Winter Anthem

I love Fall. Sweater weather, changing seasons, outside facing cool breezes holding the warm hands of our sons or daughters or spouse. Autumn, to me, is the best of all the seasons because of college football, Thanksgiving dinners with family, and tryptophan-inspired naps on comfy couches. With two sons having birthdays on (or very near) the Autumnal and Spring Equinox, I find it fascinating that their mom and dad's birthdays are right near the Winter and Summer Solstice. Well maybe fascinating's a bit much, but at least interesting. I posted a Summer Anthem about six months ago ...

So here's my Winter Anthem:

A life with hearth and inspiration aflame deep within, from a source bigger than oneself, yet remains untapped because bigger and better is just down the road apiece, around the next bend, leaning up against the snow-buried signposts of success and fulfillment and forgiveness.

A life where there are no regrets because we've left it all on the frozen field, with bloddied knuckles and scraped knees and perhaps a toothless grin, knowing that those saddest words of fountain pen, "what could have been," are no longer for us and ours.

A life with friendships and loves and family trudging up snowy hills with snowboards underarm and funny hats on the head keeping ears warm, and crunchy snow underfoot as laughter accompanies snowballs hitting their mark, a face, a back or windshield. A working fireplace warming a den with a silver and gold and green tree in the corner and an oven full of chocolate chip cookies warming a kitchen, and somewhere "It's a Wonderful Life" plays to a contented few enjoying the smell of winter all around them.

A life with long drives home in the middle of the frozen night, heater cranked up, and two sons asleep against car windows leaving parabola of frosty breath that disappear as fast as they were made, skis on the roof, and iPods and Game Boys hanging around the necks of boyhood playing for their slumbering owners happily with batteries full ... of potential.

Do you have a "Winter Anthem" Dear Reader? Let us know by clicking on "pithy remarks" below!

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1979 ... The Summer Between

Languid onshore breezes are blowing this afternoon here in Los Angeles. The palm trees, some 100 feet tall, grow with a certain katana blade shape because of these winds. As sometimes happens on windy days, I think back to earlier childhood times. It's the rustling of the wind in the fronds that sort of lulls me to daydreaming, and remembering, and ignoring the article I'm supposed to write (for JustLuxe.com); the one that sits on my desk, mocking me, waiting for another ham-fisted attempt by yours truly. What shook loose from the palm trees today, though, was a memory from 30 years ago. The summer of 1979 was an odd and ungainly one, transformative for me and my friends in a lot of ways.

This was the summer going from jr. high to high school. When bodies became long and thin, and parents worried a bit more about where you were, what you were doing, and more importantly, whom you were with. This was the summer/era of going from disco to punk, Carter to Reagan, from boyhood to wanting manhood. From innocent indolence to focused fury of pubescence.

Most of the time during the summer of 1979 I worried about being "big" enough to play football (my dad said I wasn't allowed to play b/c he thought I was too small. I can actually remember exactly where we were as I teared-up silently, staring out our Cutlass Olds). My core friends didn't play football, so I didn't perseverate on the topic too long because they wouldn't hear of it anyway. I was able to participate in the other things we were doing that summer -- like playing poker late into the night; camping out in backyards; swimming in pools and at the beach; joy-riding on my brother's Ducatti when my parents were in Europe; sneaking out and riding skateboards at 2am when my parents were sleeping in their room upstairs above mine -- and decided to let my body determine on its own if I was going to be able to make the team (which I finally would, thank God).

A huge pastime, obsession, constant reminder for us, as one could imagine, was girls. Just about anything to do with girls was on our minds: our best friend's sisters, their moms, the lady who gave out cookie samples at Von's Grocery, the Farah Fawcett poster (RIP -- the actress not the poster). We had several very mature freshman/sophomores who (unfortunately for them and fortunate for us) weren't old enough to drive and so had to stick around our neighborhood in the canyon that led to Malibu, nestled in the Santa Monica Mountains like a kitten in the crook of an avacado green couch.

One of the girls who received our affection and attention was the niece of a legendary rock band drummer (who would die the next year, as all rock drummers seemed to be doing back then). She had a sizable German Shepherd who needed to be walked every day, twice a day, on account of the rather sizable "her-shitza-poopoos" (as they say in doggie German) that her mom was getting tired of cleaning up.

Ms. Barbie, with her shock of auburn hair, would walk that dog up and around the hilly streets of our tract, and the half-dozen of us boys reported on her whereabouts as regular militia spying on enemy troop movements. Whether we were playing football, shooting hoops, riding our skateboards up the 10 ft ramp we built at the end of the cul-de-sac, or just sitting on the wall next to the pomegranate tree eating our purloined fruit, when she would sashay by, we would think up any excuse to make small talk with her. We even tried try to shake her hand with our purple stained fingers, and she'd just sort of laugh at us. Now that we were all good and embarrassed, she'd keep walking, telling her dog jokingly, "watch 'em!" Looking back to 1979, that was not a bad way for a matriculating 8th grader to spend a summer.

The other girl was Tammy. Tammy looked 23. When you're 13, and somebody looks 23 ... well, let's just say nobody ever talked to Tammy. Not even the next year when she became a water girl for the football teams. Tammy was TNT, nitroglycerin, and C4 all rolled into one sophomore ordinance shell. She was rarely around because the junior and seniors routinely picked her up to go to the beach. She'd wave, though. Just sort of smile, shake her blond hair, and flick her fingers in our direction. Either she was waving, or something was stuck on her finger. I think she liked being noticed, and was probably waving to us, even if it was a silent soliloquy of "so long, suckers." And we were. Suckers. For her and for Ms. Barbie.

1979 was the year that "Magic" Johnson won the NCAA basketball championship (and was coming to L.A. to start showtime) and John "the Duke" Wayne passed away. That year, 1979 and thereabouts, was weird because there was a couple of serial killers on the loose in Southern California. One was targeting women, and the other young boys. The police found the body of one 14 or 15 yr-old boy in a dumpster at the end of the street by where we rode our skateboards. I can't remember exactly the order of these events, but it happened something like this, I swear. We (3 or 4 of us) were riding in an old abandoned skatepark near the 101 fwy, and a creepster dude stopped his VW van and asked if he could take some pictures. Nick (who looked like Anthony Kiedis from the Red Hot Chili Peppers) said "sure" and proceeded to take his shirt off like a total a-hole and ride around one of the bowls (looks like an empty swimming pool) working up a good lather of sweat. Greg and myself (and I think my little brother) immediately got out of the bowl and told Nick to "Come on, dude! We gotta go!!" Nick, thank God, eventually got out and came over to where the rest of us were standing with disbelief on our faces. We then ran like hell to get back home, thinking we saw that VW van at every turn and corner. That night I happened to tell my friend John about the creepy-creep; his dad (unbeknownst to me) happened to be on a special California task force looking for this serial killer of young boys. Before the next morning, every kid at that old skatepark had been interviewed by the task force, the vehicle identified, and the creepster photog taken in for questioning.

Turns out he wasn't the guy, but, thank God, they did manage to catch the guy. He was convicted and became one of the first murderers to be put-down by the renewed death penalty in California.

That summer was also noticeable for the slow, yet rhythmic death of disco (you could dance to it). People were actually spray painting "disco" with an exclamation on the bottom of stop signs, reading "STOP disco!" Music is such an important conduit for transporting us back to those sepia memories of our youth. I actually like certain disco again, e.g., KC and the Sunshine Band ("party hand" in the air, y'all!). That summer of 1979 also showed the remarkable growth of punk. Man, did I love the music of the late 70's and early 80's: The Ramones, The Police, Devo, The Buggles, The Talking Heads, The Cars, X, AC/DC, Aerosmith, and Steely Dan.

Those awkward moments of junior high were about to become awkward years in high school. When the Ayatollah would toss out a Shah, and an actor would toss out a peanut farmer from the presidency. When the West would begin to face the challenge of radical Islam. The times were changing with Disco, the "Duke," and avocado green and burnt orange interior design colors all passing their stale dates. KROQ was becoming cool, yuppies were being born like litters of puppies, and interest rates were starting to come back down to earth. Everything was old, yet it all was new, too. Good ole 1979.

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One Man's Illicit Penumbra is Another's ...

I noticed right away her standing in the corner of the restaurant bar. She was with a cadre of admirers, mostly local surfers and cool consultant MBA types from Pepperdine who were working for hip (and over-hyped) Internet companies. Her ex-boyfriend (whom I suspected of actually being her current beau) was playing pool in the next room with a sniper's view of what she was doing. She said she would expect me, but only half-believed that I would show up. I don't know why I did. I didn't know why I was doing a lot of things that year.

Malibu and the South Bay have a lot of nouveau riche restaurants that are as expensive as their names are pretentious. Then there are the sushi, wine bars, Tex-Mex (those Texicans make good eats) and Thai numbers that are really quite good and reasonably priced. I was broke (even the local hobos had a net-worth greater than mine) and I was bummed: the perfect alchemy for a nasty case of depression. No money and nothing to distract you from your misery. What could make that killer combo worse? How about going for the trifecta and dating someone that works for you and is 14 years your junior. Gawd, was I feeling old. Just a few klicks on the south side of 40, and now with this "dick move" that I was about to make, I was truly on my way to becoming a cliche in his late-thirties.

If you're depressed, out of work, in relationship hell, do not pig pile onto your misery by having strong drink. You are writing yourself a prescription to make bad decisions. What's our baseline here for measuring bad decisions? How about this for our evening's barometer: Drinking and driving? (we're clearly at dumb.) Getting into a bar fight? (moving onto bad now.) Inviting a beautiful family friend to a nice sushi dinner when you know you might end up "running into" and then making-out with a 24 yr-old consultant, who works with your division, in the bathroom? (Ding-ding-ding. we've arrived at TDM -- total dick move.) Throw the entire hodge podge into the works and you have my night from bad decision hell.

But -- and here's the nasty, ugly, and profound truth of it all -- when your life is suckey, and fate is pissing bucket fulls of ouch and woe's me onto your head, you sometimes feel that you're owed and entitled to a good time, darn it. That little man in your pants (or your purse, or your hat-box, or wherever it is you keep your id) who sits on your shoulder from time to time in his little red devil costume with the bifurcated tail, shouts into your ear, "You need to buy another $150 round of drinks for all these people -- the ones you don't know and will never see again." Or he tugs on your elongated lobe on the other side and whispers, "The "W" is the coolest hotel in L.A., and you're supposed to flirt and jest and wear the nearest lamp shade as soon as is humanly possible. You're a recent divorcee; act like it, J.G.!"

Your intoxicated syllogism slots itself into your dome thusly: If I'm miserable I am owed this good time, and the little man with the pitch fork is encouraging me, and if the beautiful babies are laughing at my jokes, and if my car goes 100 mph at 2am with the windows down, then yes I will have one for the road and drop off my oldest and dearest friend at her hotel and then drive back to the newest and vapid 24 year-old's condo at 3am because she tucked her address into my pocket and her tongue into my ear whilst we were waiting in the bathroom line at the sushi house overlooking the Pacific. There, you now have your second profound truth (I'm feedin' ya pearls here, Franky! Pearls!) or at least well-worn maxim for this piece: Misery loves company. I wanted her company, and I found out that she was miserable and alone and wanted mine (that is to say, my company), as shocking as that sounds.

This went on for about three months, the misery and the wanting and the intoxicated logic and logistics. We ate out and drank Starbucks every morning on the way to work like an old married couple, and went clubbing vis-a-vis my quickly depleting funds like two college kids thrice nights weekly. She watched me play the court jester and I watched her smoke like a European model and we hung out with those with much trendier wardrobes than mine. We went to Laker games in VIP style. She was hit-on/insulted by Ozzy Osbourne at The Ivy, "Ooh, Sharon, look at that lil' strumpet!" I was sleeping less than 4 hours per night, and frankly because I had a bit more training at this frenetic pace than she, I held my own for about a month or two. And then like every marathoner knows (I am somewhat familiar with this because I've seen the Olympics on television), you hit the mother of all walls that only the most skilled can work through the pain and the nagging little voice that says, "What the hell have you been doing with your life, you stupid miserable bunghole, poor excuse for a man!?!" Yes, the wall talks to you and hurls insults at your drunken visage resplendent in 20-something hottie vigor, because the better part of your senses has been squandered like a biblical bowl of porridge sold off to a hairy, red-headed twin.

By the end of our supposed romance, I had given her: 17 of my favorite dvd's that I doubt she appreciated; a yellow Waterman fountain pen that she would lose and I would steal back; one lame arse trip to a lingerie shop; and one piercing on her left nostril by an "artist" named Rimshot (I kid you not). I regret a lot of this time in my life, but, not the learning (I'm all about the acquisition of wisdom, dear reader). Sure, I was embarrassed by hanging out with someone so young, but not half as embarrassed as she must have been being seen with one so mediocre and, gulp, fast approaching middle-age. Yet, no one even knew we dated; it was all on the "DL" as the kids say these days. For a bit I thought, "So this is how Bruce Willis must feel?" ... or at least Seth Rogen. And, now I just sort of cringe at how I behaved. Our time together floats in my memory like an illicit penumbra for one summer's sunset and then faded off into the surf like an old man looking for his dog Lucky that died 10 years earlier.

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Throw a Rock: Michael Jackson, Sly Stallone, and L.A.

IMHO, whatever sells tickets qualifies as entertainment. Could be sports, film, TV, theater (back East, one says, thee-ah-tah), stand-up comedy, music, and, yes, even wrestling (down South, one says, wrasalin'). If we, the average citizenry, are parting ways with our hard-earned money (especially w/ today's economy) to buy decent tickets to catch a gig, see a show, or watch a play, it is the buying of tickets to see one's favorite act or star up-close-and in-the-flesh that denotes "entertainment."

In L.A., the industry here in SoCal is the entertainment industry. It's sexy. It's hip. If you want to be admired as "in the know," you must work in the entertainment industry (not that I am advocating this; far from it). Throw a rock and you pretty much hit someone who works "in the biz," (horrible phrase) whether behind the scenes, or whether one, as my childhood friend who had his own series on Fox says, "makes a living in front of the camera." We who live here are perhaps a little (no, a lot) jaded. When we have friends come to town, it is they who want to see and be seen with celebs. Even D-listers like reality tv "appearancers" are ogled and photographed (the au courant way to snap this photo is with camera extended high in the air, like one is about to pour beer on oneself, pointed back at yourself with arm around all manners of Shia Leboufs, Kobe Bryants, or even Barack Obamas). The only locals that really care about the celebs and their goings-on are the paparazzi who stalk them 24/7.

Just one quick recent example. When one of the owners of a boutique law firm I used to work for in Austin came to town for meetings with me to call on several studio lawyers, we were having breakfast and he said to me, "hey, my wife is a huge film buff, do you think we'll see any celebrities or movie stars while we're out today?" I looked up from my chicken breast with capers and egg whites and casually mentioned that William H. Macy was seated directly behind him (William H. was rocking a rather bushy, if not bouncin' and behavin', moustache). My Texas colleague vaguely recollected "Fargo" and thought his wife would indeed like that. When another of our colleagues met me in Marina Del Rey a few weeks later, we had breakfast next to Kareem Abdul-Jabbar.

If you live in certain LA neighborhoods, or frequent certain spots, one becomes accustomed to the celebrity sighting. We grow up with these guys or their kids; their kids play baseball or soccer on our kids' teams. We bump into Wimbledon champs in playing gear on quick break from their UCLA tennis tournament in grocery stores buying feminine hygiene products and/or prophylactics (talk about your 30-love!). None of what I've written is an exaggeration, but we could list 200 "celebrities" that we've met, know, have known, or bumped into just in the last several years.

Take this week, my boys are playing at a youth football camp at UCLA (there were also track, volleyball and swimming camps). I checked them in, and stayed around a bit to see that they were enjoying themselves, or worse, were not. Anyway, in the line at camper check-in was Diane Keaton ("Something's Gotta Give"), who was very relaxed and doing the exact same thing that all of us parents were doing, checking in some anxious kid. A few moments later, I was standing next to a few dads as we watched UCLA Coach Rick Neuheisel welcome our collective brood with some nice words. I realized that next to me was Keyshawn Johnson, arguably one of the greatest college wide receivers, and a spectacular professional receiver as well. (This was actually odd b/c Keyshawn is a USC Trojan alum, and here he was dropping off his kid -- I'm assuming his -- at a UCLA Bruin camp.)

When I was in college, my first-love handed me my cuckold beating heart in a break-up down in Malibu. It was a multi-year relationship that needed to end years earlier, but it stung nonetheless (enough so, that within two semesters, I was asked quite nicely to leave school until I could get my "shiyat" together -- it's a technical Cal State Admin term. Breakups are like that, they're the gifts that keep giving.). As we were walking and talking, heading back to her car, we passed several times two other broken-hearted beachcombers doing the exact same thing we were: Brigitte Nielsen and Sly Stallone. The next day, I heard on the radio whilst driving to CSUN that Sly filed for divorce that day.

So, back to today. I stayed around a bit longer at UCLA to just watch and enjoy my sons playing their favorite sport, and met a director/writer team who had just landed a new gig from Paramount Pictures and were doing research, meeting coaches and parents of youth footballers. The three of us talked about some common interests and friends in the business and had a nice chat. Like I said, throw a rock.

Which brings us to Michael Jackson. When I was a senior in high school and a freshman in college, he came to my house twice as a Jehovah's Witness. First time, I answered the door in my towel having just stepped out of the shower. He told me his name was "Joe" and that he wanted to tell me (or maybe he said "share with me") about the Lord and the troubling times we found ourselves living in. As I was dripping water all over the porch, I excused myself to throw some sweats on and returned in a flash (maybe that's a poor choice of words). Of course, I had to call my girlfriend (the breaker of innocent hearts) and tell her that Michael Jackson had just landed on my door and that she could expect him imminently (she lived a few doors down).

Upon Michael's next visit, he again said his name was Joe, but I didn't play along this time. I told him that maybe his middle name was "Joe" but his first name was for sure Michael. He brought along a 10 or 11 yr-old little friend, a good looking blond kid wearing the de reguire witnessing suit, with a sturdy leather valise that made him appear actually mature, perhaps Michael's spiritual mentor. The three of us chatted for about 20 minutes, Michael holding his black umbrella, blondie his valise, and I my Bible. I pointed out a few verses in my Bible that were different from his New World Translation and was about to say "thus sayeth!" when a dozen or so neighborhood kids meandered up the street in search of the begloved one. Michael Jackson, startled as a spooked horse, took off like a bat out of Hell, or a King of Pop running from a pack of prepubescent autograph seekers. His loafers were slipping and sliding all over the brick porch, like a cartoon character running in place, and then, ahhh, wonderful traction as his feet propelled him down the street clutching only his umbrella in one hand and steadying his hat on his head with the other. I later learned from one of the little kids that Michael ran clip-clopping down the steep street to his black Rolls Royce which he had parked at the bottom of the hill ready to spirit him away should any suburban ruffians ask a difficult theological question or request an autograph.

Which brings my very unimportant yet personal story to a close. While waiting for my boys to finish their practice today, I heard confirmed on the radio that TMZ was reporting Michael Jackson dead at the UCLA Medical Center not 3 minutes from where I was standing. Startlingly quick, there were 6 helicopters above the UCLA practice fields, raising such a racket that Coach Neuheisel had to ask a few hundred young future Bruin footballers to get into a rather tight scrum so he could be heard. My boys were not too shocked of the news re: Michael, but their mother (my ex) and I both felt a very real tug on our hearts over the news of Michael's death; he meant a great deal to our generation. His life was tragic in so many ways, and perhaps even lurid. I hope and pray that he found peace in his life.

As the boys and I made our way through the campus to have an after-football-practice ice cream, there were already a queue of 100 mourners and reporters on the campus. Sitting down at Diddy Riese, I asked my boys what they thought they could learn from Michael's death. My oldest who is 11 said in earnest "not to have plastic surgery." My youngest (9) said, "you should not try to change your color," and I said "you mean your ethnicity?" And he said "yeah, that." I suggested that perhaps we should all be ready to give an account of our lives, and that we should live good ones as much as possible. We all were silent on the street next to the restaurant with the hookah, as helicopters kept up their bloody racket above us, almost as oddly winged angels leading Michael to meet his maker. We ate our chocolate ice cream sandwiched by freshly baked peanut butter cookies.

Only in L.A.

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