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. 

Duck, Duck, What a Duck!

I spent Sunday with a duck. Not just any duck, mind you. But a Duck. An enormous yellow rubber Duckie that was moored to a dock in the Los Angeles Harbor.  You might have seen him on the news.  He was quite the sensation because, well, he’s a six-story  high rubber Duckie.

The Duck is the brainchild of the Dutch artist Forentijn Hofman and just about most fun art project I’ve ever seen.  Hofman’s inspiration for the Duckie was a now-famous shipwreck in 1992.

At that time a boatload of children’s bath toys – there were green frogs and blue turtles aboard as well as 28,000 yellow ducks—from the First Years Toy Company in China capsized on its way to the US. While that alone might count as a major tragedy for those of us who cherish rubber ducks, it didn’t really make a dent in the world’s consciousness. Until the ducks started washing up on beaches around the world.

First an armada of ducks hit the shores of Alaska. Then they bobbed their way to Japan and Hawaii. By 2001 ducks were turning up in Maine and Massachusetts before some actually made their way to Scotland, Ireland and Britain. Those yellow bath ducks were everywhere.

 Apparently if you want some sturdy toys forget Playskool, turn instead to the First Years Toy Company – they build things to last. Along the way the ducks developed quite the fan club. Hundreds of people scour beaches around the world collecting them. Books have been written about them.

But by 2000, Duckie fans weren’t the only ones taking an interest.  Scientists were also paying attention. Apparently the ducks travel itineraries  told the men and women of science a great deal about the changing patterns of ocean currents around the world. Though that fascinated scientists, the rest of us were just charmed by the little guys.

Forentiijn Hofman was a natural to latch onto the ducks. His work tends to be large and whimsical. He has created a gigantic pink cat that appears to be made out of yarn, a pink pig that suspends from above, (the proverbial ‘flying pig’) and ginormous green frog sporting a party hat that he parked on top of a building. The Duckie is his biggest and most popular attraction. Because it’s completely charming.

The giant Duck, like it’s tiny predecessors, is a world traveler. (Actually, Hofman makes a new duck for every installation; his work isn’t nearly as sturdy as that of the First Years Toy Company.) It’s passport has been stamped by appearances in harbors and rivers in Taiwan,  cities in Belgium, Sydney , New Zealand, Japan, Hong Kong and London. In the US, the Duck visited Pittsburgh and heralded the opening of the Chrysler Museum of Art in Norfolk, Virginia.

When it floated into the Los Angeles Harbor last week the Duck immediately created controversy.  The Duck was billed as part of a Tall Ships Festival.  Usually Tall Ships, the high masted sailing ships from the past, are enough to draw a crowd.  They spark visions of the Pirates of the Caribbean, and days of yore. Besides, they are beautiful. 

But even magnificent schooners pale a little when parked next to a forty foot tall yellow Duckie.  Okay, they fade a lot.  The Duck was a sensation.

The Duck was originally scheduled to be placed out in the Harbor, free to be seen by one and all. But then the organizers realized that next to no one was paying the $7 admission, or purchasing pirate-themed stuff from the vendors, or eating at the food trucks. The only merchandise that was moving was six-inch models of the duck.

So after an unanticipated ruckus from the vendors, the Duck was hauled into the dock and installed at the end of the row of Tall Ships. Instant hit. Sort of.

Now everyone who wanted to have a good view of the Duck had to pay the admission price. It didn’t slow the massive crowds.  Literally thousands came to check out the Duck. As a bonus, the Tall Ships were on view as well.

With the Duck in port, it was  now possible to get great selfies with the Duck. Virtually every person who came out to see it took advantage of the opportunity. And why not? More than likely, it was a once in a lifetime chance.

The only thing that was odd was the reaction of the kids visiting the Duck. There were zillions of them, but they didn’t really care about the Duck. While parents were entranced with the extreme fowl, the little ones were more taken with the faux pirates that were running around selling plastic swords.  Huh?

Maybe kids are so jaded by CGI Mutant Ninja Turtles and the like, that a monstrous yellow floating Duck is just business as usual. Which is kind of heartbreaking.

The children weren’t even all that excited by the “Baby Duck” that sat outside of the area. It was a mere 10 feet tall, and they could touch it.

Me, I loved the whole thing.  The Duck blew my mind.  And the Baby Duck would look absolutely awesome in my front yard. Quacking in the wind.

Squirrels, Coyotes and the Dalai Lama

Presently  two members of my herd are really sick, which takes a lot of emotional energy not  to mention  money.  Lots of money. It's all taking it's toll and is more than a bit worrisome.

But not to sound too much like Pollyanna, or Dalai the Dane’s namesake, the Dalai Lama, something can usually make me snap out of the gloom and make me giggle.  And thank goodness for that.

Last week in an attempt to update people and allay my fears about Dalai’s disc surgery, I posted something about her on Twitter. Imagine my surprise when I got a message – and a follow back – from the Dalai Lama. I’m sure it was from whoever handles His Holiness’ social media account, and they must have an algorithm which searches for his name. It still made my day. I figured that considering the dire situation Dalai was in, having the Dalai Lama on her side couldn’t hurt.

Then there are the daily encounters with wildlife. I live in a peculiar section of Los Angeles where the rural meets the urban. One block sports horses and farm animals while the next is filled with apartment dwellers leading Chihuahuas and other pocket dogs, usually wearing more clothing than their owners.

The other night around 2AM I heard a coyote howling. That in itself isn’t too surprising. Coyotes are pervasive in Los Angeles, and they are bold. A few weeks ago around mid-morning I saw a pair sitting in front of my house, not 30 feet away from where a cable guy was working up a ladder. The man was oblivious to them. I don’t have small dogs or outdoor cats, but I still didn’t want the coyote to get used to being in my front yard in broad daylight. I banged and crashed about, and yelled at the things until they finally slinked away. The man just thought I was nuts. I however was extremely proud of terrifying a few dumb predators.

I must not have scared them very much, because the other night, the coyote sounded really close.  Murray sure believed he was.  Nothing in the world will wake you up faster than a coyote yodeling, except when it’s joined by two Great Danes and  every other dog on the street. It was like a less amusing version of the dog telephone in 101 Dalmatians.  It was also a lot louder.

When I looked out the window it was just one lonely coyote, standing in the middle of my street. I think the dogs finally annoyed him, because after a few minutes of howling he trotted off. Everyone in the neighborhood was now awake. His job was done.

As I write this, I’m witnessing a bigger smackdown than anything the MMA has to offer: Poppy the Brittany vs. the squirrels.  I have two enormous pine trees on my property. They are easily 60 feet tall and are host to a ton of avian species ranging from crows and mourning doves to hummingbirds.  They are home to a family or two of squirrels.

Periodically the squirrels squabble with each other. Not only do they chase their nemesis’s around and around the tree trunks, they babble at the top of their lungs while doing so. Naturally that draws the attention of Poppy.

Brittanys are bird dogs, bred to flush and retrieve ducks, partridges and pheasant.  I can state with some conviction that Poppy has never seen any of those fowl close up. But instinct is strong, and she is willing to adapt. She is convinced that the squirrels are her enemies and need to be vanquished

.  In the past she has even caught an unsuspecting few.

So Poppy happily parks herself under the trees and stares up at the squirrels. For hours on end. I don’t know why she doesn’t have a permanent crick in her neck.  Just watching her gives me a neck ache.

My current squirrels are not dumb enough to get caught.  But they are vindictive. They hate Poppy with a vengeance. They regularly pause in their infighting just to torment her. They run down the tree just low enough on the tree to entice Poppy to leap around and bark at them. When she does, they shake a paw at her and chatter away. This goes on for hours.

Eventually they all take a short break. Poppy will lie down at the base of the tree and take a nap, and the squirrels do whatever they do when they’re not taunting dogs. Until the whole thing begins a few minutes later.

The really wacky thing is that I can spend an inordinate amount of time just watching them, being grateful that I have the opportunity to do so. Which, I guess is how I handle the other stuff.

Peter Frampton is My Hero

Everybody has personal heroes and this week Peter Frampton tops my list. Yes, that Peter Frampton. 

Actually, I’ve been a fan of his for years but for completely different reasons.

Most people know Frampton from his years as a pop superstar. His 1976 album “Frampton Comes Alive” was a blockbuster, selling more than six million copies and spawning the hit singles, “Baby I Love Your Way” and “Do You Feel Like We Do.” The fact that he was downright dreamy didn’t hurt either.

I was addicted to his earlier work with the late, great Humble Pie. Steve Marriott’s wailing vocals and the band's raw energy set the stage for a lot of bands that followed and Frampton’s guitar work was stellar. But that was a long time ago.

I had kind of lost track of Frampton, though he has continued to work and perform. He's played with some of my favorite artists including David Bowie, Kenny Wayne Shepard  and Roger McGuinn among others.  But it was something he did last week which has little to do with his playing, but everything to do with his performance, that made him near and dear to my heart once again.

Frampton has long had a policy asking his audience to forgo shooting video or pictures at his shows.  Most of the time his fans comply. But last week in Indiana a couple in the front row didn’t. They were holding their phones up running video from the moment Frampton walked on stage.  So he stopped the show and asked them for the phones. They complied, evidently believing he was going to take a selfie with them.  Big mistake on their part.

Instead of taking a photo, Frampton smashed  the phones as hard as he could against a wall. To which I say, BRAVO!

One of my biggest pet peeves at live events is people filming the proceedings. It’s not just that the stupid little recording lights are distracting, or that perpetrator’s hands are inevitably waving in front of my face.  It’s the concept.  I believe that live events, be they sports, music or theater, should actually be experienced. You know, in the moment. Live.

The reality is that no one ever looks at the video of a concert they shoot.  Mainly because it’s unwatchable. The film is blurry and distant, with the object of the shoot just a moving speck in a spotlight. With strangers' heads blocking the view.

It could be anyone anywhere.  On top of that, it’s usually jigglely as well, since the person holding the camera is dancing to the music or cheering on their team. And don’t get me started on the sound. In short these videos sucks. Not exactly Academy Award-winning material. Or even Razzie fodder.

For most of my adult life I’ve been lucky enough to earn my living through music. So music is important to me. I honestly believe it can change your life. But for music to do its magic, you have to be open to it. To actually listen and engage. Spending an entire concert squinting at a hand held screen instead of seeing the real-life action which is unfolding before your eyes is simply bizarre. And counterproductive.

Aside from that are the practical considerations.   What kind of idiot spends upward of $75 to watch a wavy blurry spec that sounds like a Thomas Edison recording?  That’s just plain weird.

I simply can’t figure out the point. Are the videofreaks so disconnected from real life that if they don’t have photographic evidence of every moment of their existence they don’t believe they’re alive?

Don’t get me wrong. I take pictures. I like mementos. A quick gander at the mountains of stuff that fills my home proves my point.  I even take pictures at events.  But I do it before the show begins. Because once the performance starts, I’m actually actively involved with it. To me that’s the purpose of a live event. Otherwise I’d stay at home  on a comfy couch and listen to the album, or watch the act on a professionally filmed video. With decent camera angles and superior sound.

This is why I place Peter Frampton near the top of my heroes list.  If you’re not familiar with his non-pop work, you should make an effort to hear it. Personally I have dug out all my Humble Pie albums and have been listening to them all week. They totally rock. And while I never saw them live, I bet they were amazing.  Frampton still is. You don’t need personal video to prove it.

When Worlds Collide it gets Awesomely Weird

Like a lot of people, I have a number of different pieces to my life.  I worked in the music business for a long time, and have close, good friends from there.  I also have great people in the horse racing industry who have my back. Many of my closest friends are from the horse show world.

They are all incredibly important and dear to me, but  very few of these people know each other. Occasionally I’ll throw a party and invite them all, but they don’t mix much. It’s a little like the cliques at a high school dance.  The show people stay in one corner, the music geeks hang out by the stereo and the racing folks gather in front of the television watching TVG. The film friends stand in the middle and talk to everyone.

But this weekend in Del Mar, there was  convergence.  And it was completely cool. For me at least.

I was down there for a horse show. The Del Mar Horsepark,  about a mile away from the Del Mar Racetrack, is one of my favorite show venues. I don’t get to compete down there very often, because well, it’s expensive. 

I justified going this time because being by the ocean in August is a whole lot better than hanging in the Valley.  Last week it was about 25 degrees better. Really.  With evenings in the 70s and days in the 80s I felt guilty for not bringing my entire crew of horses down just to take advantage of the weather.

Clearer heads prevailed, and I only shipped Wes down. He’s probably the nicest horse I’ve ever had, and I’ve had a few. (The most talented is Lucy, but she is also, shall we say, a bit of a beeeach.) Wes is kind, loyal and tall, dark and handsome. If he was a guy, he’d probably ignore me.  He’s that fancy.

He’s also darn talented.  Between us – and my exceptional trainer Crystal – we owned the August Showpark horse show. He won every class he entered but two, and in those he was second.  To say that I was feeling pretty good about us, is an understatement. I was feeling pretty damned lucky.

If I was smart, I’d have put that luck to use at the betting windows at the racetrack. The Del Mar Race Track is going full swing right now, and it and Saratoga are my favorite tracks in the country.  So almost every second I wasn’t competing, or waiting to compete -which is how one spends most of the time at a horse show- I was at the track.

My friend Kristin, is a trainer, and she has moved most of her operation down to Del Mar from Santa Anita for the season. It’s about 30 horses. Some are fast, some not so much, but they all take the same amount of training and work. Lots and lots of work.

She arrives on track about 4 every morning and doesn’t stop until 8 in the evening.  I got there at the more leisurely hour of 7:30 every day to watch the horses work and generally get in her way.

To me there isn’t a more amazing site than watching horses work on the track in the mornings.  It’s a little bit like the 405 freeway, if that were packed with horses instead of SUVs.  There are big ones, little ones, fast ones and slow ones.  And they’re all stunning.

Because I was running to the horse show, I hardly saw any actual races from the Grandstand. I was done early on Saturday, and managed to see the second turn of the Clement Hirsch from the backside but I didn’t find out who won until later. Oops. (For the record it was Iotapa with Joe Talamo aboard) It was that kind of week. Great, but a little odd.

Saturday was when I slammed into my old comfort zone: music. The racetrack sponsors a series of concerts every season, and Saturday night Weezer were playing.  My buddy Stuart works with them, so I stopped backstage in the afternoon with Kristin and Kathy (a horse show pal) in tow to say hello.  We timed it perfectly.

 It was during that brief break between setup and the gig, where nothing is happening. That meant that Stuart, who I hadn’t seen in far too many years, actually had time to talk for a few minutes.

The thing about really good friends, is that even if you don’t see them often, you fall right back into comfortable patterns. I feel that way about Stuart. It won’t be years before I see him again. It’ll be like, next week.

It was after we left the music stage and went back to the track that things got really weird.  Kathy, Kristin and I became Where’s Waldo.  We stood at the rail on the second turn and took a selfie with the horses in the background.  We went to the gate as the horses were loading and took a selfie there.  We didn’t do one in front of the finish line only because we couldn’t get there in time.

But all good things have to come to an end, and with Del Mar, unless you take the train from Los Angeles, that glow usually comes to a screaming halt with the traffic on the freeway home.   But my lucky streak continued: even with a freak rainstorm, I only hit one small patch of traffic. I made it home in record time.