We get it, it’s a memoir…

So Augusten Burroughs had his day in court with the family he smeared in his obviously subjective memoir Running with Scissors.

On his blog, Burroughs issued the following statement:

“I consider this not only a personal victory but a victory for all memoirists. I still maintain that the book is an entirely accurate memoir, and that it was not fictionalized or sensationalized in any way. I did not embellish or invent elements. We had a very strong case because I had the truth on my side…

To clarify, Running With Scissors is still called a memoir. It always has been a memoir, and the family expressly agreed that it will continue to be called one. I was happy to substitute the one word “book” for “memoir” on the Author’s Note page, but it still says “A Memoir” on the cover, and will continue to be truthfully advertised as such. I was also happy to add an additional expression of gratitude to the family in the Acknowledgments, as well as to point out the fact that they remember things differently.

Not one word of the actual memoir itself has been changed or altered in any way. The text is exactly as I wrote it, intended it, and lived it. Running With Scissors was and continues to be the true story of my unusual and remarkable childhood.”

We get it: it’s a memoir.

Am I the only person who hated Running with Scissors?

When I read Running with Scissors, I kept waited for the part where all the critical acclaim would start to make sense. Where was the new David Sedaris? Where was the greatest memoir of our time? Halfway through, I began to sense the author’s disingenuousness. Not long after I started getting bored, and barely made it to the end, at which point I began to regret the time – all of one rainy weekend – I spent reading it.

Since that time, my interest has been piqued by the actual backstory: interviews with Burroughs’ mother and the like (the reason his mother didn’t sue was because he is her son and she loves him). I can imagine that the family that just settled their case with him must have felt shafted in their attempts to give him a better lifestyle / education than his mother could (she gave him up while suffering from mental illness, owning up to the fact that she wasn’t cut out for raising a kid).

Burroughs has been (unjustifiably in my book) compared to David Sedaris by many critics but the the two writers differ in at least one critical way. Sedaris‘s writing is both personal and universal; he includes himself in the situations he skewers. He employs a formidable and self-deprecating sense of humor, whereas Burroughs, who I sense takes himself very, very seriously, uses humor only as a weapon against his subjects.

There is no real spark to his writing – just snark.

I’m always amazed at how writers like this take off. Why can’t critics see through this stuff? It’s disheartening.

Next time I’ll tell you what I really think.

One final note about the settlement. Besides a financial settlement (confidential, natch, but I hope the family at least got compensated for the room and board they provided the budding memoir-tiste), the family won these little concessions:

Where the Acknowledgments page currently reads:

“Additionally, I would like to thank each and every member of a certain Massachusetts family for taking me into their home and accepting me as one of their own,”

the following will be substituted: ”

Additionally, I would like to thank the real-life members of the family portrayed in this book for taking me into their home and accepting me as one of their own. I recognize that their memories of the events described in this book are different than my own. They are each fine, decent, and hard-working people. The book was not intended to hurt the family. Both my publisher and I regret any unintentional harm resulting from the publishing and marketing of Running with Scissors.”

Unintentional harm, my ass. How did he think these people would feel once they found out about it? Maybe he thought they wouldn’t – he never told even them he was writing a book about his life with them.

In addition, on the Author’s Note page the word “book” will replace the word “memoir.” The book still will be described as a memoir on the cover and elsewhere. The family agreed to that, and “memoir” remains an entirely accurate description of the book.

Ok, we get it, its a memoir…

Somewhere in this rats’ nest there is probably a truly rich and interesting and perhaps even humorous story, but I doubt Burroughs has the kind of courage it would take to write it.

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“If you can’t run your own house, you can’t run the White House.”

Whether or not Michelle Obama meant this as a swipe at Hillary Clinton or not (it seems as though she didn’t), the statement itself doesn’t really make sense. It it were true, then every single one of our former presidents was incapable of running the White House. In this country, households are run by women; either wives or housekeepers or nannies or a combination of all three. And while househusbands are becoming more common , no U.S. president has ever been one.

If it was a swipe at Hillary’s inability to keep Bill from philandering – then Lord help us. If someone wants to philander they will, no matter how much Total Woman sex and fresh baked cookies you provide. Who knows, maybe Hillary philanders too, or maybe she’ll philander during her two terms of office. Would it have any impact on her ability to run the White House?

I don’t think so – but let’s all vote for her and find out.

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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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I also read books…

In case you have the impression that I only watch episodic TV, herewith are my impressions of two books I’ve read recently. One is History of Love by Nicole Krauss (wife of post modern wunderkind Jonathan Safran Foer), which was much celebrated when it came out and which I recently read in paperback. The other is House of Meetings, by Martin Amis, which came out in January.

I liked Krauss’ book when I was reading it, propelled by her protagonists Leo, an aging New York Jew who escaped the Nazi occupation of Poland, and Alma, a lonely adolescent girl whose life intersects with Leo’s at the novel’s end. This book has been widely praised by the critics and exalted as a book club selection, but I have to say that after praising and defending it myself in my book circle, I’ve now come to the conclusion that I was hoodwinked. Have you ever read a book, or seen a movie, or married somebody and later realized that you’d ignored some fundamental, perhaps even unforgivable flaw because you were blinded by a veneer or greatness? This is what I think happened for me with this book. There are beguiling, quirky characters, both funny and heartbreaking scenes, and numerous instances of really, really good writing. But this is a book about a book that the reader is to believe changed lives, and the book within the book is just not very good. It’s almost like an afterthought. Or maybe like the author took a bunch of short pieces she’d workshopped in a writing class but didn’t know what to do with, and glued together the plot line of her novel with them. Speaking of plot lines, there are many of them that crop up and then evaporate, and at one point I created a chart to try to sort them out, just knowing that things would be resolved in the end. Which they are, but only for a couple of the characters, and the climax of the novel, the moment when you just know everything will be revealed, is ultimately precious, instead of profound.

Then I read House of Meetings, Martin Amis’s novel about a Russian expatriate and survivor of Stalin’s “social experiment” which is itself a sort of book within a book, and a love story with its own links to Nazi Germany (and some rich observations of why Germany has survived the legacy of WW2, while Russia is dying). While reading it, I realized how scarce really great contemporary novels are anymore. Maybe it is unfair to compare Krauss who has two novels under her belt while Amis has an entire oeuvre, and yes, this is probably the greatest book even he has written. But I can’t help but compare the two because I read them back to back, and because they do share some similarities, such as exploring facets of history, love, and the differences between the Eastern European and American psyche. The experience of reading House of Meetings is unlike anything I’ve had in a long, long time -not a word out of place, not a single wasted emotion, no game playing with technique or plot. Such a long time in fact, that I’d completely forgotten what it is like to reread paragraphs several times and then stare off into space contemplating them only to move onto the next paragraph and do the same. So different from the usual practice of reading voraciously to get to the next crescendo or moment of clarity, or bit of insight.

Now I want to find something else to read, but I will probably start rereading House of Meetings again, not only because its the kind of book that rewards you with a second reading, but because I’m not aware of anything else out there at the moment that will measure up.

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Rescue Me from Saving Grace…

A few posts back, in my brief celebration of the new season of Rescue Me, I mentioned the dearth of strong female characters on TV and how Leary’s show, about an angry macho NYFD firefighter and “world famous pussy hound” consistently gives us the lion’s share of them.

I don’t mean “strong” in that Oprah-inspired-long-suffering-you-go-girl terms, but strong as in willful, flawed, and intelligent – the sort of woman who has been bloodied by patriarchy perhaps, but remains unbowed. A fighter maybe, but not in that Love of Ages Barbie-doll-hair-tossing-back-biting-manipulator way or of the Bad Girls trailer park-smack fest variety, but, you know, a real woman who knows she has her dark side, and whose cognitive dissonance might make her crazy, but at least she’s animate. Someone who is, even at her worst, a cut above what usually passes for “strong female character” in Hollywood.

One character who seems to aspire to that sort of status is Holly Hunter’s Grace in Saving Grace, TNT’s new entry into the “we’re not afraid to build series around actresses of a certain age” sweepstakes.

I love Holly Hunter, and I’m happy to give anything she’s in more than a second chance. But I’m not sure I’m going to be able to hang with this series. She plays a tough, brilliant homicide detective battling some fairly typical tough brilliant homicide detective problems – a moral imperative to solve tough crimes and save innocents that gets self medicated by the usual suspects: booze, frenzied sex with married co-workers and major “look at me” behavior on the job.

You could almost be tempted to see her as a female Tommy Gavin. In fact, I suspect that this show owes more than a little to Rescue Me’s second season, in which Gavin (created and played by Denis Leary) is stalked by Jesus Christ, who taunts him like the artifact of a deservedly guilty conscious that he is.

Hunter’s Grace is haunted too, by an angel named Earl with a bad Skoal habit. Earl seems like a redneck version of Clarence from It’s a Wonderful Life who possesses a pair of wings straight from the prop department of Win Wenders’ Wings of Desire (a rare instance of a movie about angels that works, in my view).

Tommy Gavin’s Jesus works because he’s organic, rising out of Tommy’s Irish Catholic upbringing and dawning awareness of just how out of control his risk-taking has become. Grace’s angel – not so much.

For one thing, Earl is too contrived – the tobacco chewing, the cracker accent, the wings – he’s a puppet with all of his strings showing.

Perhaps more importantly this angel is something that happens to Grace, rather than rising from her, and I find this a completely unappealing conceit.

Grace’s Earl proselytizes, whereas Leary’s Jesus is Tommy’s own moral center. He comes off as funny, profane, and provocative in a way that Saving Grace would like to be, but just doesn’t have the chops to carry off.

Not that the show doesn’t have its allures. Besides Hunter there is Laura San Giacomo, who could sink her teeth into realizing a multi-faceted character in the form of a forensic scientist with religious faith, and who probably won’t get the chance.

The look and sound of the show are terrifically seductive; dreamy, gritty, fantastic and hyperreal in turns.

The male characters feel peripheral, except for that sanctimonious angel – and you know, that’s OK. For once, let the men be inconsequential love interests and scene candy.

My main complaint with Saving Grace is that ultimately Grace is drawn as a bad girl who has been chosen by God for saving. She is a victim in need of rescuing, which completely denatures any inner strength Hunter projects into the role.

Kill the angel, kill the God talk, and don’t even start with the “Hi I’m Grace and I’m an…” Let Grace save herself with her own inner strength and some help from her friends the way most interesting women do.

She doesn’t need a crutch in the form of crusty Earl and his annoying tobacco spit.

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I don’t care if Nic Harcourt loves them, Café Tacvba rock!

I came for Groove Armada, but at KCRW’s world music festival at the Hollywood Bowl last night, Mexico City’s Café Tacuba turned my head. I had no idea who these guys were – I thought they were some hip new norteño band from TJ. Where have I been since 1989? Obviously not paying much attention to Rock en Español. Café Tacuba has been around that long. They are megastars in Latin America, have won Grammys and Latin Grammys. They have collaborated with Kronos Quartet, for crissakes. They are often called the Mexican Beatles, but I heard more Clash last night; I found myself pogoing at one point. The front man, Pinche Juan (F**in’ Juan to his fans) reminded me a bit of a Latin Bono: charismatic, playful, earnest and inspiring but with a way cooler wardrobe. Los Tacubos streaked out on stage in a blaze of black and white and guitars and strobes and videos and then barreled through a set full of punk and ska and Led Zepplin and Nirvana and a whole lot of other folks, all of them dusting it up with an unmistakable Mexico City sensibility. Their encore was inventive and flawless.

This was a great night, and even if it had sucked, there is no better summer party in L.A. than the Hollywood Bowl. People come with their picnics and take up residence in their box seats (even the cheap seats are worth it). Before long it’s a block party. My favorite neighbors this time was the Latino family two boxes over; a woman maybe in her 50s, her grown son and his two young kids. The boy looked to be around 10-11. He loved Groove Armada- he and his little sister jumped up and down to the funky soul mixes nonstop for the entire set. But it was his Tacubos he came for – and evidently so did most of the bowl – he knew the words to every song, he waved a candle in the air during the ballads, and danced his little butt off for the rest of the set. His abuela got into it too – shaking her hips and waving her hands in the air like she just don’t care.

¡Oh mi dios! ¡Los Tacubos me tiene vuelo! Pensé que la roca era muerta hasta que despertaron mi corazón de su slumber. Soy así que mezclado para arriba adentro, perdí mis llaves y mis vecinos tuvieron que venir me ayudan. ¡Mirar qué tú han hecho a mí, mis queridos! ¡Gracias mis amors!

Y ahora para su visión el placer aquí es un acoplamiento para el vídeo para mi canción preferida de la tarde :

Cafe Tacvba – Dejate Caer

(universalmusicgroup no me dejará encajar esto de YouTube)

 

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Becks and Posh! Posh and Becks!

 

 

 

Girlfriend looks as though she could use some dinner. I wonder if she would need to book a month in advance to get into Pizzeria Mozza the way I did. Pizzeria Mozza, in case you’ve been too busy analyzing the war in Iraq or something is the lovechild of L.A. foodie darling Nancy Silverton and Mario Batali, of the orange clogs and the unfortunate affiliation with Iron Chef America. This, and the newly opened Osteria Mozza next door, is Batali’s first foray into the Los Angeles dining scene after creating his empire of highly regarded restaurants in New York. Don’t be fooled however. Pizzeria Mozza is definitely a Nancy Silverton joint.

The “authenticity” of Nancy’s pies, along with the difficulty getting in to taste them, have sparked a heated debate among foodies. My moment finally arrived last Friday night at 6:15PM. This happened to coincide with the much anticipated opening of Mozza Osteria. As I walked by the window, I saw the Osteria staff in their brand new whites getting their marching orders. First night – the horror! Oh to be a spider in the corner.
Pizzeria Mozza on the other hand has been open since last winter and it hums to a soundtrack of Beck’s Guero CD, laughter and foodie chat. Even at 6:15PM the tables were full and people were milling around the entrance waiting to get a place at one of two bars that seat on a first come first served basis. Everyone appeared to be in a good mood except for the hostess, a boho hottie who looked as though everything was getting on her last nerve – a full 3 hours before sundown. I said a little prayer for her as she guided us to our table, a deuce at the end of a long row next to the window facing Highland, and with a good view of the front door action and the rest of the room.

First up were some delectable squash blossoms fried to perfection with a creamy ricotta filling, except my second one had no filling and a bit too much batter. Then came a lovely piece of fish served in a chunky fresh tomato sauce with cici (garbanzo) beans, a tad too salty for me but perfectly cooked. Then the pizza – a classic combination of guanciale (a pork cheek bacon – memorize this and order it the next time you see it on a menu) and a bagna cauda (a hot bath of olive oil, garlic and anchovy) of bitter greens, with an egg dropped onto the pizza as it went into the oven. I love bitter greens with bacon and egg anyway – see below for a quick, easy supper – but I’m telling you this pizza took it to a level I would never be able to recreate at home. For starters, I usually have the dish with lardoons – thick cubes of pancetta or thick sliced bacon. Typically a bite of lardoon will dominate the palate for a bit before allowing the other flavors to join the party, but the guanciale, which was barely visible, seemed to coat the wilted greens with a crispy deliciousness that melted into a sublime marriage of bitter smoky porkiness that got even better when the silky sweet egg yolk arrived to sooth the bitterness of the greens. I’m coming back.

I was completed enchanted by our first choice of dessert – a “sofiata” which is really a profiterole substituting a subtle pistachio ice cream for the traditional pastry cream, and a drape of sweet cherry syrup studded with macerated dried sweet cherries and a slick of honey. We also ordered the caramel coppetta, (sundae) accompanied by a sticky marshmallow and peanut kind of deconstructed candy bar. It was good, but it didn’t really come together for me. I wish we’d ordered the butterscotch budino that everyone keeps raving about instead.

Service was excellent. We were promptly seated and our server was welcoming, knew her stuff, helped me pick out a perfect wine choice, and actually seemed to like the fact that we took our time with our food (the table next to us turned over twice before we left). The bill came in at $50 per person, including wine, minus tip.

Mozza serves the best kind of causal food served in a casual environment, and you leave wanting to explore the menu further. But when it takes a month to get a table, how can anybody with a real life hang? Also some of the dishes seem to work better than others. This is fine at a place where you know they’re experimenting with flavors and techniques. But when its a month between reservations, you need it to be right.

Granted, seating at the two bars is first come first served, with one bar serving as a kind of wine bar, and the other a close encounter with the wood burning oven. I can see myself going one night and eating bruschetta and chatting with the bartender about his wine pairings. Another night I might want to watch the action at the wood burning oven.

But what do I do when a few of my girls have a Friday evening open and we want to share some pies and a bottle or two of wine? Or a friend from New York who treated me to lunch at Lupa finds himself in L.A. for the evening and I want to return the favor? Pizzeria Mozza should be able to accommodate that – spontaneity is built into the spirit of the place. Maybe that will happen soon, now that the Osteria has opened. Until then, the place will seem too precious to me. Quello non è buono!

Eggs with bitter greens and pork lardoons enough for two

Prep the lardoons:

• Ask your butcher for a 1/2 inch thick round of pancetta, all in one piece
• Cut the pancetta into strips about the width of your little finger. Then cut the strips into chunks about the length of the tip of your index finger to the first knuckle.
• Using a strainer, drop the lardoons into boiling water for a minute, set aside to drain.

Prep the greens:

• Cut a bunch of dandelion (or other bitter grean) and a head raddichio into a rough chop.
• Using the strainer, submerge the greens into the boiling water for a minute until the dandelion turns bright green. Remove, drain, set aside.

Then:

• Heat a frying pan on medium heat.
• Add enough olive oil to coat the bottom of the pan generously.
• When it starts to shimmer, add 3-4 cloves of garlic chopped into small chunks – don’t mince. They should sizzle in the pan. Cook them until they are toasty brown, then remove from the pan. Turn heat under pan to low.
• Add the lardoons to the pan and let them cook until they are thoroughly browned and crispy. Remove from the pan and set aside. Try not to eat them all.
• Make sure that your greens are relatively dry. If you like you can drain some of the fat in the pan off, but make sure you have enough to coat the greens.
• Over low heat, add crushed dried red pepper to the fat in the pan. Add the greens and toss to coat with the fat and pepper. Cook a while longer until the greens soften and lose their crunch, but don’t let them get soggy. Toss with the lardoons. Turn off the heat, cover to keep warm on the stove.

Poach 2 -4 eggs

Pile the greens into a shallow soup bowl. Place one or two eggs on top. Add a dusting of freshly ground black pepper. Shave some nice Parmesan over that.

Serve with some crusty bread and a nice glass of white wine.

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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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Wildfires

The Angora Fire in Tahoe jumped the fireline this evening, 3 days in and just when firefighters thought they’d seen the worst. Until last year, I always thought of Tahoe as some hideous frat boy puke fest tourist trap, and there are aspects of South Tahoe (like Harrah’s) that seem like a throw back to mid-70s Vegas, complete with rows of slot machines reeking of cigarette smoke and white trash desperation. Though to be fair, there is some great neon….

I realized how much I’d been missing all these years when I spent a week there last fall while on vacation with my family. We stayed in South Tahoe, and explored as much as we could in such a short period.

Lake Tahoe woke something up in me that had been dormant for a long time – a joy in nature that brought me back to myself after a long time spent adrift. I felt vigorous and free and a little bit wild. Most of all I loved the area around the Angora Lakes and the Desolation, in a way that almost didn’t make sense. It now ranks alongside Pura Ulun Danu Bratan temple in Bali as a favorite place on earth. Granted, we were there mid week and had the place largely to ourselves; I understand it gets pretty overrun during peak times. I vowed to be back soon to spend more time with that terrain. We’ll see what’s left after the fire.

Oddly enough, just last week I uploaded as my header a detail from a picture I took of the Upper Angora Lake. Tahoe had been on my mind a lot, and I like the kind of impressionistic ambiguity of the photograph.

A friend asked me why I was so upset by these fires. I suspect there is more than one answer. There are the obvious reasons: the footage of people and animals fleeing for their lives in the wake of destruction unleashed by careless (or vile) humans, and the sentimental sadness that comes with knowing that something you love is gone forever. But that isn’t really the truth about forest fires – the forest will renew itself, in a way that wouldn’t happen if, say, the land was commercially developed. Wildfires can be seen as an environmental correction. But I don’t suppose that offers much consolation to those who love that land so much that they built their homes and lives around there. Maybe my feelings are in part due to some deeper knowledge that I prefer not to acknowledge – that fire is beautiful in its own right, majestic and intoxicating. Wildfires involve a commingling of a sense of loss with a fear of being mezmerized by the agent of that loss.

Anyway, here are a few pictures from my visit last Fall.

 

 

 

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Longest day of the year…

I was useless at work, but so what? The air is clean and fragrant, the sky is cloudless and blue, and the breeze cools the hot sun. Drove home with my shoes off and the sunroof open.  It honestly doesn’t get much better than this, and it won’t last. The drive was so quick, I only had time to take one snapshot of my commute.

Those are some mighty dry hills out my car window….

 

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