Sure, he was slow to walk with at ballgames, and he told jokes I didn’t understand. But what a grandpa he was. For years, I thought he might’ve been Santa Claus.
I love watching the kids so full of oats -- the young Marlon Brandos and the James Deans, the Harry Styleses (for lack of a better example), wandering the parking lots and leaning up against their cars, swaggering around aimlessly in May and June, just as they are escaping school for the summer … these insouciant young punctuation marks who have so much figured out, yet so much to learn.
These 2-year-olds are about as perfect as perfect gets, in a world where we seem enthralled and overly concerned with all the rotten stuff.
I mean, these poor screenwriters. As with baseball players, screenwriters strike every 10 years or so. And America weeps.
All you care about is that the grill smoke at the snack bar is making your heart scream and your lips quiver. And that the sun feels so good on your forehead, and that the Dodgers are hanging in, sometimes good, yet not always.
On this beach, Tommy Zahn and Marilyn Monroe soaked up some rays, then each other. But she wanted fame more than she wanted him. As it turns out, the handsome lifeguard may have been the love of her life.
I drive past lots of razor wire, which I’m pretty sure is just decorative, past the karate academies, the noodle shops and the “8 Barbers, No Waiting” salon on Beverly … all the things I would truly miss if I went screaming off to Duluth.
We were headed for a gala that night, so neither of us was in very good spirits, though the banquet, in support of the gorgeous Pasadena Playhouse, turned out to be really enjoyable.
Heaven must be a place where the milk is cold and creamy, the movies are 90 minutes long, the wifi never fails, the burgers are three bucks and rosy pink on the inside.
On spring days in LA, I feel like I’ve married one of Shakespeare’s dreams (to borrow from the great Ogden Nash).