The End of an Era, Once Again

 Los Angeles, California

Last weekend, a friend cryptically texted me: Another of our beloved, favorite actresses lost. No clue. My brain flashed through possibilities which I won’t list (kinda gruesome). Reminded of pre-internet days when good friends had postulated the usefulness of a toll-free service 1-800-deadyet, I googled: Who died today? And Diane Keaton’s name and photo came up. I texted my friend, Cindy: News is reporting that Diane Keaton has died. She was the first person I thought of when I heard the news. Later, when I pondered this, I remembered the nights w/ Tom, Cindy and Michael at our first home. They were our best and closest friends and we spent many a summer night with them on the patio of that first home, back in the day when we listened to albums on a turntable. And the Gershwin-based soundtrack from Woody Allen’s film Manhattan was a frequent musical backdrop to our evenings.

After Cin texted me back, I responded: I’m still not over Redford! And it did seem vastly unfair to lose another icon from our younger days in such rapid fashion after the first. But alas, we have learned that life is like that in its inequities.

So, Diane Keaton. Le sigh. I first saw her in the film Play It Again, Sam. I saw it with David, my college boyfriend, at a long-gone movie theater out at Valley Circle in Calabasas. It is very possible that we had come there to see Harold and Maude and that PIAS was the second feature (the ‘70’s version of ‘binging’). It wasn’t long before we had seen Diane Keaton in The Godfather and another Woody Allen film, Love and Death.

After my relationship with David ended, Annie Hall was one of the early films Tom and I saw together shortly before we married. But my favorite Diane Keaton film is Reds. I saw it at a theater in Westwood with Cindy and Michael on Super Bowl Sunday in 1982. Tom was working that weekend and couldn’t join us. Before leaving to meet them for the movie, my mom called. When I told her I was just leaving to go see that film, she responded (SPOILER ALERT!): He dies in the end. Which, if you knew my mom, you would be inclined to remark in unison with me: That is So Betty…

Reds is a complex and interesting film, with one of the most memorable scenes in over a hundred years of filmmaking. It is the scene where Louise Bryant searches for Jack Reed at the train station in Moscow, her face reflecting the death and destruction she surveys until she and Jack find each other and embrace. Scenes like that, epiphanies in film viewing, are why we watch and study fine films. It doesn’t get a lot better than that. Ok, maybe Rick and Ilsa. Here's looking at you, Kid.

Losing Diane Keaton is shocking. But as Cin and I reflected recently, time is passing. We are no longer the thirtysomethings who worked out at Jane Fonda’s, had breakfast then shopped at the Gap at the Sherman Oaks Galleria. Our mothers were right, I remarked. It does go fast.

I watched Annie Hall last week. I actually own a dvd of Reds, so when the time is provided (it’s a very long film), I will watch that too. Hard to believe she is gone. I’m still not over Redford. Le sigh…

The Bracelet

 Los Angeles, California

Lynnette came to visit last weekend. It's what we do. We schedule a time each month for her to come and be what I call my weekend roommate. We schedule this in advance, generally four to six months at a time. The goal is to see each other twelve times during the year, but we're lucky if we hit two/thirds of that. This was a rough year, and her visit last week was the first since May. We now spend three nights instead of our original two. But once we switched to the three-night business, it seemed to go just as fast. I wish she would stay for a week.

I have always loved spending time in the same place with people I love. I loved visiting my favorite cousins in Reno, and the time they spent in LA was even better. We went back and forth a few times each year. Throughout my youth I spent overnights with my friends in both our homes. And girlfriends were always invited to Carmel when I rented the homes up there.

As I have written before, I call my closest friends, Fristers. But, truthfully, Lynnette seems more like a sister. A sister, in a good way, that is. I think because when she is at my house, there is a complete ease. We tend to do more or less of the same things each time, though varying the meals, activities, and games but only slightly. This was a Yahtzee weekend, as Joel and I taught ourselves to play Yahtzee when we were in Santa Fe last month. And we varied our fast food lunch by going to Cupid's hot dogs one day.

I grew up near one of the three Cupid's hot dog stands of the day. It was a walk-up stand, and I don't even recall the three tables that were eventually installed alongside the stand. They served hot dogs with chili, mustard and onions. And sodas. That's it. I recall the hot dogs being 35 cents when I first began meeting my best friend, Debbie Clevenger, there. It was about halfway between our houses. Later, after we bought our first home in that neighborhood, Tom would make a Cupid's run at the mid-point of a full Sunday of gardening. And by full, I mean about ten hours. At the end of the day, I would sit on the front porch writing in my gardening journal and sipping a shot of tequila from a bottle stored in the freezer. I no longer put tequila in the freezer (sacrilege), but remember that ritual well. Our dog, Taz, was always with us, supervising our work.

That location closed last year and there is only one remaining in the Valley. I had never eaten at that one! When we ordered our hot dogs the woman working asked me about the bracelet I was wearing. I have several of these, from a company called Little Words Project and have given some as gifts. You choose the wording which is strung together with colored beads, the words spelled out with small alphabet blocks. The one I was wearing said: Frister. This woman, taking our orders for chili dogs, asked if the word was a portmanteau. I'm sure I gave her my best imitation of Gen Z facial vacuity. Yes, I had heard the word. No, I have no idea what it meant. And, I was an English major! She gave us a definition and example: Frenemies. Yes, I replied. That's what it is. Closer than friends, better than sisters. Of course I have the luxury that many of my friends don't have sisters so I can just slide in there. But truly, fristerhood is special. And that's why I wear the bracelet. My other ones say: Kindness; salsera, and my first one: Cafe Con Leche which has a special meaning for me and for Joel.

So I told the Cupid's woman Lynnette's and my story: That we have been friends for ten years after she was my dentist for twenty. I like that story. And I like her being my weekend roommate. Maybe in 2026 we'll get closer to our twelve-month goal. Or, eleven months to be exact, as we spend a weekend in Phoenix, usually in March, when we attend MLB Cactus League Spring Training. Lots to look forward to as this season marches towards the fall and winter holidays. And we already have our frister weekends booked for November and December, all things willing.

End of an Era

Los Angeles, California

I woke up on a Friday morning and uncharacteristically reached for my phone to search the news. My text feed from NYTimes read: Film Icon Robert... Hmmm, wonder who this is about, I thought, as I clicked on it. And thus the news was delivered to me that Robert Redford had passed away. Oh my God, I exclaimed out loud to no one. Sure he was old, but it felt so unexpected to me. And I immediately recalled the same feeling when I had sat down at my old Dell computer one morning in 2008 and learned that Paul Newman had died.

I saw Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid in the fall of 1969, after I had returned from a summer in Hawaii. The best summer of my life. My sister and I went to see the film at Grauman's Chinese Theater, in Hollywood, walking over the hand- and footprints of the stars of yesteryear before entering the theater.

But I was already familiar with Robert Redford. When I was in elementary school, I was diagnosed with anxiety. Yes, this malady didn't only just crop up with millennials. For an entire school year I underwent medical tests and was put on a shortened schedule at school. What followed that first, unbelievably frightening panic attack that seemingly came from nowhere, was a yearlong bout with agoraphobia. Anywhere I went out in public, I was fearful that another panic attack would occur. I now know this to be anticipatory anxiety. But no such knowledge was available to me at that time. Epilepsy was mentioned. Also, a heart murmur. But overall, my medical tests came back clean. After our family physician mentioned psychological counseling, my mother stopped taking me for appointments with him except when necessary to fill the prescription for librium.

During that time I couldn't go to markets, theaters, nor anywhere else where my anxiety might peak. Just thinking about being in those places, amidst crowds of people, could cause a surge of anxiety. So for a good part of the year, my older sister would take me to drive-in movies on the weekend. And it was on one of those nights that we saw Inside Daisy Clover, and I was introduced to Robert Redford.

Since that time I have dealt with anxiety to some degree throughout my life. But I finally committed to the counseling that my mother had shunned, and through it I received the tools to deal with the life-altering issue of chronic anxiety. I once heard Rob Reiner say that he spent decades in therapy, his presenting issue being depression. When he finally left therapy after many years, it was with the knowledge that sometimes he was going to be depressed. Sometimes I am anxious. I meditate. I breathe. I utilize the tools I worked hard to acquire. And, a greatest of those is acceptance.

I always hoped I might meet Robert Redford. I wanted to tell him that my uncle had worked for his grandfather, a land developer. And I also wanted to ask him a question: Was he naturally left- or right-handed? If you are observant watching movies like Butch Cassidy, All the President''s Men, The Natural, you will see him go back and forth between his left and right hands. After learning that he had celebrated his 70th birthday at The Kona Village, I asked some of the employees, who had become our friends, if they noticed which hand he was using. They looked at me like I was crazy. So, no resolution on that mystery.

I live in LA, so it's not uncommon to run across celebrities. I've seen Barbra Streisand twice, once at a nursery and then at a theater in Costa Mesa. I saw Steve Martin at a California Pizza Kitchen in Studio City. Once, on my birthday, we followed Gene Wilder and Gilda Radner into a restaurant in Beverly Hills. But I never saw Redford, nor Paul Newman. Nor Cary Grant. Still, I can see them whenever I want, thanks to a large DVD library. I can even watch Inside Daisy Clover. And remember a different and more difficult time in my life. That era ended. And so does this one, with the loss of this Icon of film, Robert... Redford.

Potholes

Los Angeles, California

I started traveling annually to Phoenix, Arizona in 2015. As I have told the story here before, my dentist was retiring, and I was recently widowed. When I asked her what she planned to do during retirement, she replied: Whatever I want. And, coming from nowhere except off the top of my head, I asked her if she wanted to go to Spring Training together. Lynnette had been my dentist for twenty years and through my appointments with her we had learned that we shared a lot of interests. And baseball was one of those things.

She got on it, and began calling me with plans to go. Her sister, Shirley, was pulled into the trip and so was my friend, Lydia. It was a very fun trip. There was a break in the force during the pandemic and for a year or two after, but this past Spring we returned to Glendale and Phoenix to attend two games. We've run out everyone else who has attended with us, and that's just fine. It is our annual girlfriend's trip. Not that we wouldn't welcome any of the past participants to join us, but we're equally happy when it's just the two of us.

My friend, Connie, came with us on this annual trek, twice. I have known Connie since college, but it was the first time we had traveled together. And she's a nervous flyer. Back at that time, prior to a scary flight incident (see: That Was the Year that Was, Part 1 and 2), I was not uneasy flying. So when the plane hit some turbulence, and Connie gripped the armrests much like a cat does with its claws when threatened, I reassured her. I don't like this, she declared, eyes wide. I replied in a measured tone: It's just like potholes. Like when your car bumps along on an uneven road. You don't get scared when that happens, right? Well, you get that in the air, too. Air pockets. They're just like potholes.

At the end of our recent flight to Santa Fe, the woman sitting in the seat in front of me turned around and peered over the top of her seat. Do you see my phone on the floor? We didn't. Later, as we were standing to exit the plane, she told us that she had found it. Evidently she had put her tray table up while her phone was sitting on it, so it fell somewhere under the seat in front of her.

Five days later, we lined up to board our Southwest flight using the A through C boarding procedure. We were A-22 and A-23. This boarding protocol requires interacting with others in line so you know you are in the right space. That interaction usually goes like this: What's your number? We'd been standing for about five minutes when someone asked us that question. And we turned to discover it was the same woman who had searched for her phone while seated in front of us on our last flight. And she and her mother were A-20 and A-21! In our conversation she remarked that she was a nervous flyer, and so I recounted my story about flying with Connie.

They ended up sitting in the row behind us and when we were told to buckle up as turbulence hit, she called out loudly: Potholes! We continued to call out our mantra back and forth as the plane pitched. When we hit a particularly rough patch, I turned and called out over the top of the seat: Ditches!

Flights into Burbank always seem rough on approach, but soon we were on the ground, bidding farewell to our pothole companions, and then merging onto highway 101, returning home. A good time all around, and nary a pothole on the road, as we returned to reality after a truly wonderful trip to Santa Fe.

A Prairie Home Companion in Santa Fe

Santa Fe, New Mexico/Los Angeles, CA

When I read the announcement that Garrison Keillor was bringing a 50th anniversary performance of A Prairie Home Companion to Santa Fe Opera, I jumped at the tickets. I suppose it is a credit to my eclecticism that I wanted to be in the audience for APHC as well as in the audience for The Who's Song is Over tour date at The Hollywood Bowl. Both this month.

I would say it was 75% interest in APHC as it was my third time seeing it live. And since the mid-eighties I had been listening to the shows on Saturday evenings at 6:00 PM on KPCC out of Pasadena until Garrison Keillor parted company, so to speak, with NPR. To paraphrase George Harrison in A Hard Day's Night: A Prairie Home Companion has loomed large in my legend. It was such a constant through my life for so many decades. I don't think Joel and I would have attended Paul Simon's Farewell Tour concert at The Hollywood Bowl, had my interest in him not been renewed by hearing him as a guest on APHC. And that turned out to be one of the best concerts I have ever attended (even topping The Beatles in 1964!).

The other 25% was about the town and venue. I have long been interested in the Santa Fe Opera venue after having heard so much about it. It has been described as magical. And, returning to Santa Fe for the first time in over twenty-five years would be interesting. The last time I was there was for a long-ago birthday. And it was so cold, I mean, cold, that I declared I would never spend another birthday anywhere but Hawaii. The following year, at the late, great Kona Village Resort, I met Sandra, the patron saint of my blog and life. We went to KVR every October, meeting Sandra and John there and celebrating my following ten birthdays until the resort was taken out by the 2011 tsunami after the massive earthquake in Japan.

We flew to Albuquerque on Friday. Easy flight; nightmare rental car experience (long line, one agent). Finally, we got on the road to Santa Fe, arriving at the condo we had rented in the late afternoon. You can never exactly tell from the photos, so I was overjoyed to find the condo was so stellar! Security building with underground parking and walking distance from the Plaza. And it was gorgeous. We settled in and then headed over to the hotel La Fonda where we ordered beers, chips and guacamole. We hadn't had much breakfast nor any lunch, so this was too light of a repast. And there wasn't any draft beer on the menu. But, there was a terrific view of the city from the rooftop bar, so we muddled through. That is until the rain started. Unlike Southern California, rain comes in fast and turns hard quickly. We moved to a covered area and ended up having an interesting and rewarding conversation with a local couple, who recommended several restaurants in town. Shortly after, the bar management  announced they were closing, as a thunderstorm was six minutes away. Eventually, the rain lightened up, somewhat, so we made an umbrella-less run for the car.

Still hungry, we showered and headed out to dinner. We happened to park near Cafe Pasquale, which I remembered from my previous trip. We put our name in and headed across the street to a hotel bar. I find that travel days are often stressful, so the scotch I had at the bar aided my coping mechanism. One complaint: A chilled glass? Joel had a rare second beer and soon we were back at Cafe Pasquale. I remembered from that previous trip having breakfast and lunch there. And I also remember an inability to get black tea. It was all herbal. Never a good sign. Joel looked at the menu and declared that he wasn't interested in New Mexican cuisine. Like I needed to know this. He shuns anything that is described as cuisine, but especially Mexican, new or old, as he abhors the audacity of those who will fuck with the food of his forebears. Let's just order appetizers and see how it goes, I suggested. I thought the sopes were good, but he did not. We each ate half of one Oaxacan tamales and left the other one which was, in a word, odd. We are used to Oaxacan food from the festivals we have attended, as well as from a Oaxacan restaurant in LA. This was not that. We bailed.

By bedtime, we had each had two beers/whiskey, some crappy store-bought chips and guacamole at La Fonda, a couple of sopes and half a tamale. But we were exhausted, so we went to bed. The following morning we were up early from both hunger and the one-hour time change, so I ushered him to a local diner, Tia Sophia, for an early breakfast. Joel ordered huevos rancheros, Christmas style (red and green chile sauces) and was thoroughly happy. That day we drove out to Los Alamos and went to the museum there which is predominantly about the Manhattan Project. On the way back we stopped at Tusuque, and at the market restaurant, Joel happily ate pozole. All was right with the world.

We ate at the bar of one of the restaurants the couple at La Fonda had recommended and had our first sopapillas of the trip. If you have been following along here, you will know that one of my favorite things on this planet is dough thrown into hot fat. I am not a doughnut eater, however. But once a year, near New Year's, we eat beignets at The Farmers Market, and every Memorial Day I indulge in loukoumades at the annual Greek Festival. Sopapillas fit right into my gleeful appreciation of fried dough.

The following day, after blue corn and piñon pancakes, we poked around the shops on the Plaza and went leisurely through the New Mexico History Museum. We ate an early dinner at the other restaurant that the couple had recommended, which had even better sopapillas, and headed out to Santa Fe Opera. First impression: It is stunning. Unlike The Hollywood Bowl, it is covered, yet open around all sides. Jumping on those tickets got us orchestra seats in the fifth row. Pretty soon Garrison Keillor strolled onto stage singing Hello Love. Most everyone there (except Joel) felt the nostalgia for that song and the show to follow. Fortunately, Joel loved it. I had feared Oaxacan tamale, the stage version. But no, it turned out to be one of those stellar nights. A great show. 65* with a full moon. Magical, indeed.

The following day we flew home from Albuquerque. Trip completed. But resonance remains. I always come home from trips with a sense of renewed energy and direction. It is the rare trip when I come home thinking I want to live in the place I have just left. But I loved Santa Fe. Much more than on that first frigid trip. There was no entitled driving behavior. Everyone drove courteously. People were friendly, polite, and replied you're welcome, in response to thank you. There were volunteers picking up trash, and we saw exactly four homeless persons. I think living where I do, I had forgotten that there are oases out there where civilization has not marched ahead to rudeness, entitlement, and an inability to meet rent. I have been thinking about this ever since our return. Do I want to live here, or somewhere civilized like Santa Fe? Life is a series of possibilities and choices. As long as I stay where I am, it's a choice. And maybe not a good one.

What Happened Next

 Los Angeles, California

I am not one to tempt fate. However, it is worth inscribing that our compensation for the hell of the fires of January, is the heaven of one of the mildest summers in recent years. Granted, it is only mid-August and a lengthy inferno could hit us all the way into October, but we should be admonished not to complain. We had an entire month of June Gloom, a lovely weather event that brings us overcast mornings giving way to gentle sun in the afternoon, which prevailed almost all the way through July. And after a brief heat wave last week, I awoke earlier this week to those same overcast skies and mild temperatures. How lucky are we?

So, what the hell has been going on in the months where nary a post appeared here? Let's see. There was a lot of adjusting to living in post-inferno LA. We took a census on who amongst our friends, and their friends and family, had been affected. Lynnette's sister was fortunate to not lose her home in the Palisades. But all of the homes across the street were decimated. In some ways, it was equally hard for your home to be spared, as your neighborhood is now unrecognizable and for the most part, deserted. Yes, you could go home again, literally. But figuratively, not so much.

Joel underwent surgery in early April and I stepped into uneasy shoes as his home health nurse. He recuperated at my house and after a few sleepless nights for us both, he got through to the first of several post-op appointments. He returned to work and within the month had a fall at his workplace and injured his shoulder. For the next two months, he was out of work on worker's compensation (code name: No Dancing!).

Worker's comp was an interesting experience. After clearing a few telephone evaluations, it was determined that his injury required in-person medical care. The insurance company contracts with Kaiser Permanente and he was scheduled with a Primary Care Physician who, without examining him, told him he could go back to work. He tried, but it was clear that he could not, as he was in a great deal of pain. So back to Kaiser he went. Meanwhile, he was receiving physical therapy. The physical therapists, as well as the telemedical nurses, inquired as to whether he had received X-rays or an MRI to identify the injury. When Joel returned to Kaiser to see the same PCP, he shared the question that kept being asked: Was the physician going to order X-rays or an MRI? And that physician replied: Who do you think you are? LeBron James?

You know the emoji of the head exploding? That's what happens when Joel loses his temper. The doctor tried to continue, but that was not going to happen. They brought in a facilitator after Joel made it loudly clear that he was was done with that doctor. The facilitator was good. She not only set up an appointment with an orthopedic doctor, she also ordered an MRI, and she gave Joel her cell number, saying he could call at any time.

The MRI revealed a torn rotator cuff. After over a month of no improvement through physical therapy, he was administered a cortisone injection, which immediately took his pain away. Of course, the insurance company's directive is cost management (hence, Kaiser) so getting the injured back to work as soon as possible is the goal, regardless of the potential side effects of cortisone. But Joel really wanted to go back to work. So, pain gone; back to work. And ultimately, back to dancing.

While all of spring was about Joel, I kept busy working out, spending time with friends and attending to a lot of house stuff. I completed phase two of windows and doors replacement in my house. Two down, one to go! I spent time with Lynnette before she left for a summer in the Lake District, UK. And then it was summer...

As I have written here before, my favorite season is autumn. But this summer, with such glorious weather, has been so blissful. Here at the casa, we've been barefoot, and candlelit. The new doors are beautiful and looking out at blooming bougainvilleas around the pool in my courtyard has been a gift. We have been cheering our team at Dodgers Stadium, and have been dancing in the evening each week in the courtyard of the Autry Museum. We recently shared Oaxacan food with Connie and Curt at an LA Oaxacan restaurant, where Joel did all the ordering in Spanish, and we wondered if he was complaining that he had to put up with three gringos who refused to eat chapulines (look it up).

Karen came to stay for a few days and we attended a preview screening of Ken Burns' new documentary which will open the PBS season this fall. The screening was at the Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences Museum, which is next to the LA County Museum of Art.  It is an interesting space with several theaters and a good restaurant, where I had met my friends, Cathy and Beth1 (there is a Beth2) for lunch last year. Karen and I wandered about and finally landed in the bar where I had a very good Bombay Sapphire martini, up with a twist (I'm writing the whole thing out, much like Cathy would, as she calls this retailer by it's full name: Ross Dress for Less). We shared an impossibly delicious burrata with roasted tomatoes and strawberries. I say impossibly, because it was insanely better than it sounds. When we ordered the burrata and a chopped salad to share, our server remarked that it sounded good, but... maybe a side of french fries? Which turned out to be some of the best fries I have ever eaten, and I have eaten a lot of fries!

Just the dinner would have been enough, but after being seated in the theater the program began with the president of PBS SoCal introducing... Ken Burns! With a new haircut! But, as thrilling as that was (big Ken Burns fan), it didn't mitigate the damages of the House voting, that very day, to claw back funds for NPR and PBS. And when we returned home that evening, we learned that the Senate had concurred. And that will be the only reference to politics in this post.

So now, with a bit over a month of summer left, I am returning to my blog after an almost two-season hiatus. Just one more thing... I don't make new year's resolutions, but I do try to manifest some goals when a new year begins. And one of those for 2025 was to move away from writing about politics here, for a variety of reasons, but crystalized here it is: Too easy of a target. On the other hand, when I threw down the moratorium on politics, I think I stymied myself. There is so much going on around us. And much of it appalling. But, I truly do believe that things will get better and hopefully will settle more in the center of things. Besides, and after all, aren't we lucky? We live in California. You know the song, Am I blue..?

Joel and I have a bit of travel coming up, first out of state and later, in my beloved Carmel-by-the-Sea. We will be holding our breath for our terribly fatigued Dodgers to make it to post-season. And then, Halloween, Dia de los Muertos, Thanksgiving and Christmas. Leaves fall, pages fall off the calendar, we will toast with our friends to better times as we watch the summer wane. Enjoy it in all the ways that you can. I highly recommend dancing, while barefoot and candlelit.

Six Days, Seven Nights

 Los Angeles, California

I had a really good feeling about the year 2020 when it began. It was a great number and my mind runs to that kind of symmetry. But then Joel fell ill with some tenacious upper-respiratory malady that lingered through the month of January. I can't recall how February rolled, but I clearly remember that in March we were much aware of the Covid-19 virus and when I flew to Phoenix to meet Lynnette for MLB spring training Dodgers games, we were already swabbing down our airplane seats with Clorox wipes. A few days later, when I flew from Phoenix to Monterey to meet friends, our pilot informed us that the loud clunk we had heard followed the loss of computer control over the elevator, which is the vertical part of the tail. He stated that they were "troubleshooting." Not what you want to hear on a flight or in surgery. What ensued was a tense period of time before we landed amidst emergency vehicles at our rerouted destination, which was Fresno, California. Read more about this here in That Was the Year That Was, Parts 1 and 2. By the time I left Monterey, I was cognizant that the pandemic was looming. And indeed, lockdown commenced just a few days after I returned home. Needless to say, 2020 was not the year I had anticipated.

On the recent New Year's Eve, my friend Connie brought to  my home a Greek bread she had baked. The loaf, which was a delicious, slightly sweet yeast bread, contained a quarter wrapped in foil. In the Greek culture, this is served at the beginning of the year and whoever gets the slice with the quarter is ensured good luck in the coming year. I got the quarter! But by January 10th, with LA an inferno, it was clear that, quarter or no quarter, the year was not off to a good start.

After five nights at Todd and Christopher's I packed up my belongings and drove away from the Hollywood Hills. I picked up Joel, and we headed towards my neighborhood. I was convinced I could get in. I know all the back roads and there were many ways to get to my street. Unfortunately, the Los Angeles Police Department was aware of all these routes and I was told that I could not enter as there was a Hard Closure. We kept trying, thinking LAPD might have missed an entry, or we might hit a barricade manned by more sympathetic officers, but none of them were having it.

So we went to Joel's and watched our devices all evening, hoping to see the evacuation zone shrunken or disappeared. I don't see myself as an optimist but I continued to be convinced that by the next day I would be allowed back into my home. By late afternoon of the following day, I was resigning myself to Les Miserables (One Day More). Then a reply to my text to a friend who was also evacuated let me know that they were letting residents back into our neighborhood. I read it to Joel who simply said let's go.

We waited in a long line of cars to get to the barricade near my street. I could see my street, and when it was our turn, I showed my ID and pointed to it. I live right there! The female officer responded Oh, you live right there? Well, let's see... I guess it's all up to me, then. Joel and I just stared at her and I'm sure my mouth was agape before she replied It's ok. You can come and go if you have ID. She signaled to the other officers who dropped the rope and allowed us to pass. My neighbor's daughter pulled into the driveway across the street from us and as I got out of the car at the foot of my driveway to get my mail, she called out Welcome Home!

Joel and I brought our things into my house, including those 20 journals that had been in the trunk of my car for a week. We showered, dressed, and two hours later we were in the bar at Sol y Luna. Our bartender greeted us, pouring a generous portion of Casamigos reposado into a glass for me. He looked up at Joel. Modelo Negra? Joel shook his head responding Diet Coke. Francisco raised an eyebrow. You doing dry January? No, Joel said. But I have to get through a police barricade on our way home and I don't want to smell like I've been drinking. Standing in the bar waiting for seats to open up in this restaurant, where we often go to watch Dodgers games during the season, felt even more surreal. I said to Joel, This feels even weirder. It was resonant of the feeling I had the week before when I was driving to Todd and Christopher's and saw people eating dinner in restaurants or the restaurant valet guys hanging out in the parking lots. Life goes on and if you're not a party to the situation, you can engage in normal activities. Soon we were seated and that was when life felt like it had returned me to the familiar. I drank my tequila while Joel abstained. When we returned home a few hours later, the barricade was gone.

The fires were still raging, and the air was smoky. But by the next day I was feeling what I call a post-break clarity. This often occurs after vacations or away-from-home breaks in my routine. We took my car to the car wash and did a Vallarta (pan-latino market chain) run. I dropped off the pajamas that I had borrowed from Christopher at the cleaners and came home to start doing my own laundry. I kept the TV off and listened to music. I felt spared, motivated and energized. It was a secondary gain to a disruptive experience. And I thought back to five years ago when that flight and the entire experience of the pandemic had ended my hopes for a good year. I called my friend, Connie to ask if you have to be Greek to get the luck of the quarter. We have entered the drawing to win a free trip to Greece each year at our local Greek festival. And we have joked that if they pull out our tickets and see my Irish surname or Joel's latino one, they throw it away and keep going until they hit a name like Onassis. But Connie assures me that this is not so, and that the quarter should work ecumenically.

The fires were finally contained. I am certain that our home insurance bills for next year will surely be sky-high. People will rebuild and the projects I need done on my home will also skyrocket in costs. We saw this after the '71 and '94 earthquakes. But the emotional impact of this time is only now beginning to make itself known. We live in a world of disasters and you can prepare yourself, more or less. If you are lucky, like me, you will suffer an inconvenience. A disruption only. For others, it is a devastation. After one of the Malibu fires (yes, there have been many), we had customers coming into our business to get replacement costs for their loss. I remember having a conversation with one woman who came to our showroom with her husband. They had lost everything, escaping only with the clothing they were wearing. That must be so devastating, I remarked to her. And she replied It was. Absolutely. But then she paused and added, But, you know, after we got over the initial despair, we eventually found it to be very freeing. I have always remembered this conversation and look now at the accumulation of things in my home and how much I can free myself from them. No, not by torching them. But by learning, through the secondary gain in this experience, that we can all live with less 'stuff.' What we can't live without are the friends who offer us respite and reach out to us see how we are doing when what is around us is shaking, flooding, or burning to the ground. And if you add two Bernadoodles and a bottle of Casamigos to the scenario, you can pretty much survive it all.

And Then... Redux...

Hollywood Hills, California

We were all devastated, watching the news when an inferno swept through Lahaina in 2023. While Maui was not my favorite island, I had spent a good deal of time in Lahaina since I was a teenager. It was inconceivable that it was just gone. The images of Front Street were heartbreaking, and the loss of life in that fast moving holocaust was overwhelmingly horrific and tragic.

This year, just after wishing all our friends a very happy new year, we watched the decimation of Pacific Palisades and Altadena. They are both special neighborhoods with a strong sense of community but clearly, fires don't discriminate. They rage on and it has now been almost a week of new fires, evacuations, and waiting for it to be over.

On Tuesday I texted my friend, Lynnette, to ask if her sister's home in the Palisades had survived. She didn't know and we still haven't found out. I also texted around my circle of friends, learning that many of them had no power in their homes. Joel also had his power cut. I invited them, one by one, to come stay at my house where I have a guest room with ensuite bath. Sort of a free Air'b'nb. Wednesday night Todd and Christopher were evacuated from their home which is in the Hollywood Hills behind the Hollywood Bowl. They needed to get out with their two large bernadoodles and were heading to a friend's home in the Valley.

The good news on Thursday was that Todd and Christopher (and Franklin and Marlowe) were able to return home. The fire that had imperiled their neighborhood had been quickly knocked down by aerial support. But the larger Palisades and Altadena fires raged on. When the Kenneth fire broke out in the west end of the San Fernando Valley and was heading for Las Virgenes at the mouth of Malibu Canyon, I texted Joel to see if he was on his way. His condominium complex was in the direct line of that fire. And he had been to this rodeo before with the Woolsey fire in 2018 when he and his late Bassett, Buster, had evacuated to my house just before the fire reached his complex. All of the buildings were spared but the brush and shrubbery was blackened and burned and there was smoke and water damage in and around all of the units.

By Friday morning we knew that the Kenneth fire had not jumped the 101 freeway but was running along it on the north side, heading into Ventura County. So Joel was able to return home. Late that afternoon I learned that the Palisades fire had turned east due to a change in wind direction, and was heading towards Mandeville Canyon and Brentwood. When I saw an evac warning along Mulholland Highway, my stress level finally rose to 7+ on a scale of 10. I was texting Joel when he called me. And I started to cry. I can't do this. I can't spend another sleepless night not knowing where this is going and if I'm going to need to get out. And he replied that he would be right there.

Throughout the evening we watched as the warning zone expanded. While I had my go bag ready, as it became more likely that I would need to leave, I began to pack more things -- random things. Joel told me to take my house deed and my Tesla's pink slip. I packed up my La Mer and a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue Label, an expensive bottle of scotch that Joel had given me for Christmas. I threw in some cashmere sweaters. I grabbed my dance bag. It was a combo of what I might need and what would be expensive to replace. Let's face it, you can't pack your furniture. I had already packed 20 years of my journals and stashed them in the trunk of my car. That's my life. I don't need photos. I need my memories in my words. But the process of packing essentials is haphazard at best. It's a grab and wait.

I heard the alarm go off on Joel's phone before mine did. He was in the kitchen and looked up when I walked in. Is that it? He said, That's it. Let's get you in your car. In anticipation, I had texted Todd and Christopher and they assured me I could go to them. They had even offered to come and pick me up! Joel followed me down the driveway, and we got into the traffic on the street below me. It was congested with the cars of other evacuees; stop and go as we approached 4-way stop intersections (although predictably, people were not taking their turn). I lost sight of Joel's Escape in my rearview mirror.

Connie had called me while I was still in my garage, and she stayed with me in voice all the way to Todd and Christopher's. I passed my favorite sushi restaurant, and a salsa club where Joel and I had danced many years back. And Miceli's restaurant where I used to go with my parents to hear the waiters sing opera and Broadway tunes. Swinging onto Cahuenga, I passed the Hollywood Bowl where several months back I had gone with three girlfriends to a Sarah McLachlan concert. I passed the Magic Castle where Todd's and my dear, dear friend Curt had gone to watch magic performed just six months before he passed away last December.

Franklin and Marlowe met me joyously when I arrived. Todd and Christopher both hugged me. And that was thirty-six hours ago. I am sitting at their dining room table. Christopher is reading the New York Times. Todd is working on his tablet. It's a quiet place, here in their home which is stunning. We haven't had a TV on, just music. And at night, this sheltering house is softly lit. It's like a zen space. But our phones and iPads are at hand, checking the progress and prognostications of this ridiculously intense calamity which has befallen our beloved city. Things don't seem to change much on the evac maps. Some small yellow areas of warning have been added. And it is beginning to feel like Groundhog day, with today tougher than yesterday. At least with an earthquake, besides aftershocks, the big upheaval is one and done. Then you can turn to the labor of repair and restoration. But this just goes on and on. The damage both physically and emotionally is incomprehensible. I am someone who initially does well in a crisis. And I have dealt with crises and tragedies in my lifetime. But that initial bravado slowly gives way to an expected degree of anxiety and then depression. Knowing this, I have to stay aware and use the tools I rely on. And a part of that is in gratitude. So far, I am a lucky one. To be forced out of my home by nature is a disruption. But so many thousands are experiencing a true tragedy. I feel I will be ok. I hope that my home will also be. But what I know is that this city, which I love and which holds all of my life's history and a great deal of my family's, will be profoundly damaged by this colossal event. And that will be for a very long time to come.