Merry Christmas!

This fabulous piece of edible art is a Crescent Roll Christmas Tree. I took it to a potluck on Monday and I'd say it was a hit. I'll be making it as a holiday tradition from here on out. Someone remarked that it was "White Trash", but I think it's more "Midwest Christmas" than anything.

This was a really cool art piece at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion where we saw the 2008 LA Holiday Celebration. It's a three-dimensional representation of Bunker Hill, an area in Downtown Los Angeles. Before it was taken over by lofts and high rises.

Christmas Greetings from LA, the Contra-Christmas Locale

It’s Christmas Eve in LA, which makes this my 6th holiday season in a city where I have no family, have never lived in a home longer than 15 months, and haven’t purchased a Christmas tree, real or fake. Last year, we decorated a large tumbleweed we found in the Sequoia National Forest. We nailed it above our hearth (a blocked in, useless fireplace, of course). It was very minimalist and I was very fond of it. The year before was a ficus tree that I had moved from home to home with me since I got here. Ficus trees don’t support ornaments very well and I had to wrap the ugly, black plastic pot in red velvet to make it a little more presentable in its new role as a holiday centerpiece.

This year, our Christmas focal point is a lopsided, creaking fiber-optic tree rescued from the curb by my roommate. Its wiry branches are bent every which way and it’s, well, you know what fiber optic looks like. It’s not what you’d call modern, or traditional, or classy. But, somehow it’s appropriate for a Los Angeles Christmas. It fits in nicely with our dinner plans for Christmas Day – find an Indian restaurant that’s open and accepts buy one, get one free coupons from the Entertainment Guide.

It may be the weather. It could be all the Jews. It may be the hordes of displaced wanderers that inhabit this town. Or it may be that most people I know, including myself, feel the lightness of their pocketbooks more acutely this time of year. All those things combined make LA the perfect place to spend a non-traditional Christmas and be at peace with it.

If I were in Wisconsin right now and it was minus zero with wind chill, snowing outside and every place of business was closed in honor of the holiday, the fact that I was sitting in my living room without a proper tree, no presents, and no fudge would probably depress me deeply. You’d find me in a down coat at the all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet, curiously eyeing the others eating around me and wondering how and when my fate had taken such a dismal turn.

But, here in Los Angeles, a city that caters to singles, transplants, and heathens alike, we can go to Mondo Xmas at the Silent Movie Theatre – a sort of sick and twisted film festival for the holidays. Or to Santa’s Satanic Swingers Lounge at a Flintstone themed bar for Christmas drink specials. Or, barring rain, we can just go to the beach, wander around and say “Can you believe it’s Christmas Day and we’re at the beach?” Cold weather transplants like to giddily say that kind of stuff all winter long. (“Can you believe it’s January and we’re rollerblading in shorts?!?")

For us, this year, Christmas Eve is a free 6-hour Christmas program at The Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, followed by a Christmas Eve service at church. Besides the Indian food on Christmas Day, we may go see the heavily advertised Curious Case of Benjamin Button and take Penny to the dog park. On Saturday, we’re going to Pershing Square for a classical guitar concert at the outdoor ice skating rink, followed by skating until our ankles give out. So, we’re mixing in the traditional in small doses. The photo above is us at a friend’s party. They’re Jewish and look at that beautiful tree! Just another example of Angelenos bucking tradition.

Here's to a joyous day for all, no matter what you have planned!

Can I drive an El Camino and still be taken seriously?

This is a question I am pondering. The standard symbol of success in the financial business is driving around in a shiny, black, leased Mercedes, BMW, Lexus, or if you're a little edgy, a Porsche or Jaguar. As smooth and satisfying as these are to drive, they seem to me a tad bit run-of-the-mill.

I've always been a fan of old, and unfortunately, big cars. Cadillac El Dorados and Ford Rancheros being two of my favorites. My very first car was a 1977 Chrysler Newport. It was so large that I put up curtains between the front and back seat, so friends could make out undisturbed. And make out you could. The back seat was spacious enough that my friend Briana could lay out flat and fit head to toe, widthways. And to complement its silky red paisley interior, each year, I decorated it for Christmas. Golden drums, pinecones, and angels swirled and jerked at every stop, dangling from various spots on the ceiling.

So, as I contemplate what impending financial security means to me, part of it entails buying a car that I really love. And I'm leaning towards a shiny, candy apple red Ford Ranchero. Yummmm. Yummm. I'm still debating which year I like the best, plus I can't drive a stick shift to save my life, so I've got to locate an automatic. Also, any smart person would steer clear of a gas-guzzling V8 engine as well, which is mainly what I am seeing under the hoods of these beauties. (Picture me saying this wearing some dickies and a wife beater with a smear of axle grease on my cheek.)

So, can a female broker be taken seriously arriving to a client lunch in such a beast? Or is it like wearing a pink tutu to the office? Is your car an extension of your wardrobe when you're on the road meeting clients? I think if I were a designer, it would be viewed as cool irreverence. But, does an investor want an irreverent broker?

I've got a while to figure it out, because a) I'm happy with my bicycle for now, b) I'm not exactly what you'd refer to as high-powered yet, and c) once my blog gets noticed by the right people, I'll be working from home, getting paid to write about my observations on the world and I won't need a car after all.

My Letter Is FEATURED in The LA Times!

Alright! I haven't seen a hard copy yet, but a friend called this morning and said my letter (see Blog Entry, "Park it, Angelenos!") is a featured letter to the editor. This means bold-faced, boxed in, and accompanied by a photo. Excellent. Now, I am just waiting for the phone call where the editor says, "I've gone through the archive of your submissions and I'd like to ask you to begin submitting Op-Eds for us."

1 Month until Christmas! What's hot this holiday season? Buying less and loving more. And, of course, matching Christmas sweaters.

Concert Talkers: Death to the Lot of You!

I went to The Decemberists’ concert at the Wiltern last night. A great band, Loch Lamond, opened for them. Overall, it was a great show, save for the Decemberists passing up my most loved songs in favor of more upbeat hits conducive to audience participation and call-and-response. Since I’m not a concert reviewer or music critic, I won’t use this space to rant or rave about them, because all a curious soul has to do is look them up online to experience the unparalelled magic and wonder.

What I want to say briefly here has to do less with singing and more with talking, or with the simultaneous occurrence of the two. Last night I had to ask, as politely as I could, four girls (2 in front, 2 beside me) to stop chatting with each other during the songs. I’m not afraid to do this, even though the live concert is somewhat of a social event and booze is served and dancing and singing along are all part of the fun. But, I do not spend what I consider to be more than a fistful of change to listen to complete strangers’ conversations while the band plays on in the background. When I asked the second girl to stop talking, she turned back to me and very excitedly explained to me why she was talking, what it was she was talking about and that she has a chronic problem – she can’t stop talking! Then she said she was going to the bar and asked me if I wanted anything. Oh my.

I just want to implore all the Chatty Kathies and Jabbering Joes out there to give it a rest for three hours - not even three hours, as you can spill your guts out during the set break and then zip it when the lights go down again. We don’t want to hear about how much you love this song (we love it too!) or how your other friend (whose not even here and doesn’t even know who The Decemberists are) decided to take a weekend intensive at the Learning Annex. No. What I want to hear is this:

In the lowlands, nestled in the heat
A briar cradle rocks it's babe to sleep
Its contents watched by Sycorax
And patagon in paralax
A foretold rumbling sounds below the deep

Loud and clear.

Here's to the the power of engaging yourself in live music.

Park it, Angelenos!

Here's a letter I wrote to the LA Times today in response to an article entitled "Evidence suggests commuters are abandoning transit habit".

It was a sad commentary to see that with the decline in gas prices, comes a return to car-commuting for many residents. It surprises me a little that in a city recognized for being on the vanguard of the "green" movement, a spike in fuel prices would be the only motivating factor for commuters to give mass transit a try. Does the thick, gray smog obscuring the mountains to the north provide no impetus? I think we can all rest assured that oil prices will go back up, and I will not complain. I will breathe easier knowing that fewer cars are on the road, and hopefully, in the future, the children of today's commuters will as well.

I mean, come on people! Where are your principles? One of the reasons for the drop in price at the pump was a decrease in demand! You made that possible by hopping on a commuter train or a bus. And admit it, even though the trip was longer and maybe you had to stand for a portion of it, didn't that crazy homeless man talking back to his am/fm radio make for a great story when you got to work? And didn't you enjoy the time you got to spend reading the paper? Maybe you even snuck in a nap as I like to do.

And lastly, yes, removing your carbon-emitting vehicle from the freeway does improve our air quality in Los Angeles. But, to make any kind of lasting impact, behavioral commitments must be made. Everyone wants to save a buck, no doubt, but isn't it even more grand to save the environment in the process?

Here's to choosing the most noble option, not just the least expensive.

Brilliant Moon, Shifting Sands: A Weekend in Death Valley

Death Valley: Rock. Salt. Sun. Sand. Wind. Ruins. Exploitation. Expanse.

The weather this weekend was incredible. High of 86. Low of 56. The evenings felt balmy. We watched the moon rise every night over the mountains, which allowed us a few extra hours of moonbright playtime.



There was some morning yoga. I was introduced to watsu - water therapy in a warm, spring-fed pool at Furnace Creek Ranch. We ate buttery soft dates from China Farm Date Ranch. We visited a ghost town called Rhyolite. Nothing spectacular, but haunting and fascinating, nonetheless.



The trip was capped off by a visit to the Amargosa Opera House and Hotel, a place I will surely be returning to. A chambermaid took us through the rooms and told us which tended to have the most paranormal activity. This was once a ghost town, abandoned after the borax mines could no longer support its population. Then, a dancer from New York City came and reopened the opera house, performing dance and musicals for Death Valley tourists. Today, her performing partner has passed away and she mainly tells stories from a chair on stage. It is still a powerful place to visit and the story is beautifully told in this documentary.



And the name of my first born: Rhyolite Esmeralda Golden

Cars and Bikes: The Safety ReMix

Last week, I showed up at a sushi restaurant to meet a group of folks before heading to the Madonna concert. I had just ridden my bike from Santa Monica to Hollywood in rush hour traffic on the evening of the post-election "No On Prop 8" rallies. It was a glorious ride and I was even part of leading the West Hollywood rally at one point until the police escort allowed me to pass him and get on my way to see the Madge-I live in concert.

After relaying my trip to fellow concert-goers, who had just spent two hours tracing pretty much the same exact route sequestered in a limo, one woman said, "Oh my God, I was just saying, 'Who the hell rides their bike in this traffic?'" She then described the anxiety she feels when she approaches a bicycle on a city street and how she doesn't know how to properly pass either. I knew I was talking with people who had never commuted on two wheels before (just as I never had prior to October). Without getting out there and experiencing what it's like to squeeze between a parked SUV and a moving school bus or to rear-end a Prius after he cuts you off to drive in the bike lane (are they not granted enough privileges already?), then it's understandable that a person may not be aware of proper distances and road etiquette when it comes to sharing the road with bikes.

So, this nice little snippet from an article in the NY Times gives a basic understanding of how to maneuver your gas-powered ride around the bi-peds of the city. After all, they may be slowing you down momentarily, but they're doing the city a favor by keeping fewer carbon emissions out of the air you breathe. Read and heed!

If You’re the Driver

• Keep in mind that a bicycle is a vehicle and that a person riding one has the same rights as a driver of any other vehicle. Bicycles are legally entitled to use most roads, though they must ride on the shoulder when the speed limit exceeds 50 miles per hour.
  


• Remember, too, that bicycles are hard to see and, unlike drivers, cyclists are unprotected by seat belts, air bags and steel cages.
  


• When approaching a cyclist, slow down. When passing, clear the bike by at least three feet (five feet if you are driving a truck). Check your rearview mirror and be sure you can see the cyclist clearly before moving back into the lane.
  


• Do not blow your horn behind cyclists. It can frighten riders and cause them to swerve.
  


• Don’t follow closely behind a bicycle, which may have to stop or maneuver suddenly to avoid a road hazard that could cause the cyclist to fall.
  Be especially wary around young cyclists, including those on sidewalks, who may cross intersections or dart into the road from a driveway or midblock without looking.
  


• Most serious crashes occur at intersections. When turning right, signal well ahead of time, turn from the middle of the intersection rather than across the bike path, and make sure no bike is on your right before you turn. Do not pass a cyclist if you will be turning right immediately after.
  


• In bad weather, give cyclists a wider berth, just as you would do for other drivers.
  


• When waiting to turn left or to proceed from a stop sign, yield to a bicycle that has the right of way. More than half of collisions occur when cyclists and drivers are on perpendicular paths, and three-fourths of these accidents result from a failure to yield the right of way.
  


• Before opening your car door, check your mirror to be sure no bike is approaching. A passenger on the driver’s side should open the door just enough to turn around to see if the path is clear.
  


• Like it or not, bicyclists have the right to “take the lane” under certain conditions:
  1. When overtaking a vehicle moving in the same direction.
  2. When getting ready to turn left.
  3. When a lane is too narrow to share with a car or truck.
  4. When there are unsafe conditions on the road like double-parked vehicles, animals, pedestrians and potholes.

To read the whole article, click here.

Here's to mutual respect on the road, resulting in a safe harmonious commute for all travellers.

The Cultivation of a Generation That Doesn't Really Know How To Do Much of Anything

It’s almost too easy to contrast things about LA and East Tennessee. I mean, how much more polar can you get? But, there are things that are much more subtle than politics, religion, and sexuality. One of these things that I have noticed is a sad lack of self-reliance here in the big city. The people I am thinking of are in their late 20s to early 30s, most are not married or homeowners. They live in communal spaces, sharing a bathroom and a sink full of dirty dishes with roommates. And by and large, they are completely clueless around the house.

They do not know how to cook – a microwave, a pasta pot, and a George Forman grill being the most advanced tools in their culinary arsenal. They do not know how to clean. Well, maybe they would if they just set their minds to it, but they lack the tools (a sturdy mop and bucket, a powerful vacuum cleaner with attachments) to actually execute. And, I am pretty sure that the thought of getting down on all fours and scrubbing a floor is a non-starter for nearly everyone I know here.

They are grooming themselves for either a life of perpetual rentership or a very expensive relationship to the home they will eventually own, as they cannot repair a leaking faucet, patch a wall, or hook up a washer/dryer. Somehow, a person can get away with this these days. Just as a person can expatriate to Prague and never bother to learn Czech. But, I feel like a person who never learns to quilt, mend, hem, make yogurt, repair a car, bicycle, grow food, care for an animal, use a power drill, table saw, or caulk gun or any one of the many tasks that once upon a time not so long ago made up the events of a human being’s day-to-day life, is cheating themselves. When I left for Tennessee, I was in love with the following quote by author Robert Heinlein:

A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects.

Here’s to becoming self-sufficient, learning everything from the mundane to the arduous to the intellectual without granting any of those a superior status.

On Onion Sprouts and Passionfruit That's Lost Its Passion

The Los Angeles Farmer’s Market. Just like the gym, it can be hard to drum up the motivation, but once it’s over, you walk away with the feeling of time well-spent, to say the least.

Rick and I hit the Hollywood Farmer’s Market today. This is the mother of all farmer’s markets. Sprouts, herbs, heirlooms, native plants, raw milk, varietal grapes. To enter without a week’s worth of recipes can lead to lots of overspending and consecutive spoilage. What was I really planning to do with all those persimmons anyway?

Getting to the farmer’s market requires driving, waiting on line at the Sunset and Vine WaMu ATM, parking at the ArcLight, remembering to get validation, and carrying many Chico Bags that just keep getting heavier and more unmanageable as we go. These are the facets of farmer’s marketing that inspire Rick to create excuse after excuse of why he should be doing something else. But, I drag him along anyway. And he carries the bags. And it is good.

I tell Rick, just as I tell myself, that it is important to have gratitude for this weekly opportunity, as small farmers are not doing so hot. Economically, they are struggling and are forced to walk the fine line separating the public’s desire for organic, locally-grown food and their ever-increasing need for affordable offerings. (Been to the grocery section of the 99 Cents Only Store lately?) The farmer’s market is potentially a fleeting experience where our vendor can tell us that we’re not just eating green seedless grapes, but “Prince Johnnies”. And when I pay him the money, he grabs another bunch and adds it to my bag. Just because. I talk to another young couple about the low weight of some pink grapefruit and the dehydrated appearance of passionfruit and we try to decipher if this indicates less juiciness. The sprouts lady tells me onion sprouts make her bleed. I refrain from inquiring further. I talk to the apple vendor who tells me where his farm is located, how to get there, and which apples grow when. Then, he asks if I want to come out and help with pruning and chasing rattlesnakes. On my way out, I drop my remaining change in the guitar case of a waify tween singing an acoustic cover of Rhianna’s “Umbrella” (ella, ella, ay, ay ay). I contrast this to the last time I went to the supermarket and walked back and forth between aisle 7 and 19, unable to find canned pumpkin nor someone to direct me to it. After finding it, I paid at the self check-out and a flat screen thanked me for shopping at my neighborhood Ralph’s.

Here, among the stalls of produce, eggs, and cacti, there is a pulse. There is a cash flow. There is supply and demand. There is no middle man. There is no packaging. There is color, texture, and samples everywhere! There is me, and I’m loving it.

Here’s to farmer’s markets everywhere: intersections of face-to-face human interaction, free market economics, and sustainable practices. Here’s to making them a regular part of our lives.

It's my first week as a bicycle commuter. I ride about four miles from West Hollywood to Beverly Hills at 5 AM in the morning. My route begins westbound on an empty Melrose Avenue. There I come face to face with some of the most creative trendsetting shop windows in all of Los Angeles. For nearly two miles I am flanked by motionless, plaster suggestions of what is ideal and desirable. When I cross Santa Monica Blvd at Doheny, I enter the fabled residential streets of the 90210. From there on, I run every stop sign on broad, tree-lined Carmelita Avenue.

I am becoming familiar with my wealthy neighbors' landscaping and lit-up windows. Eventually I will recognize which car belongs in which drive. Maybe I will memorize some personalized license plates. I will say good morning to the pre-dawn walkers. Some will return the greeting, other will not. This is, after all, Beverly Hills.

But, the issue of the greeting has puzzled me these last few days. In Tennessee, the Country Wave is standard when driving past someone. It's a little gesture to suggest kinship on a sparsely populated road. I liked it and would use it often.

So, my assumption was that cyclists would behave similarly on the streets of the city - that there would be a mutual acknowledgement of likeness to one another. That just like Harley riders and military men, we would punctuate the association with a gesture. So, that's what I did. I started nodding and waving to each biker I passed.

But, not everyone waved back! I was shocked, but I remain determined. I am going to keep up the wave, the nod, maybe even a spoken "Power to the cyclists!" just to really drive it home. I'll do this, in order that the community develop threads that tie one member to the next.

For cycling really is a beautiful thing. Especially through a not-yet-woken-up city. For how else would I get to experience the scent of the morning's first everything bagels baking on Bedford or catch the fragrance of a flower that I assumed only bloomed in the Spring? When else could I spend 25 full minutes feeling superior to everyone around me operating gas and brake pedals (even you, you high and mighty Prius drivers!)?

So, I hope that if I pass you on your bike in and amongst the streets of LA, you'll lift a finger or two in salutation. That would really make my day. And I hope that when I smile and nod back, it makes yours, comrade.

Here's to getting off of four wheels and onto two as much as possible.