Shopping: The Real Nightmare Before Christmas

It’s no secret that I’m a bit of a curmudgeon.  Being pleasant for extended periods of time is simply exhausting to me.  So it’s not a surprise that avoiding human interaction is a huge priority during the holidays.

While I have friends that absolutely adore shopping during December, I find the whole experience about as joyous as a prison cell in Guantanamo.  The obvious solution would be to do all my shopping online, and early. Nice buzz.

I’m not nearly organized enough for that. This year I ordered my holiday cards on Thanksgiving and practically gave myself a high five because for a change they would get mailed before Christmas.  Or New Year’s.  Or Martin Luther King, Jr. Day.

As far as gifting goes, I try to give my friends something simple for me that they’ll also enjoy and use. That is, booze. There are a million liquor stores around and they’re not usually crowded.  Alcohol: the perfect gift. Except when it isn’t.

There are a few people on my list who are either age challenged, i.e. children, or don’t drink.  Since I understand that giving a child or a non-drinker a bottle of Makers Mark is considered rude and disrespectful, I find myself going to the mall at least once a season.

Naturally, I postpone this excursion as long as possible, which just makes the whole process even worse.  The thing is, even during the non-busy season, say, in June, I hate malls. They make my skin crawl.

There was dark period in my life when I actually worked at a mall. I’d been summarily dismissed from my record label gig, but still had bills to pay. It was during the holiday season, so I took a deep breath and applied to work at a bookstore - they still had them then.  I got the job, but was assigned to handle the store’s calendar kiosk, which was located in the middle of the shopping center.I still have nightmares. 

It wasn’t just the inane shoppers who purchased dozens of Robert “Miracle of Light” Kincade calendars to give to all their friends, or the non-stop holiday music, though it ruined many a Christmas Carol for me. It was the sheer numbers of people that I had contact with everyday.

Since the kiosk was positioned in smack in the center of the mall, there were always people pushing and shoving around it. And talking to each other at the top of their lungs. I’m sure it was a prime position for sales, but to me it was akin to being in Hell. You know the phrase ‘hell is other people?’ Times ten. I’d drive home after every shift whimpering and shaking.

Hanukkah begins tonight and ends on Christmas Eve.  No matter how much I’ve trimmed my gift list; there are still a few people I need to reward for remaining a part of my life.

So, without even so much as a Xanax, I’m girding myself for a trip to the mall. I don’t live far from a shopping center (does anybody anymore?) so in theory it shouldn’t take more than ten minutes until I’m plunking down my credit card and heading home.

That, however, doesn’t take into account the MMA-like exercise that it takes to obtain a parking space. I don’t mind ditching my car a million miles from the stores. I could use the exercise, particularly around the holidays.  But even in the distant outskirts of the lot it takes quick reflexes and fast thinking to park. The fact is, people drive like brain damaged maniacs at the mall this time of year. Especially the ones that are leaving.

Apparently they have been so wounded by their experiences inside the building that they’re beyond reason. Like the animal that will chew off its own foot to get out of a trap, these folks just want to get away from the stores. And they will do anything to make that happen.

This makes the half-mile from the car to the stores a little adventure, but I suppose like Darwinism, it weeds out the weak.  Eventually the strong, the survivors make it inside. Of course that’s where things really go bad.

Smart people walk into the lion’s den knowing what they want. They quickly pick it up, pay for it and run for the hills. I am not one of them.

Not me.  I wander around blindly around looking for inspiration.  Invariably I become dazed and confused. Everything is so shiny, and pretty and so that I can no longer see or think straight. Inevitably, after a few hours I’ll stagger out to my car. Having bought nothing.

This year I’m going to make it easy. Everyone is getting a box of candy from Mrs. Sees.  Maybe those cute chocolate Santas for the kids. I’m sure their parents won’t mind that they are hopped up on sugar all Christmas morning. Right?

A Jew Takes On Holiday Lights

I adore Christmas lights. When I was a kid we used to pile in the car and drive around town looking for homeowners who made an effort. It helped that we were in New England, and by Christmas the whole place was usually covered in new snow – which unlike old, dirty, slushy snow is pretty and festive.  You know, New England-y.

There was one family who really did it up. Perched on the roof was a Santa in a sleigh pulled by reindeer. The lawn was sprinkled with decorated trees and Ye Olde Carolers.  There was even holiday music piped out to the street. The week of Christmas a man dressed as Santa and gave away cookies on the doorstep.  ‘Course this was a long time ago. Now he’d be suspected of being a pedophile.

When I first moved to California I believed that that my best light-watching days were behind me. We barely have a winter, limited pine trees and certainly no snow. Boy, was I wrong.

Not only does the DWP sponsor a holiday light extravaganza, but there are at least two neighborhoods in Los Angeles County dubbed “Candy Cane Lane.” Any of the houses in these neighborhoods easily put my childhood memories to shame. They can probably be seen from the Space Station.  Naturally I love them.

When I lived in North Hollywood, one of my neighbors was a little loony. And not just because he had a pack of Pugs and Chihuahuas. Bad taste is part of what make holiday decorations great, and he was going for the title.

Year round his tiny yard featured a 10-foot, working Ferris wheel with stuffed animals in each car.  During the holidays they all received Santa hats. But that was just the start.  There was also the first blow up Grinch I’d ever seen, as well as Frosty the Snowman, Snoopy with Woodstock, Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer and for good measure, a couple of old school, white wire deer, trimmed with lights. It looked like a Christmas store had thrown up. It was absolutely awesome!

I’m sure part of my attraction to holiday decorations is that I’m Jewish, and while my family is not deeply religious, we never even had a Hanukkah bush.  My dad was very tolerant, but he drew the line at trees and lights.

I didn’t exactly suffer. My aunt is Catholic, and, every year she let my brother and I decorate her tree.  She is, however, an extremely tasteful woman and her tree is likewise. Mostly old beautiful ornaments, white lights and actual popcorn strands.  And tinsel. She let us go wild with the tinsel. 

Until about four years ago it didn’t occur to me that I was an adult and could have a Hanukkah tree in my house if I wanted. Maybe I had to wait until my dad died. All I know is that my last year in North Hollywood, I bought a tiny living tree and a strand of lights and set it up in my front window. It made me very, very, happy. Who knew I was that easily pleased?

When I moved to my little ranchette in Chatsworth I continued the tradition. Every year I’d get a little rosemary tree and decorate it. The rosemary made the whole house smell great, so I convinced myself it was really there to help cover the smell of wet dog. Nothing can cover the smell of wet dog.

Last year was my first foray into outdoor lights. Even though I adore those fat, old fashioned, multi-colored bulbs, I reined myself in and bought strands of blue and white ones. I popped them out of the box, carefully wrapped them around the round pen in the front yard (Doesn’t EVERY house have a round pen in the front yard?) and plugged them in. It looked awesome.

All my life I’d heard horror stories about stringing holiday lights. The way people bitched and moaned and carried on, you’d think they were being forced to build IKEA furniture. I thought  the whole thing was pretty easy.  Obviously the kvetchers were complete morons.

This year I decided to go wild and add a second strand of outdoor lights. But first I had to unpack the lights I'd carefully put away last year.  It took an hour to untangle them, but it was a pleasant day, so it wasn’t a big deal. 

Then I opened the new lights and wrapped them around the fence. It didn’t have that Martha Stewart look, so I undid them and rewrapped it.  Again and again. Finally it looked tolerable. I plugged it in… and it all shorted out.  I might have said a few bad words. Or many.

But I’m not a quitter. So I trekked back to Lowes, bought a bunch more lights and actually read the instructions. Apparently you can only connect a certain number of strands together or they will blow. Ooops.

By the time I got back to my house it was getting dark and I was over the whole thing. I rapidly hung the damn lights however they came out of the box.  Still when I plugged them in, it was beautiful.

While I was in Lowes, I saw that they had a 10-foot blow-up rubber ducky wearing a Santa hat. That would look AMAZING inside the round pen, wouldn’t it?

Hollywood Park is Closed; I Had to Spend Thanksgiving with My Family

Last week I went back East to spend Thanksgiving with my family for the first time in ten years. I don’t have anything particularly against my family, though taken all together they can be a somewhat intimidating bunch.  I hadn’t gone home for the holiday because until this year I had a job that, in addition to being awful, had a huge annual deadline that fell immediately after turkey day.

In practical terms what that meant was that for most of the previous decade I had what I believed was a perfect Thanksgiving ritual. First I’d go to Hollywood Park and watch the races. Because of the holiday, the shortened card began and ended early, which allowed everyone to lose money and then go home to their families and try to explain it over dinner.

After the last race, I’d hit the multiplex with a bucket of popcorn and watch a movie. It was fabulous. If I was lucky the only people I’d talk to all day were my friends at the track and the ticket-taker at the movies. A quick call to my folks after the film, and all was good.

That’s all in the past now. Last December, amid a lot of tears and anger, Hollywood Park closed. Oh, and I ditched the heinous gig. I was now free, nay, compelled, to see my family for the holiday. I no longer had a viable excuse for staying away.

I arrived on Monday and planned to leave on Saturday morning in order to avoid horrifically jammed airports. Unfortunately the only flight back left at 7am, which meant I had to leave my mom’s farm at 4:30 in the morning.  

I comforted myself with the thought that it was just 1:30 am West Coast time, and I’d arrive home in time to feed the horses their lunch. That helped a bit when I was scraping ice off the frozen car in 14 degrees in the pitch black morning. It also reminded me why I live in Southern California.

                

           The trip itself was surprisingly nice, though I admit spending an entire day in the company of more than a dozen other humans is rough. The truth is that I live alone for a reason: being pleasant for extended periods of exhausting – and hard work. I guess it builds character. At least that’s what mom insists.

               

           With that many people who are related and therefore far beyond party manners, there is bound to be drama. This Thanksgiving was no exception.

                

           One of my earliest holiday memories is from when lived in Connecticut. We had a big old house that sported a formal dining room which was separated from a butler’s pantry by way of a swinging door.  This particular year the house was packed. The dining room table stretched into the hallway. The head count numbered in the 20s.

               

           Dinner was humming along. With everyone happily tucking into the first course, Mom had taken the giant turkey out of the oven and left it ‘resting’ on a table in pantry, waiting to be presented.  The bird was giant, golden brown and perfectly enticing. Apparently I wasn’t the only one that thought so.

               

When the almost inevitable crash came from the kitchen area, no one was unduly alarmed. Most people probably didn’t even hear it – 20 people are pretty loud. So only a few sharp-eyed relatives saw the breathtaking sight when mom opened the pantry door: There, standing on the table reveling

in the kind of bliss that only a dachshund knee-and-snout-deep in turkey can experience, was our dog, Doxie.

I honestly don’t really remember what happened next. If it had been me, my reaction would have been what I may or may not have done years later when my dog ate part of a cake I made for a dinner party: wiped off the dog hair and served the non-gobbled part.  Since I don’t recall pizza being delivered that night, I suspect that mom did the same.

This year the trouble arrived before the relatives, in the form of the first November Nor’easter New England had experienced more than a decade. In the Berkshires, where mom now lives, we received a little more than a foot of snow. And the guy that never fails to plow the half-mile driveway was on vacation. Because it hadn’t snowed at Thanksgiving in the Berkshires for more than ten years.

Naturally, there was a good deal of hysteria coming down with the snow. This year 16 brave souls were expected for dinner.  If they could get up the driveway.  If not, there were going to be a whole lot of leftovers. And I’m a vegetarian.

It didn’t come to that. I’ve learned a lot from my parents, but one of the best lessons is simple: be nice. If that fails, be pathetic.

Mom, who recently celebrated her 84^th birthday, is a master of both.  Her village is small and everybody seems to know everyone else. That has upsides and downsides, but one of the positives is that people take care of one another. So when mom called a man with a plow, he not only knew her, he liked her. She turned on her best little-old-lady-alone-in-the-world charm and the guy was out of his pajamas and plowing our driveway at 8:30 on Thanksgiving morning before he knew what hit him.

By the time the relatives started arriving, the driveway was pristine. The sun came out, and the snow glistened.  The birds flocked to the stocked feeders and nearby trees.  The food (and wine) was good. All in all, it was quite pleasant. I might come back in another ten years. Maybe even sooner.

Dave Grohl and California Chrome: Haters Gonna Hate

           

    I’ve never actually quoted a Taylor Swift song before, and I may go to Hell for it – or at least whatever serves as Hell for active or former rock critics. Which in fact may be a place where you are forced to listen to Taylor Swift songs for all eternity.  But here goes.

             

                Haters gonna hate.  As a gold star member of the rock critic’s club, I realize that we are a snooty bunch. Particularly those of us who began our careers in punk rock and slid into the grunge era partly by virtue of just not dying.

Back in the day the biggest insult that could be thrown was to call a band “careerist.” Remember when Kurt Cobain called Eddie Vedder that? It bruised ole’ Eddie to the core.  (Of course that was when Kurt was still breathing and not an avatar in Guitar Hero. Yes, that spinning sound you hear is Kurt in his grave. He honestly was tormented by success.)

                Seriously, this was thing. I wrote a multitude of articles about bands that sold out their art in a variety of ways that ranged from participating in sponsored tours (History note: When Coors subsidized its first rock tour it was greeted with howls . The bands that participated were roasted and pilloried for being associated with something so crass.), to commercials.  People still deconstruct every advertisement that uses a Dylan song, wondering what Dylan means by it. I suspect it means he needs to pay alimony.

                Clearly we’ve come a long way. This may or may not be a positive thing. On the one hand, sponsorships and licensing to commercials can be a financial lifeline for bands who aren’t making much money since people rarely buy music anymore. It was certainly wince-inducing when the Sid Vicious’ version of “My Way” showed up in an Acura ad last summer.

                It was also stupid product placement. I seriously doubt anybody who loved the Sex Pistols was happy about their memories being co-opted to sell luxury cars or rushed out to buy one. But Sid would have loved it.

               One of the on-going conversations in rock criticdom, is about what constitutes cool. This has come up a lot recently regarding one of my favorite people and bands: Dave Grohl of the Foo Fighters. On the surface this would seem to be a non-argument.  I mean Dave was a member of Nirvana. Doesn’t that automatically make him a life member of cool? 

             

           Apparently not. After all he wasn’t the one who died young and left a beautiful corpse. (Though technically, neither did Kurt.) Dave the nice, agreeable, occasionally brilliant guy who believes -rightly so - that he should be able to earn a decent living from his music. Which is also nice, agreeable and occasionally brilliant.

          Grohl also seems completely tickled by his fame and often uses it for good rather than evil as opposed to, say, anything involving Ted Nugent. Grohl’s “Sound City” and the HBO series “Sonic Highways” are absolute love letters to the music and musicians he adores. Still he gets grief for it.

             

           No matter what you think of “Sonic Highways,” you have to admit he’s introduced a lot of people to artists and styles that they may never before have considered.  People, that’s a good thing.

           Sometimes, as with the latest Foo Fighters album, also titled “Sonic Highways” the music isn’t earth-shatteringly innovative which is a bummer . But it’s always listenable and infinitely preferable to almost everything on radio today. 

         

I’ve been hearing a lot of haters rant in another part of my life as well: horse racing.  People have just been stepping over themselves to rag on California Chrome. Chrome, as you might recall, is the California-bred horse that won the first two legs of the Triple Crown.

            Chrome has the misfortune of being co-owned by someone who is the poster boy for Hoof in Mouth Syndrome, Steve Coburn.  Coburn doesn’t know how to keep his trap shut. Additionally, he isn’t a good loser.  In fact, he is kind of an ass.

            That said, there are vast numbers of people who adore Chrome. For one thing, the horse oozes personality. Also, the owners and trainers have been beyond gracious to fans. They allow almost anyone who asks, to meet the horse and take pictures with him.  Believe me, that isn’t typical, and it has brightened many people’s lives. The connections have also donated Chrome items to auctions to benefit numerous horse charities. In short, the horse has made a lot of people really, really happy.

            Whether he should win Horse of the Year is not my call, and I can make the argument both for and against. But the amount of hate that is being thrown at him, and his devoted fanbase, who call themselves Chromies, is over-the-top and unnecessary. The bottom line is this: if the backlash was just in response to his owner’s asinine statements, it would have it would have blown over by now.

            It hasn’t. I believe that’s because, like the criticism about Dave Grohl and the Foos, Chrome is accessible. A lot of people prefer heroes, be they musical or equine, to be a little distant and remote. It gives them an aura, and makes them seem sacred.

            I for one, say screw that. Give me a nice horse that tries its damnedest, and a bandleader that does the same. That’s not to say that California Chrome is my favorite horse of all time. Nor are the Foos my regular choice for music. But I’m glad that they both exist.

            Now pardon me while I “Shake It Off.”

Bye, Bye Bird

My neighborhood, or at least my little piece of it, is in mourning. Bird died last Sunday afternoon.

Bird was a Guinea Hen. She showed up on my street literally the week after I moved into my half-rural half-suburban ‘hood.  That was three and a half years ago.

For those of you who don’t know much about Guinea Hens, they are large birds – much taller than chickens, but slightly smaller than my Brittany dog. They have lovely black and white polka dotted feathers and squawk with the velocity of a fire engine when they're upset.

            When Bird  first showed up, she was the talk of the neighborhood. That's how I met most of the neighbors. We would meet in the evening and propose theories about where she'd come from.

            Some people believed that she had escaped from a flock on a nearby street but those Guinea Fowl were just a myth. Others thought she’d been dumped when her owner noticed the feral chickens that also call our street home. That's possible.

      

            It didn't matter; the neighborhood took to her, and she to us.  Bird started hanging around the houses at the top of the hill, and one of the homeowners began feeding her. There was a brief debate about what Guinea Hens ate; the consensus was chicken food. Someone suggested buying the cheapest available brand, since she probably wouldn’t survive on her own for very long.

               

           They were wrong. Bird thrived. She was a wily creature. When a pair of coyotes moved in and decimated the local cat population Bird was clever enough to roost in tall trees where she’d be safe.

           I never saw her fly, exactly. For one thing, she was far too bottom heavy for serious aviation. In the mornings when she came down from the tree where she'd spent the night, it wasn’t exactly the smooth glide of say, a pelican over the ocean. She just sort of fell down fluttering her wings and screaming until she hit the ground with a feathery plop. She'd then shake herself off and waddle off toward breakfast.

                

           She stayed close to the house where she was fed, but would run from one side of the street to the other, checking for bugs and ticks, which to the everyone’s delight, she adored. I’ve not had a tick problem since we both arrived.

                

           Bird became quite tame. She never let any human touch her, but would often spend her mornings snuggling on one side of a fence while my neighbor’s fluffy dog slept curled up on the other, the two separated only by a piece of chicken wire. They were about the same size and it was adorable.

               

           She got to know me and my dogs as well, which makes sense since I’d see her three times a day. Neither of the Dane’s acknowledged her existence – to them a bird is a bird, no matter its size. 

           But the first time Poppy the Brittany saw Bird she was dumbfounded. Poppy knew Bird was a bird and she likes to chase birds. But Bird was almost as big as Poppy. Initially when we’d approach, Bird would scuttle away chuckling to herself and waving her bright blue wattles in irritation.

               

           Then it became a game. I’d say hello to her and she’d zoom out from where she'd been hiding. She’d never get close enough to be eaten or chased, but it was enough to confuse poor Poppy.

               

            I wouldn’t call Bird smart. She had a tendency to simply stop in the middle of the street and just stand there, like she had forgotten where she was going. Drivers became used to slowing down and steering carefully around her. There was no choice because sometimes as they passed her, she would let out a shriek and run as fast as she could to the other side of the road.

               

          About a week ago I was walking Dalai and saw a middle aged woman anxiously trying to shoo her into a neighbor’s yard. Bird just stood there and blinked at the woman, who looked perplexed. “Someone’s bird got loose!”  lady exclaimed. “Do you know who it belongs to? I saw it in the street and was worried!” I explained that Bird was wild but the neighborhood mascot. The lady looked stunned. She thought Bird was a peacock. When I corrected her, she seemed disappointed, but personally I think Bird was prettier than a peacock. Thus reassured, the lady got back into her car and drove away. I’m sure she had a great story to tell her friends that night.

               

           Last winter I worried a lot about Bird. It was cold and we had weeks of horrible winds. Every morning when I’d walk the dogs I was afraid I’d find her cold battered corpse. But there she’d be. A little disheveled perhaps, but still clucking.  Those polka dotted feathers weren’t just a fashion statement after all.

           The heat of the summer didn’t seem to bother her either. While the dogs and I would pant down the street, Bird would luxurate on a fence in the shade after drinking and bathing in a neighbor’s water feature.  

                

          About two months ago the city repaved our block and removed the speed bumps. When the bumps were there, people had no choice but to slow down and pay attention.

          But last week, right in front of the neighbor that fed her, a dolt yapping on a cellphone ran over Bird. The stupid girl driving never even slowed down, and certainly didn’t stop, though she had to have known she hit something. Bird didn’t have a chance.

                

         I still look for her every time I drive or walk down the street.  I think about buying a Guinea Hen or two and keeping them in a pen in the yard, but it wouldn’t be the same. Bird was a free spirit, and she moved in just when I did.  I know she was just a Bird, but I miss her terribly.

                

The Breeder's Cup: It's the Best Weekend of the Year

                Yahoo! It’s the best weekend of the year. Like Chanukah and my birthday rolled into one. The only way it could only get better is if I win the Pick Four on Saturday.  And I might. It’s Halloween AND the Breeder’s Cup this weekend.

                

               Halloween is obviously the best official holiday ever. It’s an entire celebration based on getting candy
and hanging out with your friends. No relatives, no fancy dinners. Just fun. The Breeder’s Cup is like that too.

               
              The Breeder’s Cup is like March Madness or the Super Bowl, but better, because it’s horse racing. 13 races. Two days. With the best horses in the world competing for more than $25 million in purse money. Whee!

               
              There were 201 horses pre-entered for this year’s races. There are Milers (minus reigning Horse of the Year Wise Dan, who was recently injured, damn it), there are Sprinters including my personal favorite Big Macher, Turf horses  like Big John B, Fillies and Mares including Stormy Lucy and even tough mares running against the boys, like Reneesgotzip.

               
              These are the races that make gamblers of every stripe tear their hair out.  Professional handicappers start working the numbers weeks in advance and change their picks every time the horses work, breeze or even sneeze. The last is important: Champion Beholder is out of the competition this year after spiking a high fever.  And that changes everything for her race, the Distaff Classic.

               
              Those of us who are amateur two dollar bettors fare even worse. On a normal racing day, you can easily discard a lot of the horses in a race. That doesn’t mean you’ll win of course, but you have to start somewhere.  Not so simple at the Breeder’s Cup. All of these horses had to qualify or pay huge sums of money to enter. They are all really, really good.  Picking the winners of these races is, well, a gamble.

               
              Last week the horses that are competing began to ship in to Santa Anita, the site of this year’s event. They come from tracks around the country and the world.  And every morning it’s free to go to the track and watch them work.

               
              The serious gamblers come out to see how the horses are training and maybe get a tip from someone.  Here’s one: jockeys, jockeys’ agents and trainers always say their horses are going ‘just great’ unless it has just fallen down. And then it’s just regarded as a ‘momentary blip.’

              
               Me? I come for the spectacle. I admit it isn’t easy getting up when it’s dark and cold. The track opens for work at 4:45 am.  My own horses are still fast asleep when I feed them at that hour. (Though they manage to snap to attention pretty quickly when the food arrives…) But it’s worth forcing myself out of bed at an ungodly hour just to see the sun come up over Santa Anita and the mountains in the background.

               
              Even on a non-Breeder’s Cup week, morning works are amazing. The racetrack is filled with horses, both quiet ones and wild ones. Either way, the riders never seem to budge in the saddle or even seem perturbed.  Most of the time riders sitting on the horses that are rearing and leaping around are laughing and grinning. This is fun for them. Personally, I’d be in the dirt. Crying more than likely.  Exercise riders have balls and nerves of steel.

              There are hundreds of horses on the track at a  time, jogging, walking and working. It takes my breath away no matter how many times I see it.

               
              In the week before the Breeder’s Cup, the crowd watching the morning works swells. In addition to the regulars that hang at Clocker’s Corner buying coffee and doughnuts from Rosie, there are hundreds of visitors.

              They include the professional photographers: Barbara Livingston is usually weighed down with three cameras all with enormous telephoto lenses, the Blood-Horse’s Anne Eberhardt is there shooting away, and so are hordes of freelancers.  If you don’t recognize a famous horse as it goes by, the clicks of the automatic shutters are a dead giveaway. The photographers know all of the horses.

               
              That’s not necessarily the case for the rest of us.  Face it, when there are 100 horses on the track, a lot of the bay horses with a blaze look alike. Except for American Pharaoh.  Poor baby; somebody ate his tail when he was a foal and it’s never grown back.  (Even worse this morning he was scratched  from the Juveniles due to a lameness issue. With any luck he’ll be well enough for next year’s Derby trail.)

              The people at the BC have made it easy.  The week of the event, competing horses work in the morning with special saddle cloths that have their name and their race color coded on them. There’s also a handy sheet, provided by Santa Anita identifying the horses, which makes it slightly easier to spot them as the fly by on the track in the morning.

               
               The contingent of European shippers always stands out. Usually they wear matching half blankets and they walk on and off the track precisely in a line.  More often than not, their tails are banged, or cut evenly. It’s a European thing. Gambling hint: in the turf races, don’t bet against the European horses – it’s their specialty and they didn’t travel 5000 miles to lose.

               
              I don’t have any deep preferences for this year’s races.  While I am a big fan of the aforementioned Big Macher, I like both Shared Belief and California Chrome in the big race, the Breeder’s Cup Classic.  But since Zenyatta retired, I haven’t given my heart to any horse that isn’t mine.

                Which makes the two days pure fun for me. I bring just enough money that I can lose  without crying, I meet up with good friends from out of town, and best of all – I get to watch amazing racehorses do their thing in a beautiful setting.

              Then I can come home and eat leftover Halloween candy. I can’t think of a better way to spend a holiday.

Lessons I've Learned from "Peanuts"

      I have always been a huge fan of the  Peanut’s comic strip. But while everyone in the world seems to be enthralled by Snoopy, my favorite character is Lucy. She is referred to as crabby, but that is just code: Lucy is a bitch. And she embraces her “crabbiness.” I can relate.

             
              As early as I can remember, I too was a ‘crabby’ kid. I’ve grown into a crabby adult. Which doesn’t mean that  I don’t know that I am lucky – really lucky - I do. I have a fantastic  urban family, pretty cool actual relatives and I don’t live in Sierra Leone or Syria.

             
             But still I complain. All the time.  Poor, poor me.  Cue the violins. My property taxes are due. (Which means I own a home.) I can’t afford to upgrade my Iphone. (I  have a phone.) My vet bills are exorbitant. (But the dog and the cat got better.) My car needs work. (I have a car.) On and on I go. Sometimes I even disgust myself.

            
           For a little while there was something going around the internet called five days of gratitude.  If you were tagged, for five days you were supposed to list three things you were grateful for.  Unlike the Ice Bucket Challenge for ALS, it didn’t catch on. It just wasn’t as entertaining as watching people you know freeze their tushies off.

            
          Obviously, I’m not a Pollyanna, and I don’t want to be the kind of smarmy person that always goes around saying ‘count your blessings.’ I hate that person and want to smack them in the nose. Hard.

             
         However, I think those of us who are lucky enough to get hysterical about Ebola even though the likelihood of catching it is nearly nill, need to get a grip.  Get a flu shot instead—52,000 Americans die of that. And stop watching CNN.  And Fox “News.” Never, ever, watch Fox.

            
          I personally had a wake up call last week. I was having a bad day – I can’t even remember what I thought was so important, but it seemed critical at the time. Maybe Trader Joe’s was out of Smores or something. It doesn’t matter.

             
         Then I got a phone call. Actually, I missed a call from one of my sisters-from-another-mother. She’s going through a particularly bad time right now.  Naturally I panicked, since I come from a crazy family that always assumes the worst. So I immediately called her back just slightly hysterically.

            
         This time my overreaction was on sadly on target. Her sister – who is a sustaining member of my urban family –  had a biopsy come back badly. Now, we all had known about the possibility, but my friend and I – and her sister – are of the school of thought that,  a) there’s no point in worrying until you have to and,  b) the biopsy couldn’t possibly come positive. But it had.  We were broadsided.

             
         When stuff like this happens to people you love, there are a couple of options for how you react.  You can wail and carry on about how the bad stuff only happens to you. Or you can dig in and support your friends.

        I lied. That’s the only answer. You take a deep breath, cry if that’s your way, and carry on. You can allow yourself a limited – very limited – time to feel sorry for yourself.  Then you say, “what can I do to help,” and then listen to the answer. Most of the time all you can do is listen. And that’s important.

          You also keep on doing whatever it is you’re doing, and help your friends do the same. Curling into a fetal ball doesn’t really help anyone. Because it isn’t about you.  That’s really important to remember.

             
           None of the little annoyances are about you either. It’s just freaking life.

             
         Sometimes things seem to go all your way. It’s sure easy to look at other people and think they lead charmed lives. But nobody’s life is perfect. Some people just fake it better than others.

            
          Everybody makes concessions. That stay-at-home wife with the big house the sports car and the diamonds: Could you put up with her husband? Or the guy with the trophy wife, the dream job and the yacht? He never has time or energy to enjoy the boat and his wife is as dumb as a rock. Etc.

           
          Being aware that you’re lucky doesn’t mean that you can’t want more. That’s just human nature. You just can’t freaking bitch about it all the time. Me included.

        Which doesn’t mean I’m giving up complaining for Halloween. I’m just going to try to temper my inner Lucy with a little Linus.

             

       

Emmy Awards and Golden Retrievers: Yup, I'm at UCLA

I started school last week and have already learned a bunch. For one thing, UCLA is a whole different universe from Skidmore, where I got my undergraduate degree.   And not just because Skidmore is in upstate New York, and UCLA is in Southern California. For one thing, UCLA is a lot bigger. When I started school last week I was pretty proud of myself for finding  the parking lot near my classrooms with ease. Of course, because this is Los Angeles and they knew we’d be driving, the school sent directions to the lot, which was extremely well marked.

               

Which is a good thing, because Lot 3 is split into permit spots and pay-per-spots. To get a permit you have to show up at the parking department in person between the hours of 9am and 5pm. Assuming, for a moment that one did have the time for that, you then have to wait in line for another hour before forking over a small fortune for the permit.  That wasn’t going to happen.

Since I am cheap as well as lazy, I headed for pay spots. Finding one was no problem, but locating the meter was a little tricky. Then I had to return to the car with the receipt to prove I had paid. The extra window of time I had allotted for getting lost on campus was starting to disappear and I was still in the parking lot.

I did have a school map. Those haven’t changed a bit since the last time I was looking for a classroom. In fact, except that it had more items on it, it could have been the exact same one I’d used at Skidmore. It was covered with dark smugey unreadable lumps that were purported to be classrooms and  had no relation to the real brick and mortal buildings in front of me. On top of that the map was minuscule and the campus is lush and dark. Even with the help of my cell phone flashlight, I had no idea where I was.

I did manage to find a cafeteria, two theaters, a library a lovely sculpture garden and a few dorms. What I couldn’t locate, was the building housing my first class. Eventually I flagged down a man walking two Golden Retrievers - unlike my college mutt, all the dogs at UCLA seem to carry pedigrees - who pointed me in the right direction. I had walked past the building numerous times, and didn’t see the sign. Oops.

Whatever hopes I’d had of sliding into the background vanished as I tore into the workshop 15 minutes late. Since there are only eight of us and everyone else was on time, I made quite an entrance. The teacher, let’s call him Professor Multiple Emmy Winner, was extremely nice about it.  I, however, was mortified.

                

The workshop is an interesting assortment of people. Not surprisingly, all of them, including Professor Multiple Emmy Winner, are younger than I am. By several decades. Two are just out of college. One traveled from Finland specifically to attend this program.  They all seem very nice, and surprisingly supportive.

                

That seems to be one of the goals of the program and was a theme of the first lecture: they want people to succeed. Which is a far cry from J-school, where they made it clear that their failure rate was something to be proud of. I never have figured out the point of that.

                

The lecture class is interesting. It’s led by an extremely enthusiastic teacher, let’s call him Professor Mentor-to-the-Stars, who knows his stuff inside out. He’s written several books on screenwriting, and could easily be a character in any number of college-based films. I liked him even better after he used a Tom Waits song to illustrate a point. I was the only one in the class who knew the song.  Which probably says a lot more about me than I should share. The tune was “Christmas Card from A Hooker in Minneapolis.” It’s great: go listen to it.

                

The lecture is the only time the entire class meets together. There are about 50 of us and as in the workshop, we’re a pretty diverse group. The majority of the class is younger than I am, but most aren’t fresh out of college.  There are a few codgers even older than me. Which is refreshing.

                

About ten of my classmates are from other parts of the world. One is an Iranian woman in her 20’s. I’m not so sure she’s going to stick around; yesterday I overheard her complaining about how much she hated Los Angeles. She told someone she should have just stayed in Paris. I’m sure that  can be arranged.

                

I must admit though, that, I was a little shaken when the professor announced homework. Not the assignment – that was fun. It was the actual phrase that grabbed me: Homework.

                

No matter how old you are, or how much you like what you’re doing, homework is a little like a knife to the heart. I immediately panicked : I was back in seventh grade algebra and staring at the board in slack-jawed confusion. But I took a deep breath, reminded myself that the one thing I have confidence about is my ability to write, and I tried to relax.

              

 Luckily, when I got my assignment back, the teacher – or his two overworked TAs - agreed.  Phew.  Because I was worried.  I know I have a lot to learn.

That Sound You Hear? It's My Head Hitting the Wall

When I was younger I spent a lot of time desperately trying to gain credibility in what was primarily a man’s game: music journalism. Thanks to women like the infamous Pamela Des Barres, Tawny Kitaen and the legions of girls who followed in their dubious footsteps, almost any female involved in rock and roll in any way was and is, suspected of having less then honorable motives. 

                

The truth be told, I often was the only girl backstage that wasn’t there for the express purpose of getting into someone’s pants.  It complicated matters that I actually made and maintained good friendships with number of bandmembers.  (That’s also true of most male music journalists.  But as far as I know, no one questions their motives.)

There were a few of us girls successfully writing about pop music, but it wasn’t easy. Even our (male) bosses at the newspapers and magazines would occasionally give us a wink-wink, nudge-nudge. It was frustrating but most of us did our jobs, wrote about the music we loved, and kept our sex lives separate from work. Just like the professionals we were.

Eventually I switched sides, and went into publicity, though a few of my contemporaries – Melinda Newman, Edna Gunderson and Ann Powers - soldiered on. They have solid, well-deserved reputations for being among the best critics/journalists in the business – regardless of gender.

               

When I started to go back into writing, I ran headfirst  into another ‘ism.’ This time it was my age. 

I was told, in no uncertain terms, by two different male editors that they could not hire me because I was too old.  Apparently female ears age faster and more completely than those of males. Who knew? Someone should study this. I bet they could get a grant.

               

I guess I was naïve, because when I decided to reinvent myself for the umpteenth time, I completely forgot the lessons I’d learned.  Oops. She who does not remember the past is destined to bump headlong into it.

Now I'm primarily writing screenplays. It’s not that I didn’t know that there is no business more sexist and ageist than the film business. I did and I do. But I didn’t think that as a writer this double standard would apply to me. I mean, have you seen some of the men that go to the podium to accept non-acting Academy Awards?  It’s not pretty.

Even many of the male actors get a pass. Take a good look at Dustin Hoffman, or Robert DuVall. Clint Eastwood is considered a craggy treasure. You can bet no female actor could rock that look and still get work and be revered.

Still, while I was concerned about my age, I didn’t think it would get in the way. After all, the message that was presented throughout my screenwriting class was that relationships are the basis for this business.  I still believe that.  

But it’s getting harder. I recently applied for a master class at that same school. It was going to be a pretty nifty course. We were going to work with actors and directors and shoot an actual scene. Cool. I thought hard about applying, because I was starting UCLA soon, but I figured there was no down side to learning as much as possible.

I interviewed, and it went swimmingly.  At the end of the meeting I was told I was in. Not only did they know and like my work, but former students were being given priority.  There was an approval process, but it was simply a formality. I was asked to clear my schedule for the next 10 weeks. Which I did.

Then I didn’t get accepted. No one actually let me know – I learned from a friend. Ouch. Oh, and except for my friend and another guy, all of the writers were young women. Really young.  Even more galling, at least one of the ladies has somewhat, um, questionable qualifications. Double ow. And these are writers. God knows how they picked the actors.

I spent the next weekend pretty much curled up in a fetal position.  I don’t mind fighting battles. I’ll put my work up against anybody’s. I do the best I can, which is sometimes pretty okay. Unfortunately, I can’t change my age. Even if I could afford it, I’m not going the Joan River’s route

Thankfully, the people at UCLA don’t seem to care that I am verging on codgerhood. Most of the professors are already there.  As far as the female thing goes, that’s looking good too. The guest speaker next week is Shondra Rimes. I can’t wait to meet her. She’s built an empire and she’s not only older than 30 and female: she’s black. She’s my new hero. Rock on Shondra!

Hi Ho, Hi Ho, It's Off To School I Go!

It’s Fall, which has always been my favorite time of the year. The days are cool and crisp, and the nights get cold. The trees change color and it rains a bunch. Oh, wait, that’s what Autumn was like when I lived in New England.

Here in So Cal, we get about three days like that a year.  And they might be in June. So other than by looking at the calendar, we never really know what season we’re in. 

But this year I can tell you it’s Fall because I’m going back to school.  I am not going to be clutching a Wonder Woman lunch box, or a book bag filled with number 2 pencils and brand new erasers. But otherwise  it doesn’t feel like much else has changed.

My stomach is in knots. I admit it; I’m scared.

I’m not afraid of the work – I never was. I know I can handle that. But, now, just like when I was 6 or 18 or 21 and starting first grade, college and graduate school, I’m terrified of the intangibles. The things I can’t control. Did I mention that I’m a control freak?

Like what if I don’t make any friends? What if people are mean to me? What if I’m the oldest person in my class? What if, like in the nightmares I started having last week, I get terminally lost?

If I’m thinking rationally, I know the answer to all these questions.  I may not make friends but I’ll survive with a few acquaintances.  No one is going to be mean to me; no one will care that much. That’s the joy of not being 7 anymore. Or 16.  And yes, there is the distinct possibility that I’ll be the oldest one in my class. 

Big freaking deal.  I have a ton of life experience to draw upon. For what that’s worth. (I hope a lot!)

I now understand  that while it would be lovely to meet a whole new group of potential work buddies and have them adore me, it’s not imperative. Unlike when I went to school the last time, I have a group of supportive friends, great former colleagues and a host of people I can draw on in a pinch.

I’ve also learned that I can’t make people like me. Which is good, because anyone that you can make like you, usually isn’t really a decent friend anyway.  Chalk that wisdom up to age and experience.

Also I've noticed that lately I don’t really give a damn. If somebody doesn’t like me, it’s a bummer, because everybody wants to be liked. But if they don’t, I’ll live. And probably thrive.

The folks that my career depends upon liking me don’t have to adore me. They just have to know they can depend on me. And they usually do.

This time, like every other time I went to school, what I’m really afraid of is getting lost.  Even with GPS I get lost everywhere.

My undergraduate college was pretty small, but I managed to spend the first few days of my freshman year wandering around in a daze. I ended up in the art department a few times, and did spend a lot of time walking around with a map up to my nose. They have an app for that now.

Now instead of being branded as a Freshman because of the map, all student look alike: they have cell phones in front of their faces. Which may be useful in places where Freshmen are hazed.

When I went to graduate school my classes weren’t even held on the main campus, they were in downtown Chicago, which brought a whole other level of getting lost. I missed L exits and ended up in odd, unpleasant places. It wasn’t efficient, and I was late for a lot of classes, but I sure did get to know the city.

This time I’m going to UCLA. UCLA is big. Huge, even.  In all the years I have lived in Los Angeles I’ve only been on campus a few times. Those were for concerts that I was working.  That didn’t intimidate me much.

I had great plans to scope out the school today, since class starts tomorrow. I was going to get a parking pass and a map. Or app. Naturally that didn’t happen.

My house is pretty much as far away from UCLA as you can get and still be in Los Angeles. So I’m going to leave an hour and a half early tomorrow.  I won’t have a Pokeman backpack, but I’ll be clutching a tote bag I won at a horse show filled with notebooks and pens.

But I’ll still be the one holding the map in front of my nose. 

Signs Of Autumn: Heat Waves and the High Holy Days

It’s officially Autumn today, which, when I lived in New England was a harbinger of a few things: cool weather, leaves changing color and the High Holy Days. Now that I live in Los Angeles it’s a little different. Fall is represented by horrible heat waves, leaves drying up and dropping, and the High Holy Days.

I’m not a terribly religious Jew, but in the past I really made an effort to attend services on the Holidays. It seemed – and was – the least I could do. I’m not alone in this, since it’s practically impossible to get into a synagogue on the Holidays unless you already belong to one. There is this syndrome among the Tribe that’s dubbed the “twice a year Jew,” and I confess I’m one. 

Basically, that means that the only time you show up for services are the two important days: Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Rosh Hashanah is the start of the Jewish New Year and the day you’re entered in the “Book of Life,” and Yom Kippur is the big one: the Day of Atonement.  Most non-Jews think of Yom Kippur as the “day of the crabby Jew” as we’re supposed to fast from sunset to sunset. Everybody knows a hungry Jew is a cranky Jew.

When I was a kid my family was a little more observant than I am now. My brother and I went to Sunday school and he was actually Bar Mitzvah’d. Not so much me.

I hated languages and Hebrew was no exception. I was given the choice to be Bat Mitzvah’d  -my brother was given no such option- and I ran for the hills. The idea of spending time learning a Torah portion and then reading it in public literally gave me a stomach ache, so I got a pass.

Still my dad occasionally went to Friday night services, and always said the Kaddish, the mourning prayer, for his parents and brother. We all sat shiva for them.

But our big appearances at synagogue were on the Holidays. My main memory was that it was stiflingly hot. I believe that there is always a heat wave during the High Holy Days to remind us that we were originally a desert people.

The central rooms of the shul were well air conditioned, but the library, where the latecomers sat --which was constantly us -- was barely cooled.  Then as now, ladies always paraded their new Fall fashions; they looked lovely. Sweaty, but lovely. Okay, they weren’t sweaty, they were extremely ‘glowing.’  Jewish divas don’t sweat. They glow.

For a lot of people the Holidays are a social occasion. Since many folks don’t go to synagogue regularly, these are the only times they see one another. So in addition to the Cantor up on the bema, or alter, singing his lungs out, there is a steady hum of conversation. Of course, there’s always someone who really wants to hear, shushing the talkers. It must be frustrating since it’s completely a losing proposition. Everyone knows you can’t shut up a Jew.

When I first came to Los Angeles, I tried going to a number of different congregations around town. Because I was young, single and interested, they usually let me attend services for a small visitor fee.  They were all desperate for new members. Since I never joined – membership the fees were staggering, and I always felt like a distinct outsider – that didn’t last long.

For a few years, my friend and Lollapalooza boss, Stuart and I were members of the Synagogue of the Performing Arts. We went to occasional Friday night sevices

which were fun, but the big days were the holidays. Services were usually held in the Beverly Hills Hilton and the turnout was huge. There were great celebrity sightings, and it’s in those pre- 9/11 days, it was the only time I’d seen really tight security at shul. Of course then it was more to keep the paparazzi away, than to keep a crazy loon from gunning down a room full of Jews.

One year we even brought Perry Farrell with us. Even though I was dressed in my Los Angeles best, he looked better in a gold-lame suit. He also could read the prayers in Hebrew. I was impressed. So were the Rabbi’s daughters, who were huge Jane’s Addiction fans.

My old neighborhood in North Hollywood was practically ground zero for Valley Jews. There were three synagogues in walking distance. Not that I ever walked. I am an Angeleno after all. 

But now that I live in the West Valley, the nearest congregation is a hike.  I’m both lazy and unmotivated, so on Wednesday evening I’m going to attend a yoga class with a bunch of other slacker Jews. And Thursday, instead of fighting the crowds for parking and seating, I’m going to go for an actual hike. I’ll see a bunch of trees with the leaves turning brown, think of my dad and other missing friends and relatives and say my prayers there.

My New Series: Law & Order: NFL or Why I May Have To Break Up With Football

I love football.  None of that namby-pamby college stuff for me. I really love professional football.

Or I used to. Now I’m highly conflicted. I still love the game, but the league has lost me.

Growing up, The New York Giants were practically a religion in my house. When I was very small I believed that YA Tittle was either a god or the devil incarnate, a changeling who  morphed from Sunday to Sunday depending upon how he played. It was a little confusing.

Moving to California has tested my fandom. Unless I shell out for the Sunday Ticket package, which is beyond my disposal income, it’s pretty hard to see the Giants play every Sunday.  

‘Course the way this season has been going, that could be seen as a blessing. They have been so bad that my man Victor Cruz tweeted an apology last Sunday and promised they’d do better.  Yikes.

But the NFL is making it really hard to be a fan these days. It’s very difficult to justify following a sport that not only doesn’t care about its players (see: the ongoing concussion crisis), but doesn’t give a damn about its fans either.

I don’t really think anyone realistically believes that sports figures are superhuman anymore.  If anything, players are far, far too subject to human foibles. Arrogance for one thing. A lot of players seem to believe that just because they can -throw, dribble or hit- a ball, they are somehow no longer subject to the same rules as the rest of the civilized world.

This doesn’t only apply to sports stars by the way, but to many of the zillion new ‘celebrities’ crowned daily.  But we’re talking sports here.

Sadly, these days news of NFL players being arrested is barely news. With horrifying regularity players are hauled in for DUIs, bar brawls, drugs and even murder.  Thank you Aaron Hernandez.

But the rash of domestic violence cases in the NFL has shaken a lot of us to the core. Primarily because of the flat footed way the league has dealt with it. Which is mostly to ignore the problem. Denial as a policy is not the best response. That’s PR 101. Ask anyone. Really, go ahead.

The San Diego Union Tribune keeps a database of players who have been arrested for domestic violence. Yes, there are so many incidents that there is a hefty database needed to keep track. Obviously the most scandalous is the recent Ray Rice incident. Not because it’s the worst situation  (that honor goes to Jovan Belcher, who killed his pregnant girlfriend and then himself), but because there is video of the incident.

You know that line ‘you have to see it to believe it?’ Well the NFL saw it. And didn’t.

The NFL’s reaction to the first video, the one of Rice hauling his unconscious girlfriend out of an elevator and dumping her on the floor like a piece of trash,  was to suspend Rice for two games. Two games! They nailed Brown’s player Josh Gordon with a full year’s suspension for smoking pot!

Think about that, all you ladies who the NFL has been courting as fans: the NFL believes that assault on a woman is a less serious offense than smoking a substance  which is legal in 23 states.

As everyone knows, the situation got worse for the NFL. When that bastion of news integrity TMZ, released a second video of Rice cold-cocking his now -wife Janay Palmer in that elevator, Commissioner of the NFL, Roger Goodell denied seeing it.  That seems unlikely since there since there is audio confirmation of its receipt at the NFL back in March.  Word out of the NFL offices is that they are investigating.

Oh goody. That’ll make it all better. The only thing female fans like more than being lied to, is hearing about a new investigation.

What’s not being investigated is why Greg Hardy of the Carolina Panthers, who was convicted of domestic abuse – and is appealing – is still playing football. He was never suspended at all. Not a single game.

In response to all this, today Commissioner Goodell created a panel of consultants to “help lead and shape the NFL’s response to domestic violence.”  They are an experienced group. Lisa Freil  is the former head of the Sex Crimes Prosecution Unit in New York County’s District Attorney’s office.  She is joined by Jane Randel and Rita Smith who also have a wealth of experience with domestic violence.  They will report to Anna Isaacson in the newly created position of vice president of social responsibility.  Isaacson

previously headed the NFL’s community affairs and philanthropy division. Which I guess gives her insider experience in dealing with the NFL. Or something.

It’s a nice PR move, but it doesn’t really mean anything other than the NFL will have another group of folk weighing in with opinions and no power to effect change. But maybe it will harder for the league to be tone deaf when the criticism is coming from inside.  Time will tell.

On second thought, maybe it is a good time to be a NY Giants fan. While they suck on the field, they seem to be an okay group of guys off of it.  .

Hello Amazon? Are You There?

Hello. My name is Sharon and I’m addicted to books. It has been 14 days since I’ve read a new one.

You see my Kindle - my second one – died.  To add insult to injury, I was two-thirds the way through a really good book.  At this point, it’s been so long I barely remember its name.  Which means, I’ll have the annoying experience of rereading the book before I’m ready.  I’ll half remember it, but the details will be fuzzy.  First world problems.

The Kindle itself is a dilemma for me.  I really don’t like e-readers. I like actual books with pages that you can mark up and open and close.  And, unlike e-readers, physical books don’t break.  They last until you dump a cup of coffee on them. Even then, they’re usually still readable, just rippled.

Not so with e-readers.  When both my Kindles went belly up, I turned them on, and there were no words, just  wavy lines through the screen. My books had disappeared.  Apparently they are in the cloud somewhere cavorting with a lot of hacked photos.

I naively called Amazon thinking that maybe they’d provide a solution, a fix perhaps

? Ha! I made a joke.

Because I’m a Prime Member, Amazon's answer was to give me $10 off purchasing a new Kindle.  What a deal!  But considering the amount of money I spend buying books, I was grateful for any crumb. So I took it. 

Being a Prime Member, I was promised, no, guaranteed, to have my new e-reader in two days. Awesome! Labor Day weekend was coming, and I planned to spend most of it reading. I know, you’re jealous of my wild and crazy lifestyle.

Imagine my dismay when after four days it still hadn’t arrived. The countdown to Labor Day was on, and with still no Kindle on my doorstop. I was beginning to go through book withdrawal.

Strangely, however, a shiny new Kindle showed up – two days after I’d ordered it – at my mother’s farm.  

Yup, even though I went through the billing and shipping information with Amazon two separate times, they sent my Kindle to my mother’s address. Oopsy.

That meant mom had to mail it back to me. If that doesn’t sound complicated, you don’t know my mother. Suffice it to say, that by the time she remembers to send someone to the post office and ship it to me, the Kindle might be out of warranty.

Since this whole muck up was Amazon’s fault, I  contacted them and see if I could at least get the $10 postage refunded to me.  I know, I made another joke. I’m a regular Jimmy Fallon. But I figured it was worth a shot.

I don’t know if you’ve tried to reach Amazon customer service lately, but it doesn’t exist.  At least not in the traditional sense. If you look deep in the Amazon website you can find a number to call. It will put you in touch with a lovely person from India who cannot help you at all. But they will be extremely charming about it.

If instead, you choose to email them, they promise to respond within 12 hours. Which they will. They will not resolve the problem. But they will not do it  in a very polite way.

None of this is exactly a huge issue in the great scheme of things, but I really do like to read. When my friend hit me up with the Facebook book challenge, (post the 10 books that have stayed with you and tag some friends), it was really hard to whittle the list down to 10. 40 would have been easier.

(For those that care, here is my list: “84 Charing Cross Rd,” “On the Road,” Anything by P.G. Wodehouse, “The Beautiful and the Damned,” “Naked Lunch,” “The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Tests,” “A Book of Common Prayer,” “Vanity Fair,” and “A School for Young Riders.” )

The thing is, I’ve read all of the books on my shelves enough times that I can repeat most line by line. While waiting for the Kindle to arrive, I was desperate for something new. I devoured copies of “The New Yorker,” “The Blood-Horse” and even “Entertainment Weekly.” I was starving for new material.

My mom, ever the practical lady suggested I get off my ass and frequent an actual bookstore.  Like I hadn’t thought of that already.

The problem is, there aren’t any. At least not nearby.  There are many, many malls and no bookstores. The empty shells of Barnes and Nobles litter the Valley, but closest bookstores – used or new – are in Studio City.  Which is a hike. And I’m lazy.

I suppose that I could have ordered some new books from Amazon. With my Prime Membership they’d have been delivered in two days. Probably to my mother’s house.