Adventures in Colonoscopy

Robert Klein, for those of you old enough to remember the comedian and sometime Broadway actor,("They're Playing Our Song"), is known for an absolutely hysterical singing take on that undignified procedure known as the "colonoscopy". But one can only appreciate the lyrics when one has had the, shall we say, "delight" of the experience.

It is, shall we also say, a procedure best done while sedated so that one does not have to fully appreciate the glory of having ones innards viewed through a scope that is inserted well, guess where if you don't already know!

I have had the adventure, twice. On both occasions, although it is encouraged primarily as a preventative diagnostic, I had a little symptomology which egged me on. I was supposed to have the second within a year of the first because a little pre-cancerous polyp was found. Naturally, I didn't until fear gave me the nudge. And today was the day.

As an aside, or call it a free piece of advice, don't read the internet about the preparation if you don't want to become avoidant. Way too many tell you about their really bad experiences in nausea. You'll find out soon enough if you can tolerate the cleansing, purgation, evacuation that precedes the procedure. And on that topic, do not skimp on following the instructions on how to cleanse for if you fail to do so, you could wake up from sedation to find out that your doctor couldn't do the rotor rooter because things weren't pristine enough to start with--if you get my drift. I asked. And I was given the scoop, if you get my drift.

But enough of these pseudo-medical digressions.  I lived to tell the tale, I am most pleased to say and this time without the attendant polyp, and so I am free for another three to five years!

If all done with a certain "devil may care" or more appropriately a kind of let go and let God attitude, it isn't all that unpleasant an experience withal, except for a bit of inconvenience (staying close to the water closet) and a less than tasty concoction (in my case) the scent of which has more in common with wallpaper paste and a potentially gag reflexive viscosity. Diet changes are required a day or two before and then two liters in two installments early evening and way too early morning of the day consumed every fifteen minutes within an hour. My brand by prescription is something called Moviprep.

Thus, there is little sleeping during the preparation. This allowed me the opportunity to see "McCloud" and a particularly interesting episode of "The Alfred Hitchcock Hour" between 2 and 4 a.m. on METv.

Len Speaks picked me up at 7:30 a.m. I could not help but remember how, only a few months ago, I was the happy driver (you are not allowed to drive yourself, nor to take a cab) waving goodbye to him as he was whisked into the surgical suite. All I wanted was a sip of water, which after 4 a.m. was forbidden to me. Len could keep track of me, much, as he said, like an airplane arriving at the airport, on a screen in the waiting room. I had a flight number of sorts.

I want to say that from the moment I was suited with my open backed gown (an inherently humbling experience) and ensconced in my wheeled hospital bed, covered with a warmed blanket or two, I was treated with respect and even pleasantry by every nurse, and technician, and anesthesiologist who took my blood pressure, or pricked me with a needle. And the Doctor came to say his hellos, fresh from his first or second prior procedure, in his crisp blue shirt with rolled up sleeves, ready to re-gown, and rout through 32 feet of colon. My colon.

It is a little disconcerting that at least four people have the duty to be part of the procedure. I did say to one of them, yes, I did, that I could say some variation of the saying, "You're up to your asses in alligators." They probably heard that sort of thing before. Groans.

Once I was wheeled into the procedure room, through kind of curved runway, happily without the literally take-off, I was given an oxygen mask (this was a first; I don't recall that the last time) and attached to monitors for the heart. And something was injected into my IV. And then. . . .oblivion in seconds. Say about 45 minutes later or less I was waking up in the same room to hear only good news and wheeled back to a cubicle to recover from the sedation. This was my third time sedated where I was "out". The first one, in 2007, the removal of an infected salivary gland, left me crying upon waking. The latter two, however--I felt refreshed, as if I had a good 8 hours of sleep.
And even better, I was clear-headed. I remembered the conversations before the procedure and I was alert enough to help my recovery nurse consider her options in dealing with an errant pool man (I mentioned I was a lawyer).

The doctor came by again to check in. Except for the invasion of my colon, it was all positively social! And I had photos for souvenirs of the twisting cavern that is our internal digestive system. You will be happy that I am sparing you those in these pages. I was tempted otherwise. Clean as a whistle!

And finally, I could have some water. And as one of the nurses accompanied me and Len Speaks out of the building, I could look forward to a nice Starbuck's coffee and a brief sojourn in the sun to drink it with Len.

For the rest of this day, I shall rest, as prescribed. I shall sit on my terrace in the after rain sun, with my cats in attendance. And sing my own happy song about my adventure in colonoscopy.

Deliver Me from Beverly Hills

There are days when I consider dumping every modern convenience and cocooning in my apartment until the day I kick the bucket.

Today was one such day.

I was actually looking forward to meeting a friend at Saks on Wilshire in Beverly Hills. A bit after Christmas we stopped in to the makeup counter where she conferred with the boutique staffer and was told to put January 8 on her calendar when there would be a surfeit of sales. That afternoon had been lovely. People were still out of town, and we had a lovely impromptu lunch at the Beverly Wilshire and wandered about, including at Saks.

So, today I actually had my credit card with me and was anticipating advice on what new makeup I should buy.

I got to Beverly Hills well before the time I was to meet with my friend. There are an abundance of public parking lots. There was no space in any, and lines of cars waiting for the random customer to leave. I went to several and could see the lines on others. I went into the side streets of the surrounding neighborhood. Not to my surprise, every block had restrictions of one sort or another.

And around and around. Honking traffic abounding. Trying to avoid cursing violently.

Denise, my friend, told me the last time we had a successful outing that a visit to Beverly Hills always cheered her up. I even agreed. It is nice to mingle in the realms of the rich and self-proclaimed famous. It's nice to pretend that you are not solidly middle class and that you can actually afford a 35 dollar lunch every day.  And a two hundred dollar moisturizer.

Not one street moved quickly, and  given the one way streets, that meant 20 minutes just to go around the block.

I then tried to call Denise on her cell. It dialed and said "talking" on my car console, but the line seemed open and no one there. I tried four times while going blocks out of my way looking for a space that didn't say, "no parking anytime" or a combination of glyphs that required the Rosetta Stone to decipher before someone honked you to get out of the way.

We think of ourselves as so civilized. Maybe I'm just pissed off about the barbarism of Islamists in Paris that we are not allowed to say are trying to kill everyone who isn't a follower of the prophet. Maybe I am just pissed off because my spell checker here won't let me writer, "pissed" instead of "passed". I just went back for the second or third time to change it to what I intended, not to what the machine insists. Everyone is telling us how to be and where to be and when to be.

ENOUGH!

We are devolving as a society and we are all the Emperors with No Clothes as we go down the drain.

The best I could do today was to hie myself home, get the car in the garage and run to  my near by Wokcano for a lunch and a hearty glass of wine.  And then, to where I am right now, on my terrace, with a second glass of wine, and a big white cat on my lap, making it difficult for me to write this vent.

Here's a theological problem for me.  I am exhorted to love my fellow man and woman as I seek to love Christ, because Christ is in all men and women, and how we behave toward each man and woman reflects our claimed love for Christ. But truth. . . .I feel little love, and a great deal of distaste.  Not that I think I am any bargain. We are all making a fine mess of the gift of this world. But at least if I am alone, in my place, the lack of interaction, except with my cats and the odd squirrel who pauses on the tree outside my bedroom window, there is little damage I can do or can be done to me, except of course by an Act of God, you know, earthquake, or some other such apocalyptic event. Then, I will have to explain to Him why I was such a dud in the loving the human race requirement. A conundrum.

But for now, I shall hold in abeyance seeking a long term solution to the problem. I shall sip another bit of wine and pet my cat and watch the birds flitting through the sky.

Well, this moment, it is beautiful and safe in this little spot.

Event Horizon of 2015

As I write, I have just finished watching an old favorite movie, one I had actually forgotten about, until I saw it in Blue-Ray and picked it up a few months ago.  I was waiting for the proper mood to play it.  "Chances Are" with Robert Downey Jr., Cybill Shepherd and Ryan O'Neill.  It was made in 1989, twenty five years ago. O'Neill and Shepherd were still young. Downey was like 25 years old, if that. No sign of the ravages that would lead to rehab and recovery--leaving him a still handsome, but definitely weathered individual.

Ostensibly, it is about a man who is killed in the prime of life in a car accident as he is going to meet his bride of one year only to be reincarnated in the body of Downey, Jr.  The bride was Cybill Shepherd, now old enough to be the Downey character's mother. Silly stuff? Yeah. And not.

All of this, the making of the movie and the movie itself, is about time moving on and about changes to which we are heir whether we like it or not. Somehow, the fictional story and the fact that these actors are frozen on screen in 1989 ties directly into my reveries tonight.

Obviously, if I am writing at 10:30 on December 31, 2014, I am not out and about for the ten second chant that marks the shift from one year to another. This is the first year in a long time. How it came about is a combination of accident, misunderstanding and choice.  And alas, I forgot to do one thing I absolutely intended, to call a childhood friend in New York when the clock turned to 2015 in her neck of the woods. Well, not forgot exactly. Waited until it was too late.  By the time I remembered it was after 1 a.m. in the Big Apple.

"Chances Are" it was all somehow meant. I have always been one to consider the passing of time, the reality of death and all that. But when you are young and reading poems about the philosophies of life and death, it really isn't built into your psyche fully that it is all so damn quick. And while I have sought and generally found meaning in my faith, something about the press of time begins to test that faith. Or rather makes me wonder how solid it is, when the pedal hits the metal.

I am on the event horizon of another year, so many years after the one in which I made my initial appearance. So many family members and a goodly number of friends if it comes to that are gone. And as I enter this New Year, I have fewer and fewer of them on whose presence I can rely. I think that is something that comes to all of us, this realization of there being no bulwark on this planet against the buffets that remain, and fewer with whom to share those transitory moments of joy.

What will I do with this New Year?  Will I waste so much of it as I have wasted much of the years before, thinking I had an abundance of opportunity?

Funny how things you wouldn't expect make me so aware of need to seize moments I never have, and probably never will because I will fall out of the sense of urgency. This actor died. Edward Hermann. He was the dad on Gilmore Girls which I never watched. And he was a really well received portrayer of FDR, whom he actually resembled. He was also a Catholic convert. I didn't know him to chit chat, but I did see him often at Church. He died of brain cancer today in New York, on this last day of 2014. Less than a year ago, I was one of the lay ministers giving out ashes on Ash Wednesday, and he was one of the people in my line.  Even from the step of the sanctuary I had to reach to his six foot five frame as I made the sign of the cross on his forehead, and said, "Remember Man, that thou art dust and unto dust thou shalt return.". Maybe this goes back to the movie. I don't believe in reincarnation but I do believe that we are all connected, in life and in death. He is now one of the dead for whom we will pray, as one day I will be one of the dead for whom others will pray.  (Please God).

The reader may say I am being morbid. But that is part of the point.  I can't explain it exactly, but it isn't morbid.  It's a little scary to know that one of these years you won't be getting to or finishing. No, it's more than a little scary. But aside from any philosophical or religious revelations in its considerations, I think it is supposed to be a wake up call, to get us out of habits and mind sets that get in the way of those really good moments that do come our way.

My particular betel noir is fear, a fear that has made me risk aversive to what others find enjoyable, and not particularly dangerous. I'll fly, but only after skewing up a lot of I won't call it courage, but trying to put aside how I hate being up in the air in a tin can. When I see accidents like the one that happened this week, I am ready to bolt the doors and never take a trip. But my fear extends to far more than that, and I wonder whether, if I haven't dealt with them in two thirds of my life, will I in the remaining third, should I be given one? 

But I think as it now is only fifteen minutes until auld Lang sine (which I will be singing to my cats), I shall hold onto that thing with feathers, hope. Hope that I won't just say "Seize the Day!" but once and maybe more than once, do it!

And I pray that as you pass through the event horizon into the unknown New Year, you will find reason to hope for yourselves and the ones you love.

Sony Caves, North Korea Chortles at American Cowardice and Abandonment of Freedom of Speech

I bet that when the producers of the movie readily banished by Kim Jong-Un came up with the idea to advertise that their movie was "from the western capitalist pigs who brought you Neighbors and this is the End" they were having a good old time. Weed was surely enjoyed by all, though certainly no demon tobacco was allowed.  It never occurred to these great media minds that while in America you still mostly can (unless you are a Republican or an active member of Judaism and Christianity) say what you want, there are other countries (that our Administration insists on trying to befriend as if they have the same sense of right and wrong we do) don't subscribe to liberty of any form. And now these dictators have access to our technological infrastructure and can reach the spoiled brats of our movie industry. People used to laugh when Kim and his late dad launched missiles that fell into the ocean.  Now, that former "Mouse who Roared" has demonstrated what life will be when the American experiment fails--as it will if our citizenry does not wake up.

First came the hack that revealed Sony's Most Important Files and the true thoughts of those who publicly offer fealty to all things liberal and the level of jealousy that members of the movie industry have toward one another, and then came the threat of real physical attack on anyone who would dare to show or see the movie.  While government sources weakly announced that there was "no credible threat", Sony pulled the movie before its première, and put a prohibition of any DVD release or other digital dissemination.

Still laughing at Kim?  That funny little man just successfully and completely censored what used to be the most powerful nation in the world. But now that the movers and shakers of modern nation have decided that the Founders were all wet and they know better in their humanistic hubris that believes man is the measure of all things and somehow has changed from beast to god, an exceptional America is verboten. Congratulations.  The fiasco with "The Interview" is one result of an unexceptional nation.

It is not about this stupid movie. I would not have had the least desire to see it had this Sturm und drang not occurred.

Are the corporate heads of Sony cowards?  When America was exceptional, when our way of life was defended unto death, up until about 1968 when we lost our moral compass, yes would have been the obvious answer.  But, after all, in today's world, if they had run the movie in theatres, and if someone had gotten hurt, the lawyers (my field I am often ashamed to recall) would have sued Sony for damages for the failure to protect those who freely attended to uphold the principles of their homeland. As they are now being criticized by some, including our president, who said they should have talked to him--for giving in, they would have been criticized by the very same people had they gone ahead and a terrorist attack occurred.  That's what happens when we try to pretend that our values are comparable to those of North Korea, or Russia, or Iran or any such place that considers torture an entertainment activity.

As seems to happen before every world conflagration, World War I, or World War II, Americans become complacent. Now though, we seem to remain complacent when attacked--- as if somehow we can hide in our houses when they come for someone else. Surely it won't be us.  Scary. I don't think we could get prepared for war if we had to as we did after Pearl Harbor.

Frankly, I am just as worried about the assaults on freedom of speech from within. Last night a friend brought up several subjects on the public radar. He told me that he is a socialist. Given the career that this man has had which he would NEVER have in a socialist (which usually becomes Communist) society, and given some comments that I simply could not remain silent over, I pushed back, ever so slightly, and to my shame, not as articulately as I would have liked.  He became enraged. He said "I can't talk to you."  I reminded him that he had raised a subject that I usually avoid so as not to be excoriated (I guess I am a coward too beaten verbally into submission) and that I had a right to my view. "Yes, you do," he said. But he wasn't happy about it.  He apologized later in the conversation.  He had other things on his mind as well.

 If we citizens of the United States don't believe that America is a good place, as compared with all the others as was more poignantly said I think by Winston Churchill regarding democracy itself, then we are doomed to a loss of our freedoms, every single one, squeezed from within and without.

Just so we are clear, this is




the Supreme Leader. He may look like a petulant child, but he holds the people of North Korea hostage and has reached into the lives of the American people tyrannically.

We think we are better than our forbears, not likely to fall into the same traps. But then we do.

Kim Jong-Un just mopped the floor with the "Western capitalist pigs who brought you Neighbors and This is the End."

Maybe it is the end.

Oh, I forgot, the Administration is going to respond "proportionately" to the cyber attack and presumably to the threats of terror if the movie was shown.  There is a word that begs interpretation.

Thoughts On a Saturday Afternoon

It is a shimmering day in Los Angeles, after a mammoth rain.  I got up exceedingly late, so late, I am embarrassed to say. I have a dinner engagement this evening, but up to that time, I had no plan, except to do my laundry and that reluctantly. "I Love Lucy" is playing on the television of the kids downstairs.  I am contradictorily, depressed and content. Don't know how that could be, but I'm going with it. Or: maybe I am moving out of a light depression toward contentment. Maybe praying helped, though I do that very badly, full of distraction and getting up and down.

Anyway, on the way back upstairs from my dungeon of a laundry room, walking past the slightly undulating pool and the plethora of palm trees outside on the street, in full view, I suddenly thought of my dad. But the thought was very specific:  that he had made it possible for me to have this languorous day in comfort and safety. And I realized that if he were still alive, I would likely still not be giving him credit. 

He would say, "I was right to convince you to work for the government, wasn't I?" I had wanted to give up the law entirely and become a television writer.  Or a radio host.  I wasn't an idiot. I knew I would need a job even to do either, but I also knew that once I started a legal career anywhere, I would become immersed and by default give up my dreams. And what I had seen of the "law" as mutilated by its practitioners up to that point had made me anxious and nauseous daily.

By the time he asked me one or another version of his question intended to obtain my concession to the wisdom of his not so gentle push on my psyche for practicality rather than what he perceived to be the fantastic, I had been working at the Bar as a prosecutor for well more than a decade. I would respond, "Well, we'll never know because I never allowed myself to take the chance on writing or radio.. I was afraid and I just gave in".(or some such reply). And we'd end up in an argument because while being a prosecutor at the Bar was possibly the ONLY thing I could comfortably manage, and keep a reasonably clear conscience (I found not possible as I worked for those in private practice before the Bar), it was, ultimately, 25 years of institutional and personal turmoil, the end result of which I found myself despite my consistent excellent reviews out on my ear with several other colleagues, also with consistent excellent reviews. It was a bit of an ignominious conclusion to dedication and loyalty, disposed of by those immortal words, "We're going in a different direction."

By the time that happened, Dad had been dead a bit over three years, and so I couldn't offer any "I told you so's". But here's the thing. By then and today, walking back to my apartment with my laundry, I didn't and don't want to.  By the time of the demise of my managerial state, I had worked my way up the ladder with concomitant benefits in status and pay, albeit not of the nature that one makes in big firms  (nowadays, as private organizations struggle, folks now suddenly envy the public sector with its lower pay but better benefits). I had become a good teacher and spontaneous speaker. I could survive without this job. Dad's remonstrations It about handling finances, also against which I railed, had hit their mark. I didn't want to hang up a shingle now, any more than I had when I was younger, after seeing what corners lawyers cut in order to make a dime (it is a myth that lawyers as a group make a lot of money; only a very small percentage do--the aforementioned big firms).  And the practice had become more debased by the time I was liberated from my job.

I did take some classes for voice over work, and I enjoyed it, and was good at it, but I wasn't up for paying a lot of money to professionals for the one in a million chance of making money. Maybe it is true as one teacher said that you had to have "fire in the belly" and I haven't got fire about such things anymore, having seen and heard things that suggest that even if someone has the fire, there are a lot of human machinations which get in the way, and can torpedo the aspirant. I have written a memoir, but it needs a complete revamping (I got some very good notes) and I just haven't been ready to tackle it.

The good news is that because Dad set me on a road to relative security in my dotage (assuming I don't mess it up which for a variety of reasons I worry I could), and assuming God will allow me a long life, I can still write, or try to be an extra at Central Casting.  Or I can just do my laundry without worrying where my next meal is coming from.

Either way, Dad made that possible. I am sitting on my terrace of the condo that dad bought over a weekend in 2002 and lived in for six years. It has a nice vibe this place. And somehow I credit that to him as well. Lots of pieces of him are here, photos, a diploma, a couple of maracas that he played ore than sixty years ago in the little apartment in the Bronx that looked like a night club.

The item that caught my eye as I brought in my laundry, was his mandolin.

This was the favored one.
The other has long since fallen to pieces and I had to throw it out. But this is the one that he would take up to accompany his favorite Greek, and Italian tapes.

He would be playing it now, in this very apartment, if her were here. His pipe would be in his mouth, ashes dropping to his pants, and somehow he'd manage to interpose the question again,
"Was I right about convincing you to go work for the Bar?".

Two peas in a pod that we were, equally resistant to being wrong, I would probably gripe a bit, and give him grudging credit.

But from this vantage point, today, the answer is, "Yes, you were right., dad".

I know he's heard me. He is very pleased.

An Evening With Norman Lloyd

I'd love to say that I spent the evening having a little dinner and being regaled, just a few of us, by Mr. Lloyd, actor, producer, director, college of Orson Welles and John Horseman, this past Saturday. But, alas, though I was regaled, and charmed, by this entertainment legend who just reached his centenary year, I was one of a substantial crowd in the Aero Theatre in Santa Monica. I could not have him to myself to hear his stories.

In one five foot seven or so package, slightly bent, wearing a natty pair of gray pants and a double breasted blazer, is one powerhouse man of the old Hollywood industry, who for all of his age maintains a twinkle in his eye and a talent for telling tales of the 30s, 40s, 50s, 60s, 70s, 80s and even beyond. Whew!

There are two things I love about Los Angeles. The weather is a big one. The other is the existence of what used to be called the "Dream Factory".  Much of the film and television industry has emigrated to locales like Vancouver, but much still remains, and, one thing you have here is the ability to go and hear actors, writers, directors, producers talk about some of the greatest movies ever made. I have heard tales from Jack Lemmon, Shirley McClain, Janet Leigh, Charlton Heston, Elmer Bernstein, Carl Reiner, to name just a few. Every time there is both a pang of joy and a pang of potential loss, because as these folks age and die (as so many in this list already have), we can no longer hear the stories of those who were there in person. We do have archives, video, internet, audio.  That's great, but it isn't the same.

So, how did this all come about. I got an e-mail from Len Speaks and he said that Saboteur, one of Alfred Hitchcock's early American films circa 1942, (he did films in England before that) was running at the Aero, and Mr. Lloyd was going to appear and talk about his small, but seminal, first acting role, in the film. The movie starred Robert Cummings, who for some unknown reason, I never favored, though he was a fine enough actor. So, I had never seen the movie, despite my love of Hitchcock's work. But I knew of Norman Lloyd. For those who love the small screen, he was Dr. Auschlander in the long running TV show "St. Elsewhere" between 1983 and 1988. But he also produced, and directed the Alfred Hitchcock Hour and Presents. I mentioned Orson Welles. Lloyd was involved with the Mercury Theatre, you know the one that did the historic, "War of the Worlds" on radio in 1939. He called Hitchcock "Hitch".  Now, come on, that is downright cool!

As it happened I had just watched a movie in which he appeared in 1989, "Dead Poets Society" as the unyielding headmaster to Robin Williams' "Carpe Diem" English teacher, and listened to his memories of doing that movie with director Peter Weir. So, though I was feeling lazy about going out that evening, I said, "Sure."  And boy am I glad!

The man tell stories, and remember every detail, even what someone was eating during some momentary encounter. He told one story of Welles flicking expensive whiskey on his actors while they were on stage. He talked about meeting Welles many years after they had parted ways, and receiving a bear hug from the great man, as Welles said, "You son of a bitch!" with great love. 

The thing is, what I saw Saturday night was an ordinary man who did extraordinary things. As he talked I saw my dad in him. My dad would be 96 right now, so he and Mr. Lloyd shared a part of long gone time. Both were born on the East Coast, both sought out education and learned to speak and write and think well. They both went to New York University. I could imagine my dad, also an amazing raconteur, and, in his youth and even older age, having a matinee idol look, having taken a slightly different turn in his life. Dad had a chance to go into the entertainment industry. friend of his worked for NBC after the war, and offered to help dad get in there in some capacity, but dad was unsure of himself in those days, a lingering effect of his own background, and he declined. I remember thinking, "It could have been you Dad." Instead, it was Norman Lloyd with his gestures so much like my father, his love of women (when photos were being taken Mr. Lloyd was delighted to have his taken with a young woman and he beamed), and his ability to hold you in thrall over some encounter years in the past. I felt close to Mr. Lloyd and my father, at once.

The extraordinary things Norman Lloyd did are interesting to the ordinary me, a student of the entertainment industry that I once hoped to become part of as a television writer.  Like my dad, I was afraid, and chose a more certain, though not necessarily safer, occupational path, that of a lawyer. So, I admire those who took a path less well traveled, like Norman Lloyd and who have been the source of many wonderful and still lasting products of their talents and imagination.

Oh, and the movie was good too. Get it on DVD or Netflicks.

Things that Aren't Here Anymore, the Djinn Version

If you watch PBS as I do when my 400 other channels seem to be devoid of anything to watch that doesn't involve blood or sex or explosions causing either, then you might have seen the documentaries by Ralph Story, "Things That Aren't Here Anymore" and "More Things that Aren't Here Anymore" focusing on attractions, stores, celebrity haunts, family entertainment venues that were popular in the 30s, 40's, 50s, 60's and 70s in Los Angeles and its environs that are no longer part of its kitschy landscape. You know, like the Brown Derby on Wilshire Boulevard, or Tail of the Pup that used to be around La Cienega and Beverly, the Garden of Allah on the Corner of Crescent Heights and Sunset where the stars would covet and cavort with one another clandestinely. Oh, and Schwabs, also on Sunset, where Lana Turner was said to have been discovered.

I was driving along the other day and it occurred to me that since I came to Los Angeles in 1981, I too have seen many a Los Angeles venue pass on to it great reward, often to be replaced by a banal, square strip mall or banal, square apartment building named after the place it supplanted.

Speaking of Schwab's that is one of the locations that was disappearing just as I arrived in La La land.



Alas, when I saw it, it did not look like this.  It looked more like


  this and it was about to become one of those large malls, now housing movie theatres (albeit quite a good one, Sundance), and Crunch and Starbucks and the like. The stars and the crowds who followed them were long gone.

Another location, deteriorated in Dickensian fashion, was the Original Spanish Kitchen, but when Ii moved into my Fairfax District neighborhood, it still was an extant landmark.




It looked like this, decaying and the source of many a tale of its demise, for twenty years after my arrival in Los Angeles. What I heard was that the last remaining member of the original family that owned the land refused to touch it (leaving all the furniture and appurtenances exactly as it had been) after it closed abruptly in the early 1960s. Only when she died was it able to be in any way altered. There was one or more movies about the place, all speculating on what REALLY had happened (and naturally a sordid tale) to cause a successful restaurant to close overnight. Assuming any of the rumors were true, she must have died, as the space was ultimately made into a Spa. The only thing partially preserved was the sign off the top right of the picture. They kept the first three letters.

My very first experience at a trendy Los Angeles restaurant was actually several years before I moved here. It was 1977 and I had a week's vacation from law school in New York. I had not yet learned how to drive and so I was squired about by a friend (hello Dennis) who had a fellowship at USC. One of the first trips was down the 10, to the Pacific Coast Highway and then to Malibu, for dinner at the Sea Lion. If you were a fan of Johnny Carson, you might remember a skit he did on his show about a particularly bad storm that caused a wave to go right through one of those ocean view windows. That trip to Malibu was what sold me on California.  While the old Sea Lion isn't there anymore, the spot is still a trendy restaurant, Duke's, an outpost of the Honolulu Dukes. You can wave from one Duke's on this side of the Pacific to the one on Oahu.


One of my favorite things from 1981 to today remains the original Farmer's Market on Third and Fairfax. I can't say it isn't there anymore. It isn't there like it was, and while I have accustomed myself to the Grove (alas, perhaps, more than accustomed myself) that is the primary lure for tourists these days with its upscale shops and attractions, I miss the half that was razed in order to make the Grove.

 This side of the market is the site of the second parking lot and places like Maggiano's and Wood Ranch Grill. It used to house a bevy of kitschy souvenir stores, or should I say, the rest of the kitschy stores including an antique place, and truth be known the upscale David Orgell (now in Beverly Hills solely). To the right of that picture is the original Gilmore adobe, which has survived the Grove.  I was within walking distance of the Market for many years and I would go to the newsstand, buy a Hollywood Reporter (in those days I still thought I'd end up a television writer), and have a couple of slices at Patsy D'Amore. The family came from New York and so these were two pieces of New York pizza heaven.  I am no longer within walking distance, but I still go from time to time to the part that remains of the original market, which was helped financially by the existence of the Grove, buy Entertainment Weekly at the newstand and have a couple of pieces of Patsy's pizza.

I have been writing while at a volunteer job that had moments of quiet, and it's getting to that point where  have to wrap a few things up, so I pause here aware that there are so many other places to mention, that gave so much pleasure and are, in some cases, no longer available to be enjoyed by a new generation.  I will be back with my "More Things that Aren't Around Anymore."  Soon.