn’t it comfy?” she said in her luscious, honey soaked accent, and then she took a couple of phone calls. In between, she asked me the same question twice – so you are returning to writing?- and seemed to register my responses, but I can’t really be sure. She then sent me upstairs to meet her other assistant.

On the way up, I spotted a Modigliani. “This is real?” I asked reflexively- and she responded – “no, definitely not”- but you have to agree that a print of a Modigliani nude next to the spiral staircase leading up to the “team’s” office is a pretty interesting choice.

The assistant was a pleasant but humorless worker who gave me the task of cleaning out A’s contacts in Outlook for awhile. The air conditioning was broken in this airless atelier, and my hand kept sticking to the page of duplicate contacts I was supposed to weed out. I did that for about 30 minutes, fact-checking famous names as I went, and that was it. The worker told me that AH would be calling me that night or tomorrow, and escorted me to the door.

Of course it’s several days after tomorrow, and no phone call, but I’ve lived here long enough to know that in Hollywood, actually getting a phone call would be an exception to the rule. I guess I just didn’t realize just how Hollywood A is.

I still wish she had called because I sincerely want to know: what exactly was the point of that particular exercise? Was the Outlook task some kind of timed contact management exercise, perhaps? The worker assured me that it wasn’t a test when I asked her, but she also told me she liked her job, and I wasn’t convinced by her answer to that question either.

There are a number of possible scenarios that explain why I didn’t get a call back; you choose the one you like the best (or add one of your own):

• I’m older than she thought I’d be, and she likes young assistants because they are less expensive, and are also less likely to talk back,

• She’s gay and the sight of me and my previously described breasts distracted her to the point where she knew her life and work would be in ruins if she hired me,

• She was worried that the writer in me might do the same sort of hatchet job on her that she did on Picasso,

• She found my blog through my email address and hates it, and couldn’t possibly hire someone who would write such non-erudite mulch,

• She’s been busy covering the Utah Mining Disaster and Karl Rove and Hillary and she honestly thought the worker was going to call me,

• It was at the top of her list to call with a very attractive compensation package and a puff of fresh air into my otherwise stale life, until she read this post…

Whatever…

Now I’m back on my side of town, and noticing just how decidedly asymmetrical Clive Owen’s face is, and how it shouldn’t add to his allure but it does, and how, in Bourne Identity his face looks positively tidy and symmetrical, and how does he do that? Can he make himself look asymmetrical? If so, he’s even more incredible than I thought! Why does he display his wedding ring so much in his Details photos? Is it the equivalent of the sign of the cross against vampires? Why are all the male models in the rest of the magazine so young and so emaciated? They look like Oliver Twist -more soup please! It’s worse than in Vogue, where the girls at least sometimes try to look of age…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Are we now a nation of self obsessed pedophiles?

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It’s the Fourth of July

It’s Fourth of July and anyone in Los Angeles heading to see fireworks had better already be there. I can hear the first crackles and pops from Universal Studio’s display, and if I try, I could maybe see some twinkling star fire above my neighbors’ tree tops. But I’m not of a mind to angle for a better view. Nor did I spend the day eating hot dogs and potato chips at the beach. Too much trouble: too crowded, too much traffic. Way too hot.

I had a vague plan to catch up on housekeeping, errands and reading today. By the time I made it to my local coffeehouse at 10AM, I was “glowing.” By the time I made it to the patio with my coffee and muffin at 10:15AM, sweat was streaming down my back in rivulets. I didn’t have my glasses.  This became a sign to go home and make use of the air conditioning that is eating up the savings from my gas bill; maybe I could get enough housework done so that my weekend can be chore-free. In the car, the radio played Paul Simon singing An American Tune:

We come on the ship they call the Mayflower
We come on the ship that sailed the moon
We come in the age’s most uncertain hours
and sing an American tune
Oh, and it’s alright, it’s alright, it’s alright
You can’t be forever blessed
Still, tomorrow’s going to be another working day
And I’m trying to get some rest
That’s all I’m trying to get some rest

I’ve always envisioned this song being sung by a lonely soldier, circa Viet Nam. I thought of a line from Tim O’Brien’s The Things They Carried: “They carried all they could bear, and then some…” It was hard to shake the moment off. It was hard not to break down in tears.

 

A little later I saw high clouds drifting through the sky. A breeze picked up. I remembered hearing someone mention that fire-retardant was being sprayed around areas near local fireworks displays as a precaution against wildfires.

 

In the afternoon, I fell asleep reading House of Meetings by Martin Amis:

 

Yes, so far as the individual is concerned, Venus, it may very well be true that character is destiny. And the other way around. But on the larger scale character means nothing. On the larger scale, destiny is demographics; and demographics is a monster.

 

Later, I ran out to do some errands and encountered two bewildered drunks with red faces and paunchy, hairless bare chests being cuffed and stuffed into a squad car while peope stood around watching. As I pulled up to the curb in front of my house, a pair of runaways approached me. They wanted a ride into Hollywood. They’d been walking all the way from Sun Valley, they said. She had a vein in her leg that was killing her, she said. Four months pregnant, she added. She was bone thin and blue eyed with a wide red mouth under penciled-in black eyebrows. He was skinny too and heavily tattooed. The piercing at the side of his mouth appeared to be bothering him. They looked young and sweet and dumb, and like there was probably a good reason to be running away. I would have liked to give them a lift, but it would have been foolish to do so. You just don’t know what people are up too.

 

Like bad sex, the fireworks at Universal are over after about 20 minutes. The sky is illuminated with a creepy pink fluorescence. Nearby, someone has just shot off a high powered rifle three times. Sirens reply.

Hey baby, it’s the Fourth of July…Dave Alvin

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Gotta love San Francisco…

Where else can you get slow, organic, artisanal ice cream with Rechutti fleur de sel chunks for just $8 a pint?

I was there to see the Vivienne Westwood exhibit at the DeYoung Museum before it came down,and to celebrate my friend Bruce’s birthday. I stayed at the Mosser downtown, did a bit of shopping, got completely exfoliated at the Kabuki Spa (nice spa, good prices, but the front office staff leave a lot to be desired) and squeezed in dinner at Delfina, one of my favorite restaurants anywhere. (hint: if you see seascape strawberries with red wine granita and basil zabaglioni on the menu, don’t hesitate).

Herewith, some reflections:

The Mosser: a serious deal in the heart of downtown SF. BART will take you there from SFO for $5.15 (though I took a cab back out to SFO out of pure exhaustion, which cost $40, including tip). Walking distance to Union Square shopping and in the other direction to Yerba Buena and SFMOMA. Lots of options for public transportation just about anywhere you want to go. I could definitely reduce my carbon foot print by moving back up there. Annabelle’s is next door and offers limited room service. I had great drinks and a perfectly good hamburger in the bar. The room is tiny, but it was super quiet and the custom made bed was incredibly comfortable. I shared a coed bathroom with tub with others on my hall, and a water closet for women only that was vacant every time I wanted to use it. There is a vanity sink, a hair dryer and an iron and ironing board in the room, along with robes. The amenities were decent. It’s like an upscale hostel, and very clean. It was inhabited mostly by musicians (there is an adjoining recording studio) and young European tourists. It worked for me, especially since I got my squeaky clean on at the Kabuki. The pipes groaned in the bathroom, but I’m the kind of girl who thinks that’s charming.

The Vivienne Westwood exhibit: I’d heard mixed reviews about this one, but I have to say I loved it. I wish I’d had time to go back. I’m a huge Vivienne Westwood fan, but even so, I was shocked by how much her aesthetic has influenced contemporary fashion. The BCBG shoes I own are a knock-off of her Gillies. Half the skirts I own reference her Nostalgia of Mud collection. Bubble hems, petticoats, tube skirts, the suit Carrie wore to her Vogue interview in Sex in the City, sky high platforms – tell me, who did it before she did?

I love the cheeky femininity of her models and the pure grace of movement her clothes have when they float down the runway (as seen on wall monitors scattered throughout the galleries.) I love that she shot her models sauntering around the galleries of the Wallace Collection, looking at the portraits they were incarnating.

I took the audio tour, which at first was awkward – something of a misguided attempt to recreate the anarchy of punk pulled together by grandiloquent museum curators more accustomed to Victoriana than modernity. But once the narration got past Viv’s early Sex Shop days and glided into the post-punk collections, they started to get it right, bringing in the experts from the V&A and other fashion historians to create a thoughtful context and to give the woman her due. Its not often that intellect and fashion walk so easily hand in hand these days.

Many of the people visiting the show seemed to be seeking a nostalgia buzz, and they must have stopped paying attention to Westwood after she broke off with Malcolm McLaren circa Bow Wow Wow and the Pirates era. “I had no idea she got into couture,” one woman said, whose multi-colored hair matched her rather unfortunate skirt. But it’s not particularly surprising, considering that at least in the U.S., fashion magazines have de-emphasized her collections in favor of those who design for adolescent archetypes just this side of kiddie porn. Women wearing Westwood’s clothing take up space, and that’s just not done. Anyway, I agree with one of the commentators on the audio tour who called her one of the great modern designers. I think she’s one of the great creative geniuses of the 20^th Century, right up there with Balanchine, Stravinsky and Prince. If I thought I could have gotten away with it, I would have grabbed the black stilettos with the silver spikes at the heels, along with the butter yellow rubber Bettina suit to go with, and oh, yes – the Jungle Dress, and the Nostalgia of Mud skirt with the Peruvian dancers at the hem. Also the bird’s nest hat with the stuffed pheasant, though it would probably just sit in my closet – no one wears hats in L.A.

The Farmer’s Market was just a glint in the eye of Alice Waters when I left San Francisco, or I probably would not have left. Now, if it’s Saturday morning and I’m in SF, I’m at Ferry Plaza with my friends who go to work with an admirable efficiency, collecting their week’s groceries from their favorite farmers in record time. This week, I had a mission,which was to forage for ingredients for that night’s birthday dinner for bff Mary’s husband Bruce. I collected pullet eggs, apricots and raspberries for a faithful version of the Pavlova dessert I wrote about a few weeks back. Again, sooo easy, and a real crowd pleaser.

The drink of the evening was the Sazerac, the famously sublime New Orleans potion of rye whiskey, herb saint / pernod and Peychaud bitters; I’d like one right now, please. Bff Mary is one of the best home cooks I know, and she started things off with these great little nibbles of chicken marinated in pomegranate molasses and cumin. Then a lentil salad with spinach, bacon, sour cherries and blue cheese. Then her wonderful “lamb pops,” served this time with couscous. The recipe for the couscous came from the Epicurious website, and called for chopping all the vegetables into uniform ½ inch bits, and then cook them with the couscous. I had the idea that it would be a more rustic accompaniment for the lamb to chop the veggies into randomly sized chunks and then roast them to bring out their sweetest and add a hint of smoke. Instead of just saying this, I made some snide comment to the effect that the Epicurious recipe was a little “too Nob Hill for me.” Not that I really even know what that means, but I agree it sounds pissy. I’m not a food snob. The cocktails made me say it.

Bff Mary’s lamb pops

3 racks of baby lamb, chined and frenched

Salt and pepper to taste

Several sprigs of rosemary

Olive oil

In a roasting pan, salt and pepper the racks of lamb and drizzle with olive oil

Tuck sprigs of rosemary here and there

Let sit for 6 hours at least, or overnight

Heat oven to 450, roast for 20 minutes. Let sit for about 15 minutes more.

To serve, cut the rack into individual “pops.” Mound the couscous in the center of a serving platter, and arrange the lamb pops around it.

 

You can use any couscous recipe you like, even the one from Epicurious. I like Paula Wolfert’s “Couscous with Seven Vegetables in the Fez Manner” from Couscous & Other Good Food From Morocco.

 

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