Blue wave

Happiness Is…Is… finding a pencil, sleeping in moonlight, telling the time..

Happiness.. is..

The waning days of August, if you’re in the right mindset.

 I’m usually in a  tizzy, depressed that the summer flew by at lightning speed, convincing myself that we were  celebrating the Fourth of July  “just yesterday!”and joking that it would be our” last barbecue/celebration “as an independent nation,” when  lo and behold: a blue wave  came and washed away all of the gloom. 

A blue wave in my swimming pool,courtesy of a state of the arts vacuum and filter.

A wave of excitement!!…from planning a special trip to celebrate our  upcoming thirty fifth anniversary and Jim’s seventieth birthday.

 A wave of relief …that those pesky Back to School ads are finally winding down because it’s now a reality, and I have no idea why it bothered me in the first place, since  my son graduated over a decade ago, freeing me from the mounds of forms and paperwork that needed my attention and took me away from the new season of “Jeopardy!”

A blue wave… named Kamala and Tim.

To get away from politics for a moment, and maybe for this whole blog, I haven’t decided yet, it really was a good summer after all, with mostly sunny weekends and two great getaways.. one with the family in June to Woodloch, the second, just weeks ago, as we joined Evan in his quest to visit all of the Major League Baseball parks before his thirtieth birthday ( he completed this with his final stadium to see the Los Angeles  Dodgers just a few days after he turned twenty nine)

I’m thinking about the great movies we’ve seen, ( Yes,  YOU, “Between the Temples”) and all the terrific television we watched together ( still grateful to all those who recommended “Atypical”— I’d give you all individual shout outs if I could recall specific details of your recommendations, which I can’t, but the series is phenomenal, even ‘ though we’re only halfway through it) 

I’m reading fantastic books ( like “The Briar Club” by Kate Quinn) and it dawned on me that this is not only the summer of fun  and sunshine,  but  one of unexplained coincidences.

For example, Jim and I were sitting poolside recently as I was reading the aforementioned book. He had absolutely NO idea whatsoever which of the many novels in my Kindle’s queue I was reading, yet alone  that it was one that had characters that were holocaust survivors, when  he inexplicably started humming the haunting score from “Schindler’s List”… something he  had never sung before, something where, when questioned , he couldn’t  even recall where he first heard it.

Coincidence number two: I find that I’m highly motivated.. or, maybe not highly but SLIGHTLY motivated, to slather on sunscreen and lip balm while gathering beach towels and books and iced tea and baseball caps to protect both myself and my devices from the sun if I have music to listen to courtesy of Alexa. 

Music makes we want to do pool exercises, and the original cast recording of a Broadway hit is usually the perfect amount of time for a workout.

A few days ago, I chose “Bye Bye Birdie” when I was flooded with memories of trying to stage a production of it for  my eighth grade class. 

My best friend Marla and I would sit at her kitchen table, cutting out cardboard telephone receivers which we decorated with colorful contact paper supplied by my dad. As we stapled bits of twine  onto the cutouts to represent curly  cords while humming the splashy  “Telephone Hour” , we thought about which of our classmates we were going to cast. Marla cast herself as Albert Peterson’s annoying mother, played by Maureen Stapleton in the film, because it was such a fun, campy part, and I cast myself as Rosie,  Janet Leigh’s role, not because I was a hot little number who could dance ( because I could NOT) but because in those days, I could carry a tune.

We spent the afternoon making more script notes and planning choreography  steps when we decided that there was only one possible choice to play Conrad Birdie,  and that choice was the best looking boy in our class, a tween heartthrob named Howard.

Turns out we never got the green light to actually stage the show, but as I was doing my doggie paddling and treading while listening to “One Last Kiss” I thought of this very beautiful  man, this  “One  Boy” my girlhood.

When I logged onto Facebook a few hours later, I see that Howard had been tagged.. by his widow, a lovely woman who I never met. 

We’re not connected on Facebook or anywhere else, but she was  acknowledging her wedding anniversary to her late husband.. just a few hours after I  “saw” him as Conrad Birdie in my pool!

I shared this story with her and even though we don’t know one another,  ( I am still Facebook friends with Howard)she acknowledged my post with, “there are no coincidences.”

And you know what?? 

I believe her.

Today I listened to the original cast recording from “You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown” and I amazed myself by recalling every lyric.

I think I’m going to go inside and write a Back to School book report on Peter Rabbit, just like Lucy, Schroeder, Linus , and Charlie Brown did in  what’s arguably the show’s cleverest song.

I’ll let you know how it goes. 

Coincidentally, I’ll be trying to link it to a blue wave …if I can.

Between my 1960s Temples

If "The Graduate" and "Annie Hall" and "Harold and Maude" had a baby, and that baby could evolve into a movie, that movie would be the best film I've seen this year.

Think of the most popular child actress of the thirties and forties posing for a photograph with her parents, (with Shirley in the middle,) and then you no longer have to guess what movie I'm referring to: It's "Between the Temples"

The movie is wonderful..quirky and funny and poignant and despite a couple of continuity errors that we think we caught, Carol Kane gives the best performance of her career.  The rest of the cast is pretty stellar as well.

The movie made me feel so connected to growing up Jewish in the sixties, when faith meant the world to me. It evoked memories of my summer camp in suburban Philly, an all girls camp for underprivileged kids.

My bunk counselor made magic happen with her position at the camp's Nature Lodge, but the very best memories came as she conducted those beautiful  Friday night services.

Aunt Sonny taught us all the wonderful  customs and traditions, as we sat often holding hands, donned in navy blue shorts with white tees that had the camp's insignia,  on the grassy hill, under the stars. She taught us how to pour the wine into fancy  crystal stemware(in our case, grape juice into plastic cups) and how to sing songs that paid tribute to this special night,  songs like "The Sabbath Prayer" from "Fiddler on the Roof" or changing the lyrics from "Bless This House" to "Bless This Bunk."

Our beloved Aunt Sonny, whose actual name is Sandra(Sandy) went on to become one of the first female rabbis in the country, leading her very lucky and grateful congregation in Indianapolis on this admirably righteous path.

You don't have to be particularly religious or even culturally Jewish, to enjoy this movie, although the subtitles help, and access to a translating app will help you with the occasional  Yiddish.

It literally brought me back to 1969, when I was studying for my own bat mitzvah service.

I know I told this story before but it bears repeating, and that is the discovery that the cantor had given me the wrong Torah portion to learn  just days before the  main event.  I'm a quick learn..but not quick enough to learn a whole new portion. They rabbi told the congregation that because "Karen is such a gifted student, we allowed her to choose her OWN portion" a little white lie that elderly scholared congregation members would desribe as more than a white lie..they'd probably call it a big fat  whopper.

I think the cantor might have worried that the white lie might cost him his job(it didn't) while my mother worried that I might get an unwanted visit from an unwanted guest, someone she referred to as my "Aunt Flo" while wearing that new lacy white dress with it's forest green sash.

(I didn't get the refernce at the time..who was my  Aunt Flo?  Was she married to Uncle Ebb?)

My friends had just seen "The Trouble With Angels" with me, and we were all determined  to turn Hebrew School into what Hayley Mills and June Harding did for an all-girls  Catholic Academy.

We failed..although there WAS some experimentation with smoking cigarettes and cursing in the girls' bathroom..I was a very "gifted scholar" with the latter.

And this week, my spiritual connection has come full circle after watching the DNC...the shared feeling of euphoria and hope.

I loved hearing Second Gentleman Doug Emhoff(who had his bar mitzvah at the same temple our son did) brag about his wife's "mean Passover  brisket" but I positively KVELLED(non Jewish friends can google it) when our future Madame President told the world she has Israel's back..which, I promise you, is not only NOT a "white lie"..it's the G-d's honest truth, something her opponent knows nothing about.

Think of me in that little white dress and that sweet alto soprano singing voice(I no longer have either one) when you host your Oscar party next winter. 

I'll happily accept the compliment when you call me "gifted", predicting a lot of awards for "Between the Temples."

Okay..it barely has a chance for even Best Screenplay because the Academy's members often lack crackerjack memories, and this is a summer release, but I can always hope..pray??..that it's going to get some award buzz that it so richly deserves.

Michelle says “do something”: the song

I was so jazzed last night..so positively pumped..that I did what I always do when I'm excited..I wrote dinky little poems after the wonderful speeches at 'YESTERDAY'S" DNC.

 Some Facebook friends seem to actually  like my late-night, mediocre tributes, so now I got some rest and  some real inspiration, thanks to Lennon and McCartney, (and my son's wonderful girlfriend.)

Michelle!

She'll tell..

all of us us to just "Do Something!"

Hell..she made me KVELL!

Michelle!

That wit!

Her "black job" joke's leg-end-ar-y!

(Trump's..so fulla sh*t!)

We love her..we LOVE her..we LOOOOVE her!

Last night she was ablaze

Earned every ounce of praise..

she gives us hope..she helps us cope..

we'll see..brighter days....

Her mom's..now gone...

but her spirit's quite alive..Michelle..now can move on...

We thank her..we love her..we need her!

Oh yes indeed we do...

it's time we ALL Vote Blue

go in that booth..and vote!!( Like "RUTH!")

We're counting..on you.. 

We love her....

she FEELS us! She HEALS us! Reveals us..l

to be quite rosy now

we're going to fight..somehow..

and when we do..we'll shout YAHOO!

And shout out to YOU!!

Michelle!

La belle!

I don't speak much French..

but she's..a mensch..

(As is Barack!)

May we.... be with

this November Fifth..

this awesome Madame..

Our Michelle!

(It helps if you ask Alexa to play the real song..the words fit better with accompanying music)

Don’t quit your day job..

Thank you, YESTERDAY, for being the quintessential Perfect Day.

The kind  of day you wait all summer for. 

Hey, TODAY..are  you listening??

 Do YOU understand the assignment? 

 What about YOU, TOMORROW? 

 I don't even care if you cheat and look at the crib notes taken by YESTERDAY, just do the work and make me happy.

Finally..the weather gods cooperate!

Last weekend I was microwaved in Los Angeles, this weekend I did pool exercises in sparkling, bug and rodent free water, while listening to the score from "La La Land" which means a lot more to me now than it did before I actually visited the Griffith Observatory and saw the location where Mia and Sebastian had that unforgettably magical night.

We swam, and fought about who misplaced the spray on sunscreen, but in a cute, quirky way--not in a weird way--and then had a delicious dinner at a very local Thai restaurant that we didn't even know existed. 

 My mouth is still on fire but it was worth it.

We took a short ride to the movie theater, singing, or attempting to sing, songs by Smokey Robinson. We're going to his concert in a few months with my wonderful cousins, Ava and Michal, and I realize how much that group meant to me. (Both the Motown group and my cousins)

We sang things like "Tracks of My Tears" and "Tears of a Clown" and  it brought back so many memories of my youth, where I played the Miracles album non-stop.  I could hear the falsetto; smell the Pall Mall cigarettes, feel the heat of the plastic slipcovers on my thighs.

I was home..

We're warbling in unison until it came to "Oooh, Baby Baby" where Jim almost lost control of the wheel from laughing so hard.

He got his composure and said to me, "don't quit your day job."

(Whatever my day job actually IS these days)

First of all, it's a miracle I can make any sounds at all, with my voice shaped by all that second hand aforementioned Pall Mall smoke.

But yeah, my "Ooh Baby Baby" sounded a little like a cat getting electrocuted.

A hippo giving birth without an epidural.

I still can't wait for the concert 'though.

We then saw a schmaltzy romcom that I keep wanting to call "The Fault in Our Stars" because the theater was packed with the same kind of audience, those who read and loved the NY Times Best Selling book.

 This time, it was "It Ends With Us."

We both loved it..the movie had warmth and humor and hot sexy leads and some surprising twists.

I also spent part of the day, the YESTERDAY,--by getting all fired up.

I see light at the end of the tunnel and that light's name is Kamala.

And yes, YES, of COURSE I know I post too much.  

That's like telling me I eat too many chips and salsa when we're out for Mexican food..it's a given that I do and I always will..

But if you're thinking of unfriending me because of my passion, I'm asking you..not to.

I wouldn't unfriend you, because I'm a Golden Rule follower.

And you'd miss Luke updates and blogs like this if you unfriend me.

And if I could just influence ONE of you..ONE person who is still undecided..well..that would make me as happy as a perfect forecast makes me.

My political groups are my sanctuary, where I share a lot with so many like-minded folks in my community.  If I attended an actual House of Worship in an actual building, nobody would bat an eyelash..so do that here. 

 If you like me even one iota. 

 Scroll by, and I promise not to discuss opposing views in person.

I promise not to discuss anything until the election is over, but please, I value you so don't take away my voice.

I am not the Little Mermaid.

But I'm going to swim like her in an hour or so!

Looks like TODAY got the memo..it's going to be another fun one!

A meatball named desire

Monday:

Now today…today was a great day despite the Uber driver from hell and the negligent housekeeping staff.

Our Uber driver is the fabulous Ashley who gave us a genuine Hollywood experience as she drove us to Santa Monica Pier, which I accidentally pronounced as  my former camper/camp reunion friend, Monica Paire.

Ashley had lots of gossip and juicy deets because her other job is unique and fascinating, especially four years ago, when it was her responsibility to show up on closed sets and private homes to administer Covid injections to celebrities.

In case you’re as nosy as me, Ashley disclosed that the most beautiful of all the celebrity homes she visited was Rihanna’s. 

The most personable and likable celebs she dealt with come from “Grey’s Anstomy”, especially Camilla Luddington ( Dr. Jo Wilson) and Caterina Scorsine. (Dr. Amelia Shepherd)

They actually look like they’d be nice, don’t they? 

And I had no idea  that they’re British and Canadian.

She adds that villains on reality shows are obnoxious in real life, like “Shake” from “Love is Blind” and Grandmom-burying Johnny FairPlay of “Survivor.”

Santa Monica Pier is honky tonk  and fun, with calm waves and beautiful mountains.  I wanted Jack Dawson to paint me like a French girl  for a dime since his artistic career started on this very pier, but who has dimes these days?

Evan posed in front of Bubba Gump Shrimp, wearing Gump’s shoes on his feet before freezing them in the unforgiving Pacific.

There were clowns blowing bubbles the size of condors and adventurous teens on skateboards and sunburned kids whining about how dizzying the merry go round is.

Oh wait.. that was me.

After hanging out at the pier, we ride to the Academy Museum and had lunch at Fanny’s where everything on the menu is movie themed.

I had a sandwich called “A Meatball Named Desire.”

This museum is fantastic, especially for film aficionados. 

We had the dumb luck to miss the highly recommended exhibit with John Waters by one day before it closed..

But we did see more costumes and diary notes and script revisions snd short films.

One room had an enormous table that took up the entire place. With tiles that contained academy awards trivia since the first Oscar was given out in 1927. The facts even included Will Smith’s notorious slap and Faye Dunaway’s embarrassing gaffe.

There was also a wall of videoed Oscar acceptance speeches. I was moved by Steven Spielberg with his long overdue award in 1993 as Best Director for “Schindler’s List” and I bawled like a baby when Halle Berry became the first (and sadly last) woman of color to win the coveted award for Best Actress in a Leading role. 

Probably the best thing we saw today was a film about Jewish contributions to the movie business. It was a very emotional and moving experience to learn the history.

Our last event cost extra for something called “The Oscar Experience “ and I thought I’d get to obnoxiously show off my trivia knowledge of all things related to important cinema.

Instead, the three of us posed in front of a podium, holding up a genuine gold statuette as we gave our acceptance speeches.

And no. I’m not sharing the video.

My hair looked like I been electrocuted, my T-shirt dripped with perspiration, and my Meatball Named Desire was having its way with my insides.

I was the opposite of red carpet ready.

I was the stuff of a nominee’s nightmare.

Jim and Evan are now returning from Dodgers Stadium, where they beat my hometown Phillies but Evan got to complete his bucket list.

Thanks to all of you who have stayed with this verbose and often nonsensical blog as we have an early morning flight back to New Jersey.

I would have thanked you in my acceptance speech had I been allowed to make one.

A day in Hollywood.. A night at the Griffith?

Sunday: 

okay.. 

I’m going to recap yesterday’s happenings before I tell you about today’s. 

Today started off great and ended with a nasty Uber driver who had no air conditioning and no manners: who spent the entire ride texting and making moves that violated about a half dozen traffic laws.

He was the polar opposite of our morning driver but I’ll get to that later.

We get to the hotel, hot and exhausted, only to find out that housekeeping has left us unmade beds and no towels. They left overflowing  trash cans and …they left for the day. 

I liked this Omni Hotel prior to this, except for the fact that their kiddie sized pool has only ladders and no steps. 

Not very friendly to swimmers with sciatica.

Anyway. 

This is already boring. 

Let’s concentrate on blog worthy stuff from yesterday.

 The day started with a trip to the Hollywood Museum, with lots of vintage gowns and jewelry and accessories.. that held my interest so maybe part of me is a girly girl after all. Everything was pink and sparkly and Evan found a piece of the original Hollywood sign, a graffiti filled “H” that looked nothing like an H, but whatevs.

We saw annotated scripts from “The Three Stooges” that were protected under a foot of unbreakable glass. 

Oh really?? 

You think someone is going to steal your director’s note, describing the angle from which  Moe is going to toss that banana cream pie?

The museum had interesting relics, one being an original Mel’s Diner that was part of the establishment.

 My millennial son has no sentimental attachment to to “American Graffiti “ or “Happy Days” so he schlepped four blocks that were insanely crowded with Batman and Supermen who smelled like rotting cheese just to get an authentic “In and Out” burger that he snuck into Mel’s anyway, without us green lighting it.

“Happy Days” he says while sneaking a fry that Jim tried to hide behind his colorful menu. “Isn’t that like “That 70’s Show?” But in the fifties?”

Jim and I were sharing a malted, promising to go steady and to always Like Ike. 

It was really a swell meal.

After lunch, we took an Uber to the Warner Brothers backstage tour which we haven’t done since 2019 and Evan’s never done.

It was thrilling to find ourselves back at the gazebo in the center of Stars Hollow, as Evan shared my joy vicariously, knowing I’m a rabid fan of all things “Gilmore Girls.”

This was his first time experiencing all the magic and all the fakeness of movie making. 

He was in awe and I was in a microwave oven.

Yeah.. the tram was that hot.

We visited the set of a show I don’t watch called “All  American “ with Taye Diggs. Everyone was rapt and I kept praying I wouldn’t pass out onto a slab of concrete from all the heat. 

There was a lot of repetition from our Paramount Studios tour but if you’re in Hollywood and can only chose one, we’d recommend Warner Brothers.

They’ve got fresher paint and the fountain from “Friends” and a driver who encourages passengers on the tram to clap at the precise moment the theme song wants you to clap.

And they have Gilmores!!

We next took an Uber to Griffith  Observatory and the driver deserved a hundred dollar tip for navigating all those twisty roads.

Evan wanted to see this for the pop culture connection with “BoJack Horseman “ and I wanted to recreate that romantic date between Mia and Sebastian from “LaLa Land” with my steady. 

The views were stunning, the crowds were off the charts, especially the incoming ones hoping to catch the sun setting. If you can’t parallel park, you might as well not go. I’ve never seen so many cars on any street before.. not ever.

Uber drivers apparently don’t pick up for a return trip from the top of the hill but a free shuttle can get you where you need to be for pick up.

The problem was, we couldn’t figure out where to exit the shuttle and when we finally did, we were in the middle of nowhere that resembled any part of Los Angeles. 

Jim is hangry and irrational: I am hot and too achy to walk  so I’m equally irrational, and Evan was irrationally concerned that I’d give  Jim his pin back and tell him to look for a niftier dame. 

It all turned out fine. 

Evan did some research and we found a wonderful Italian restaurant right near the hotel. 

No more malarkey from us. 

We came back to the hotel, freshened up, and collapsed into a deep slumber, keeping Evan awake on the rollaway bed.

Not because he was worried that his parents were snapping at each other but because we apparently entered a World Champion Snoring Competition, which I won, according to my son.

It was Bosco!

Good morning Hollywood! I slept well and I’m feeling good! You will get what I’m singing now! If you ever saw “Hairspray!” …

Wow!!

Yesterday was jam packed and fun and I’ll talk about it now.

I highly recommend the backstage tour at Paramount Studios, unless you want to stay in a bubble and believe there is no such thing as movie magic.

We saw all the sound stages where classics like “Frasier” and “Cheers” and “This is Us” were filmed, and our informed guide, Tara, even pointed out the exact location where “Seinfeld “ filmed the popular marbled rye bread episode.

Backstage tours hold my interest, (we’re doing Warner Brothers this afternoon, with Evan this time, and I’ve done Universal Studios before) because I always wondered why they smell like fresh wood chips and why every building looks like it hasn’t been painted in centuries.

Tara drove the tram with enviable finesse through the narrow streets as she described all the magic of making movies and television shows.

“How many bricks do you think it took to build all these houses in New York City?”

I specifically answer, “I don’t know.. hmmm.. maybe 6,975, 820 ?”

Jim answers “zero!” 

And he was right because they aren’t bricks at all, they are foam.

They are FOAMY and they are PHONY because everything you think is real on your big or little screen is actually a blatant LIE!!

I’ve been through this before but it’s always triggering 

Tara drove by the craft services table and talked about the voracious appetites of some of your  favorite actresses and you KNOW THAT’S a lie. 

They subsist on kale and styrofoam.

She took us to Forest Gump’s bench and when I challenged the movie’s most famous quote with, “of COURSE you’re going to know what you’re going to get.. chocolate boxes are labeled!” , Tara replied, “I never check.. I just eat them!”

(Even if they’re filled with jelly??)

She talked about “Everybody Hates Chris” and how we should never buy his excuses for being late to school, because on the set, the school and house are adjacent.

She personalized some stories, telling us how Kathy Bates is so warm and lovable in real and reel life, and when Tara asked which of her characters she most identifies with, she answered “all of them!”

Which made me tuck my foot deeper into the tram in case we ran into her on the lot and she was feeling Annie Wilkes that day.

Tara told us that the sloped parking lot becomes a lake or even an ocean when cars are removed and gallons of water are pumped in. Ocean scenes used to have a big blue screen backdrop, but that backdrop is now painted white because suicidal birds would fly into it when it looked like a real sky.

Also, some guy’s only job was to clean up bird poop from the backdrop, a job I would have gladly done if it meant getting a foot in the door at Paramount, and being discovered as a lame comedy writer. 

Oh!! 

Speaking of oceans, the studio has no relics from Paramount’s biggest money maker because James Cameron has a Titanic ego. 

He did forget about one piece of artwork, a painting seen at the top of that staircase, so keep that a secret.

I know you guys can keep secrets because none of you blabbed to Paul McCartney that we were singing into his security camera.

I loved all of Tara’s little details, like when Janet Leigh’s blood was circling the shower drain in “Psycho” it was actually Bosco syrup, or how Foley artists create sound affects in magical ways. Creating kissing sounds sounds gross.. a tech puts fingers into a mayonnaise jar and swishes them around. Yuck!

(Although that’s another job I would have volunteered for in order to break into the business)

Tara ended the tour by warning us not to trek to the Hollywood sign because it’s like three hundred degrees up there and is infested  with coyotes.

One guy lived up there in the years when the sign was still lit up. His full time job was to change burned out lightbulbs.

Again, if it meant getting a foot in the door..

Do coyotes like feet??

Would Kathy Bates cause them Misery by axing theirs off?

Anyway.. ( I better take a breath) Jim took the train to meet Evan for the Angels game in Anaheim while I enjoyed dinner and a wonderful pianist who played breezy jazz and show tunes.

They’re heading back as I type this.. Evan completes his bucket list at Dodgers Stadium tomorrow , and I’ll look for something to blog about.

Wish me luck

Don’t have a cow man.. oh wait..

Friday Evening:

After our tour, we walked some more on that hot concrete animal known as Hollywood Boulevard, where even the aforementioned kebabs seemed hot and stinky.

Our  huffy Hollywood guide in addition to our friend Joseph Amster, an actual tour guide who operates with heart and soul in the Bay Area, recommended a must see Hollywood restaurant called “Musso and Franks” , an establishment frequented by Quentin Tarantino himself, whose gory  film scenes must be inspired by those world famous, deliciously rare  bloody steaks.

The three block walk felt like three miles, as we proudly dripped perspiration onto the Walk of Fame star of none other than Trump himself. 

Hucksters tried to sell us MAGA shirts and hats. If I weren’t so hot and sweaty and just plain hangry,I would have lunged at them. 

Which, come to think of it, is exactly why jungle animals DO lunge.

We had only eaten crappy airline food about what seemed like twenty four hours earlier when we reached our destination.. and two locked entrances. I was about to buy one of those aforementioned red hats and throw a hissy fit that could’ve  been heard as far away as Bel Air when Jim found a security guard who let us in.

The place was dark and exotic and had a smell of flaming meat that turned me into a tiger.

The Maitre D asks us if we wanted to be seated, which he said he could do if we didn’t mind waiting …for three hours.

We minded.

He promised it was worth the wait because the world renowned steaks were cooked over a hot grill that was over a hundred years old.

“That description fits ME,” I say, and I told him we’d be willing to sit in swivel chairs at the counter as long as there was A/C.

He seats us right in front of the flaming brick oven and I hissed at him. 

Teeth were bared.

He then reseats us, at the far end of the counter, where we had to walk through a narrow passageway.

At this point, I would have been okay being seated in a meat locker, but we were fine with the swivel seats, until we realized they didn’t swivel very far, meaning if you wear above a size six, you weren’t getting swiveled.

If a woman craved a steak in her ninth month of pregnancy, which many women do, she would have been directed towards the street and its toxic lamb kebabs.

Jim could barely squeeze by and he’s normal sized.

He’s normal sized and he loves me like one of those mothers you hear about that take on unheard of stamina to lift automobiles off of toddlers.

Jim was not accepting that these swivel chairs were packed like sardines on Ozempic, so what’s he do??

He proceeds to lift the chair off of its base and he succeeded, until the sweaty Maitre D runs over to him and acts like he’s auditioning for the role of  The Sociopath in the next Tarantino movie.

“Sir!” He screams “what do you think you’re doing??!! Were you born in a barn?”

“ I’m trying to get us fed!” He screams, and I pipe in with, “yeah, don’t have a COW man!

Because if there’s an opportunity for a pop culture reference, I’m taking it.

The man returns the swivel chair to the base, with the assistance from Jim’s phone for light, and I’m finally seated,

Jim was like a Hollywood Boulevard Superman minus the BO, and our server must have noticed, because he was very friendly and accommodating.

And yeah.. it was worth it, even with the wait and the weight bias.

You could actually taste the  dirt on the flame broiled steak with the green peppercorn sauce, and it was delicious. 

It was enough meat to serve a large  den of tigers, the julienne fries could have fed an army, and the creamed spinach would give an entire village the strength of Popeye the Sailor Man.

And don’t even get me started on dessert!! 

Yummy yummy French vanilla ice cream with carmelized bananas and a crunchy peanut brittle topping.

It was a little bowl of heaven served in a swivel chair that was designed for someone like Gumby but again, so worth it!

For those of you insane enough to stay with me, I will move onto the next blog.

F*ck Scotus

Friday Afternoon:

We hop on the Starline Celebrity Homes   tour/tram with a snarky driver/ guide who refused to reveal his country of origin, and a bunch of wordless Texans who made me think the Lonestar State is not a red one but a dead one. 

They didn’t utter a single word once the patriarch asked to have the air conditioning raised. 

A/C that didn’t work in an open tram.

The Texans didn’t laugh at a single thing the hostile guide said as he drove up the winding hills of ritzy neighborhoods in Beverly  Hills and Bel Air, pointing out every celeb who drove expensive luxury cars while wearing bald skull caps to protect their identities.

Trust me, the Texans were not going to get excited seeing Charo in her Ferrari.

They DID perk up after hearing the crash of a driver who hit a pole instead of our tram but that’s a story for another time,

The guide kept calling me “Jersey” which is a worse pejorative than Karen, because I didn’t laugh at his Dolby Theater joke, something about where Will Smith delivered that slap that was heard around the world, and because I corrected him that the first Academy Award was given out in 1927, not 1929.

We drove through Holby Hills and Mulholland Drive, where he pointed out the homes of A-listers like Drew Carey and Kelsey Grammer, but in reality, he just pointed out their gates and security cameras and garbage bins.

He DID point out the home of Paul McCartney as he slowed down, telling us to sing a Beatles song for the security camera. 

Jim and I sang”Hey Jude” off key but if Sir Paul asks you about it, I’m going to deny it was us.

Daddy Texas only came to life when the places where celebs took their last breaths were pointed out.

Michael Jackson’s rental  home and the Viper Club where River Phoenix partied too hard. 

The hostile guide tells us to look at the Hollywood sign in the mountains but I only noticed sidewalk graffiti with even larger letters that read, “Fuck SCOTUS “

He took us through all the snooty shops on Rodeo Drive which I deliberately pronounced Rodeo, like where cowboys play, because giving it a long “A” sound in the middle is too pretentious for a gal like me who does all her shopping on Amazon.

When the Tram Trip From Hell was finally over, the Texans deferred rigor mortis and the hostile guide gave us a dining tip after we tipped him generously.

Oh boy.

Wait’ll I tell you about THAT

Hello LA

Friday morning:

Good morning, Los Angeles!

I’m freshly showered, well rested, and eager to start Day One of our trip with a bunch of weird people.

Not the Kamala definition of weird but the Karen one, meaning stoners dressed as Spider-Man, parading down Hollywood boulevard and feeling like they’re run of the mill tourists.

So let me tell you about yesterday as succinctly as possible.

As if.

The flight was smooth, my hair was not, but I relaxed while Jim combed the luggage carousel in search of my bag. I see a woman walking a poodle that looked like ours and to get his attention I yell out, “Luke!l  Luke!” But he only hears “look!” 

As though I was pointing to a bag that he couldn’t see. 

A whole row of spouses joined in with choruses  of “Luke!” .. until he finally noticed the luggage AND the poodle, prompting the guy on my left to quip, “I bet he can’t find anything in the fridge either!”

The Omni Hotel in downtown Los Angeles is lovely.

Also, I’m an idiot who insisted we stop at the airport gift shop because I insisted I needed not one but two travel sticks of deodorant, only to find seven of them hoarding in my luggage. 

I swore I was going to be more careful but I lied to myself.

The bed was higher than Snoop Dog and Seth Rogen combined. 

I called for a step stool but was sent a sumo wrestler who promised he could lower the bed. 

I’m thinking he’d push a button, ala George  Jetson, but instead, he hauled a two ton metal bed frame over his shoulder and sent housekeeping to remake the bed. 

Ok..I’m actually boring myself here, let’s move on with bitchy Karen.

Hollywood Boulevard is hot and sticky and crowded and overflowing with things that smell like lamb kebabs and hucksters who never bathe. 

Who never pack too much Lady’s Speed Stick.

But I DID get to see the old Masonic Temple that’s now the home of “Jimmy Kimmel Live!”

My hall pass is on hiatus but it was great to share the same air he breathes. 

He’s fly fishing in Montana and I’m breathing in expired ganga, but I’m still counting that as making a connection. 

Stay tuned for more..