ahream

L.A. is such an easy target. (Did you know that visible nipple outlines were a trend?)

It’s an even easier target if you actually live here. (Have I told you about the time it took me three hours to drive from the beach to Pasadena? You can drive across the entire state of Missouri in three hours.)

But there are times, oh man are there times, when I wouldn’t live anywhere else. Case in point: Today.

My husband and I are getting ready to pack up and visit our families back in the heartland, otherwise known as the frozen tundra. One such visit a couple of years ago ended with every single relative within thirty miles of my parents’ home taking refuge at our place because ice thick enough to support an adult polar bear was weighing down and then snapping electrical lines across the entire state, and we were the only ones with a generator. A generator, mind you, large enough to power the lights but not the stove, so we all ate Hungry Man TV dinners for days. My mother, to her credit, put the microwave food on actual plates and made some attempt at garnish.

So part of our flight preparations include packing and charging our iPods, but another part included stretching out at a sidewalk café in Venice, perusing our organic/free-range
/cage-free/vegetarian/vegan/fair-trade French-Mexican-
Californian fusion menu options. With highs in the upper 60s, we’d opened the sunroof on the way over and stared up at the clear blue Southern California sky, marred by nothing but jet contrails and tried to remember if either of us still owned coats.

We’re happy to be seeing our families. Really, we are. But, please Mom, just one more minute under this palm tree.

ahream Dispatches from the City of Angels I'm a mystery writer living in and writing about Los Angeles. You can catch my short story, "Running Venice," in the new anthology LAndmarked for Murder. Look for it in bookstores and on Amazon.com now. In the meantime, feel free to poke around. Over at my website you can find even more blog entries than I could fit here, as well as a few other ramblings. Enjoy and come back often.
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Previous Entry :: Next Entry Read/Post Comments (2) Most Recent Twitters: Reading Tony Broadbent's book, The Smoke. It's too good. I'm losing sleep. Nocturnal pattern shot to hell. Productivity declining. L.A. Finds: The Denver omelet at Pat's in Topanga is sublime in its simplicity. Exactly what you need and nothing else, much like the restaurant itself snuggled smack in the middle of an old hippie community where the peace signs and tie-dye still reign. Flickr Updates: The second Thursday of every month is the Downtown Art Walk. The galleries stay open late, the restaurants are packed, bands perform on the streets. God, I love L.A. What I'm Reading: The Smoke by Tony Broadbent What I Talk About When I Talk About Running by Haruki Murakami Want E-Mail Updates? Click here, type your e-mail address into the first field (for public entries) and receive an e-mail note each time a new blog post goes up. (Photo updates, Twitters and "L.A. Finds" features not included. Those you have to swing by and check yourself.) Absolutely, positively no spam. Promise. Other author blogs: Sue Ann Jaffarian Eric Stone Christa Faust Lipstick Chronicles		2007-12-23 5:12 PM In all fairness… L.A. is such an easy target. (Did you know that visible nipple outlines were a trend?) It’s an even easier target if you actually live here. (Have I told you about the time it took me three hours to drive from the beach to Pasadena? You can drive across the entire state of Missouri in three hours.) But there are times, oh man are there times, when I wouldn’t live anywhere else. Case in point: Today. My husband and I are getting ready to pack up and visit our families back in the heartland, otherwise known as the frozen tundra. One such visit a couple of years ago ended with every single relative within thirty miles of my parents’ home taking refuge at our place because ice thick enough to support an adult polar bear was weighing down and then snapping electrical lines across the entire state, and we were the only ones with a generator. A generator, mind you, large enough to power the lights but not the stove, so we all ate Hungry Man TV dinners for days. My mother, to her credit, put the microwave food on actual plates and made some attempt at garnish. So part of our flight preparations include packing and charging our iPods, but another part included stretching out at a sidewalk café in Venice, perusing our organic/free-range /cage-free/vegetarian/vegan/fair-trade French-Mexican- Californian fusion menu options. With highs in the upper 60s, we’d opened the sunroof on the way over and stared up at the clear blue Southern California sky, marred by nothing but jet contrails and tried to remember if either of us still owned coats. We’re happy to be seeing our families. Really, we are. But, please Mom, just one more minute under this palm tree. Read/Post Comments (2) Previous Entry :: Next Entry Back to Top