Monsters and Me

The subject matter of this blog is all over the place, and intermittent to boot.  I'm preparing for the upcoming book and researching every day on a tight schedule but the truth is I'm not built for blogging and that's really my excuse.  When I worked as a journalist, first for a newspaper in Canada and then as a syndicated columnist here in L.A. I used to wake up with the doom of judgement day exactly three days before my stories were due every week.  I was so happy to finally quit what I considered a hamster wheel and certainly was never cut out for the life of a news reporter.  I never read most of the pieces once I'd handed them over to the editor - one day I was up visiting my sister in Vancouver and mentioned what I did, and picked up the TV Guide from her newspaper out of curiosity.  And there I was with a cover piece.  I'm sure she, nor anyone else in the family, even noticed (really, it wasn't worth bragging about anyway).  But the weight of the responsibility was crushing.....

But here I am.  And I might be a monster.
That's what somebody at Sweetpea's school must consider, despite all the evidence to the contrary.  Right now, I'm no different than the nice person who lived down the street and seemed so normal until the....fill in the blank headline.  We have all become tarred by this surreal brush because two teachers in a nearby elementary school did unspeakable, disgusting, and soul-crushing things to kids there, now everyone is suspect. Or potentially a hidden monster.

We live in such denial this must be part of who we are - forgetting pain because in its entirety it can crush our spirit.  Between the abuse headlines that come in regular intervals we have an amazing capacity to move on in an effort to minimize the evil that exists all around us.  In this happy place the world seems nice and safe.  Such is life at Sweepea's award-winning, creative, and sometimes magical school that sits on a bluff above the Pacific Ocean.  I've never been more appreciated by a group of people than I am by the staff and teachers there and it's been a wonderful, rewarding experience.  I'm active there in so many ways - on the school site council, PTO board, classroom volunteer, and recently drama coach for a play that some of the gifted language kids are doing.  I spend one hour a week in the teacher's lounge with 10 kids and a teacher's aide.  We are working on a play that another mom wrote and directed last year based on a 5th grade novel.  It's a lovely, richly nuanced story about how a young boy creates a new word for a pen and teaches us all about the fluidity and creatively of language.  Sweetpea's teacher knew of my professional background and asked me if I would help out and I said yes, even though it's been quite a while since I taught drama to kids.  So far we've explored where our stage voice comes from (the diaphram, located just below the ribcage), how acting is about listening as much as it is speaking, how to externalize a character through body language, how speak clearly, slow down, have a conversation, and to explore the life a character brings to a story.  We are actors and director for one hour, and we use scripts, binders, highlighters, take notes, grow.

But I could be a snake in the grass. A scorpion. A monster.
No one has ever considered this possibility before when entrusting me to the care of their kids.  But all this changed after the debacle at the elementary school in LAUSD where two male teachers were apparently messing with their students for years unchallenged, and reality as been upended dramatically in our world. When I was told, so very nicely, and with as much consideration and care as possible, that I could not have unsupervised time with the kids, at first I was confused.  And then it dawned on me.  Because I am not a certified teacher, LAUSD will not allow me to work with the kids out of sight of their teacher.  And apparently the school's teacher's aide, who has been part of this group from the beginning, isn't qualified either so he doesn't count.  I must be supervised now.  That's the new rule. Because who knows what could happen?

And I get it.  That's the worst part.  I would do anything to protect my daughter from any harm at any time, and now this Pandora's Box has been opened once again to join priests, Scout leaders, coaches, and any pretty much any adult who has contact with kids, I get it.

But it feels like unadulterated shit to be put inside that possibility bubble, I feel defiled, creepy, and incredibly sad. I have live with a real or imagined, invisible, sideways glances, as apologetic as they are knowing I'm not exempt from the distrust.  I wonder, is it possible that someone could think this of me?  Keep going - are any of the grown-ups roaming the school on their helpful journeys, hiding their true selves? Once you begin, it doesn't stop.

Human beings are so very good at hiding the evil twin inside, and the known and unknown abuses just remind us, over and over again that absolutely no one can really be trusted.  There is no getting around this.  No escape, except to accept the reality and live in the barricade with shovels raised, baited breath. When do we let go, when can we?

The kids are barely aware of this, and still inside an eight-year old's innocence.  I will remember this when we work together, and do what is best for all of them.  I know our time together will be one of happy memories, of the kind of growth that will plant a small seed somewhere, perhaps to blossom one day when most needed.  I do this for them.
Because I can.
Damn the monsters.

Happiness is a warm boot: Remembering September 11

On September 10, 2001, Bob and I flew home from a visit to Canada. We had just become engaged and I wanted families on both coasts to meet my fiancee, and my hope was that the connection would be strong enough to convince them all to travel to California in February for the wedding. It was my second time around and not something you can count on. But I knew this marriage was going to last and I wanted this wedding to be the memory we all held in common, not just in photographs but in the sensory river that is life experienced in all its minutiae. As a family, a community, a nation, we become the sum of these memories, they bind us together, force us apart, we navigate them hourly, daily, and at the end they are everything, the river on which we flow.
In Ontario the Indian summer nights were kind, crickets and lawn chairs, images darkening through the long twilight.  Sitting on the cool grass my fiance, whose post-war Japanese mother had married his American father, chatted amiably with my uncle who was only one of two pilots to escape the bombardment of his airfield in Ceylon in 1942.  I marveled at the changes that could happen to bring us together within the span of one lifetime.

The flight home was tiring but uneventful, sleep welcome.

Before the alarm summoned me to a workday, the phone rang, it was barely dawn, I was groggy, but within seconds the television was on. I sat, tangled up in sheets, watching in disbelief and horror as the events of the morning unfolded.  I thought about my co-workers who were within a block of the Towers attending a convention, and it looked like New York was coming apart at the seams. My bags, from the flight, were still sitting in the living room, unpacked. I couldn't leave the bed.  Didn't want to, it felt safer somehow. As the morning lightened, the church bells that mark the hours near to our Los Feliz apartment began to ring out, incongruous, celebrating unknowning, a timer clicking on and a man hurrying to turn it off. Then they were silent.

The planes. I had been on one just hours earlier.  The towers - seen from a safe distance as helicopters buzzed, cameras captured. I had been in New York several times over the previous years, working on projects at St. Vincents Hospital, one of the places I knew would begin to prepare for the injured (who would never come as most simply perished). But as the focus stayed on the towers, I saw them not as they were trembling that morning, but as I remembered them a few years before, when I'd been speaking at a conference in Manhattan. The turn-of-the-century hotel where I was staying occupied the block next to World Trade Plaza and the view framed by my room window was completely dominated by these two soaring obelisks, darkened by the perpetual shadow they cast on the ground below.  It was not a pleasing sight - the white slits designed into the base contrasted like tall ghosts with the gloom, the towers stretched far out of sight, their sheer magnitude impenetrable, unforgiving. Something about it made me uneasy, perhaps it was just the anxiety of preparing to speak before a room full of physicians.

It felt prescient now as I watched the screen, my view now far up where they alone reflected the clear light of a bright day. They looked so beautiful, heroic as they imploded, compacting neatly, I thought, going straight down into the earth.  We joined in the river of these images, made memory.

In early December Bob surprised me a whirwind trip. We were going to spend four days in New York to celebrate my birthday. It seems now to be a testament to our national determination to heal that by December we were even contemplating taking a holiday in a place where the violent memories were still fresh.  It was a busy four days - we sat in the near front rows of a hit Broadway show, ventured downtown further to see the newly-famous Blue Man Group, then the Rockettes Christmas Spectacular.  New York seemed to be as alive and vibrant as ever, full of itself, dizzying.
     Except for the air.  Even by the beginning of December, three months after the Towers fell, the remains, now reduced to micro-particles remains still kicked up from the ground, blown from cracks and crevices where the exploding debris had settled into every part of the city.  It was omnipresent: Acrid, mettallic, earthy, gypsum, wood, pulverized glass.  Everywhere, a suble, constant reminder we were still in the organic process of assimilating what had happened.  We were absorbing it, into our bodies, into our still-fresh memories.

The Blue Man Group show was only a few blocks from Ground Zero.  We briefly considered venturing further south, but the power of what had happened was too great.  It was too soon - we knew we would see the same images captured on film, the grey dust, poking ruins, swarming volunteers now joined by masses of heavy machinery shoveling away the debris.

Then a visceral memory, from my first visit to New York decades earlier. I was with my mother and we were walking down 5th Avenue on our way to a cheaper hotel when someone ran across the street and was hit by a car.  There was screaming, and a crowd quickly coalesced from the river of pedestrians, circling, then pushing an shoving to surround the injured man.  My mother stopped and turned to join them, drawn as if by some invisible force.  To see.  I turned away in anger, dragging my suitcase a good block before she caught up to me, breathless, equally angry. We barely spoke for days afterward, each of us lost in our own place in this drama, the voyeur, the witness.

The air was the river of that memory.  In silence we skirted the destruction, fiercely determined to stay with the living, to keep moving forward.  In the clear winter afternoon we simply stood hand-in-hand for a moment, facing the direction of the void that had once been crowned, contemplating the hidden world beyond. Our future, so vibrantly bright, so full of promise.  It seemed incongruous to shift from one reality to another.  I turned to the nearest store window, we went inside. And then I bought a pair of boots because my feet were freezing and the world had gone cold.  For a moment, it had gone very cold.

And you thought Canadians were milktoast

Topping Google news today is the story of the Toronto couple who have decided to keep the gender of their 4 month old a secret so they can raise him/her to be gender neutral.

May I give my thanks to Storm's parents for busting the myth American's have (and perpetuated by Michael Moore) that Canadians are boring, polite, sane (okay, slightly socialist) people who ski a lot.

Before this story went viral, I was already giving some thought to the role of masculine/feminine biology because of something that happened recently at the YMCA : Do men steal more often than women? Could it have to do with the hunter/gatherer part of their brain that drives them to take what they need? I mean, in the way, way, old days, men went after things to provide for their woman and children, and there wasn't a price tag on the elephant, or a pre-purchased bear. If you could take it, it was yours to claim. Perhaps some ancient urge at work?

In my totally unscientific experiment of one, my eBook was sitting alone on the exercise bike, and after I left, someone in the adjacent free-weight room (totally guy land) decided to take it. It was abandoned after all, fair game. After sneaking off with it (the cyclist next to me didn't even notice), the thief took his prize back to the weights but ether discovered it wasn't an iPAD, or that it was just a simple book reader, or just too puzzling to figure out, and left it behind. Four hours later someone found it there and turned it in, after I'd already been to the Sherriff's Department to report the theft.

Once I heard what had happened, I admit I did have an image of one of those beefy guys in a muscle shirt and shorts pawing over it with a quizzical look, turning it this way and that, then dropping it on the floor to run off and start beating his chest and screeching at the others in frustration. Not nice, I know, but I put it down to mini-PTSD.

I do love my eBook.

Back to poor Storm: On KPCC's "Air Talk", host Larry Mantle had a great interview with a child psychologist to discuss this issue and these are the comments I left on the website:

Unless Storm's parents plan to raise their child in a vacuum, there would be no way to tell if their goal to raise a gender neutral child is successful - just too many factors will come into play as the child navigates the world. I agree with your guest that kids gender identity depends on a blend of nature/nurture/and culture. Freedom of expression aside, some things you cannot change no matter how you obscure their origins.

Biological imperative is a strong determinate here - and to think one could erase these DNA cues so easily is to underestimate, and over-simplify the evolution of the human species. True gender neutrality would have to evolve over time and I believe we're already in this process - intellectually, perhaps biologically, but a long way away from understanding how it will manifest. And the future of gender neutrality may not be what Storm's parents envision, or even desire. Even today, what is defined as masculine and/or feminine in one part of the world may be very different in another, so our idea of 'neutrality' is subject to our own cultural biases.

Any parent today who is raising a child by letting them pursue their interests and self-expression without regard to traditional male/female roles is in fact working towards the goal of a gender-neutral person, and this is far more common than the media attention this story about Storm deserved.

In this age of reality fame, Storm's parents are getting something out of this, and I'm afraid their child will suffer for it over the long run. And I suspect this move was one born out of frustration with the issues their other two kids are struggling with, thinking they can solve the problem by artificially removing Storm's birth gender. How controlling is this? Not much room for a child who may not live up to their experiment.

Sadly, I think Larry was right about a future book deal....

Time for a talk show

Here's a quiz for you Los Angles Yahoo users who cannot help but be drawn to the line item of local news stories that you see when you open the page to get to your mail:

1. Story and photo of a one-legged man who overcame 30 years of alcohol and drug abuse to win the L.A. Marathon (guess the city name on the lead line)

2.Photo of big waves challenging surfers (guess city name on lead line)

3. Sunset photo featuring kite-flying contest. (see above)

If you guessed San Pedro in the first inspirational story, you would be right. The second and third: take your pick of Palos Verdes, Redondo Beach, Manhattan Beach, or, in the case of the kite-flying contest, possibly land-locked Torrance.

After a couple of years reading the Daily Breeze, which also feeds Yahoo these local stories, it came to me: I might possibly be in danger of turning into one of those loud-mouthed opinionated, semi-paranoid talk show hosts who can't shut up when they get on a tear.

These days information comes at us from thousands of sources and this fluid ocean of data may seem innocuous when you can pick and choose the things you relate to, but once a person (say, me) sees a trend in the way news is being reported, the pattern that emerges is so striking it's time to start putting foil on the windows and replacing the metal fillings. At least it would be if I was actually paranoid.

San Pedro, in my opinion as you all know so well, is a victim of this kind of pattern reporting, and it didn't take long for me to start complaining, even though I wasn't sure that anyone in a position to do anything about it would even listen. At least not enough to make a difference to the lackluster traffic in our newly restored downtown, or the general mud slinging that goes on in chat rooms where anonymous posters refer to San Pedro as 'little Mexico', and a 'slum'.

I had a lot of statistics to back up my claims that Pedro was getting the shaft. Crime in this city of 81,000 is merely 'average' compared to LAPD statistics (with six incidents including a bar fight and four burglaries in a recent week). In a timely check of high profile crimes like murder and assault I found that my old stomping grounds in Los Feliz (part of the Hollywood Division) was worse. Not news to me: When I lived there cars were stolen off the street regularly, air support helicopters hovered, graffiti to be painted over, and once a police chase ended right under my bedroom window, tires squealing, bullhorns, the whole bit. And yet, Los Feliz has the halo of a place where the buzz is good, where the hipsters congregate, and it's written up in French tour magazines as a gem in Los Angeles.

San Pedro's image problem was really galling, so about six months ago, armed with a list of all the front page stories about our town along with a list of the 'feel good' photos they posted regularly, I wrote a letter to the publisher of the Breeze. I simply pointed out the pattern, and asked her why the paper focused on the poorest population of our city, and never once sent a photographer to capture our beaches, sunsets, or the vast seascapes we share with wealthy Palos Verdes neighbors. Food drive? San Pedro. Toxic port issues? San Pedro. Rising above adversity? San Pedro. Sober living? San Pedro.

Somebody was writing these stories, and some editor was directing the editorial content. It seemed that the folks at the Daily Breeze were of the same opinion as the anonymous racists, and had written off this port town long ago.

My other complaint focused on the city crime stats reported every day. Torrance, a larger city with it's own socio-economic issues, (and home base to the Breeze) seemed to be a very special, clean, and safe place to live. San Pedro, on the other hand, featured a slap-up of some kind followed by home burglaries and what they referred to as 'shots fired'. No one was killed in these altercations, and the injuries were not listed, but anyone reading these reports would give the place a wide berth. And who could blame them? They'd never set foot in San Pedro and were never likely to.

Unless you were a New Yorker, maybe.

I must have intuited something because soon afterwards the news stories changed a bit, and the San Pedro focus shifted from misfit makes good (inspirational) or downtown struggling (hard news) to a wider variety of human interest and news features. Not a major sea-change, and certainly no color piece of some of our beautiful coastline or beach areas has yet to grace the front page, but an improvement.

As for my charge that the crimes were not accurately being reported on a weekly basis for media release, I was vindicated yesterday when the L.A. Times (the real big city newspaper) reported that the City of Torrance Police Dept. was selectively filtering out certain crimes from these reports and skewing the stats. Rapes, assaults, robberies, missing. In my letter to the publisher, I surmised that LAPD, which reports for San Pedro (we are in their Harbor Division) has no agenda for promoting tourism or property values so they just say it like it is. But all the other cities in the South Bay have their own police departments, and I suspected they were joined at the hip with other city officials, cognizant of their city image, and there was no independent monitoring of the accuracy of their stat reports.

I love it when I stumble on something.

The battle to accurately portray San Pedro goes on, and this is as much a PR issue as it is a media issue. We have only a tiny (and nascent) citizen-run Visitors & Convention Bureau because like everything else that was taken away when Pedrans were duped into voting for annexation to Los Angeles in 1909, the big budget Los Angeles Visitors & Convention Bureau doesn't do squat for us. And I mean that nicely.

I've been asked if I'd be interested in running for City Council if Janice Hahn makes it to Congress. This is probably the only time I've really regretted not being a citizen. But I can continue to work from behind the scenes to make this place as transparent to the rest of Southern California as it should be. Not perfect, but a work in progress. Not unlike the human condition: always room for improvement but does better when given a compliment now and then.

I think San Pedro needs a publicist.

Life With Iron Giants: Rowing to Catalina

John Olguin died on New Year's morning. Most of you reading this have no idea who this man is, but here in San Pedro he was Ernest Hemingway's Old Man and The Sea, Jack LaLanne, and Saint Nicholas all rolled up into one humble package. Nothing shy of a living legend, his love of and ever present relationship with the sea was the stuff of tall tales, even made more fantastical by the improbable but true stories of his rowing trips to Catalina Island, or the time he and his wife opted for a month-long rowboat trek to explore the Carribean Islands, rowing at night when the seas were calm, and frolicking in remote beaches where they'd camp for a night. He met the water on several fronts, as a lifeguard, sailor, swimmer, and teacher of the bounties brought by the sea.

And Olguin was in it constantly. For decades he would start his morning by jumping into the port channel for a swim around the point, avoiding tug boats and tankers alike. Other times he would take to the beaches around our part of the peninsula for swims long and short, choppy or calm; his sun-browned children spent their summers at our Cabrillo cove where he lifeguarded and shepherded many students of the sea into successful and fulfilling lives. He built museums, restored our rich maritime history, a legacy he grew like a man tending to the shallows where young fry needed protection to thrive.

When I met him two years ago he was 87, and as sweet and robustly energetic as he'd been all his life. I was invited to their home to honor his painter wife, Muriel, with a special plaque. They collected these things by the dozens, but John usually got most of the attention at these affairs. He seemed so delighted to be sidelined by the affection shown to his wife that day, sitting casually on a nearby stool, hands on his knees, his bright gaze everywhere. Shyly hanging back in the crowd, I was still trying to take in the atmosphere, and a powerful sense of familiarity with the rough-hewn cottage life I'd come to know as a summer kid in Ontario.

John and Muriel's hand-built wooden plank house perched on the edge of grassy cliffs that undulated down toward the sea. It had grown to a pleasantly ramshackle footprint in stages, starting with a modest post and beam structure that was added onto as fortunes and children dictated. The place smelled like sea air, beach wood, and creosote from the original pot-bellied stove still in the corner. There were two doors in the single bathroom, one for the house occupants and one for sandy-footed surfer/rower/swimmers who would pad up the stone path from somewhere down to the sea-crashing shore. Wild flowers grew everywhere, visible through the huge windows, and their perfume added to the warmth inside.

The living room led through glass doors onto a large porch on stilts, winged over the falling terrain so's not to obscure breathtaking views. When I asked John why there was a double bed outside in the far corner of the porch he looked at me with a twinkle in his eye.

"Muriel and I sleep out there," he answered.

"Every night?!"

Those who scoff because of our warm California reputation have never experienced the dark and bone-chilling winter, when torrential rains and Arctic flows hover near the freezing mark. When the sun goes down on the ocean horizon it can get damn cold.

"For fifty years," he confirmed, and smiled again.

I looked out to the porch with skepticism. The bed had a modest cover on it, and no screening - just the natural protection of a corner niche, and bracing possibility of constant off-shore breezes. It seemed impossible, especially with two white haired octogenarians huddled there, often in the buff, if he wasn't having me on.

Mimi was outside and at that point came running in with a sweet in her mouth.

"Where did you get that, honey," I asked.

She solemnly pointed to the porch floor, rough hewn and spotted with decades of useful dirt, pigeon, seagull, and peacock droppings."

"Spit it out!" I cried, oblivious to the old man next to me, who had lived to a ripe old age reveling in the rough, obviously to no ill effects. But my daughter had already swallowed it and before I could utter another word she turned and ran back out to the porch again, a new fan of the transparent barrier between home and nature the Olguins had created.

While I fretted about the possible diseases she might have gotten from the poisoned pill, let me mention the peacocks again if they slid by in the story without more than a how-dee-do. Peacocks lived around and on their house, as they do in the entire neighborhood of their part of San Pedro. Brought in to nearby Palos Verdes by someone decades ago as a nice lawn ornamentation, they thrived and stayed wherever they were welcome. When Bob and I drove over, we were warned early to watch out for them, and it was obvious they weren't watching out for us, so they ruled. A couple of times we had to stop and wait for one or two sauntering across the road, as haughtily oblivious to us as sleek cats, tails up or down, crown feathers of jaunty blue and shimmering rainbow hues bobbing along. God help you if they decided to stop midway, or perhaps with one of their luxurious tails still resting in your way. Mess with a peacock and you suffer the consequences, for they can be formidable advisories, especially those coddled by the locals as these were.

How can you not see the magic in a place where peacocks perch on rooftops and men row to sea on a summer's night for fun? This was one of the many times that I had an affirmation for where we had landed, so much by chance, as by fortune and circumstance, a place off the grid even to those of us living down the way. John and Muriel's ocean house was a reminder of the escapist times of my childhood, when cottages were simple structures meant to be used for sleeping or lounging on ancient but comfortable furniture, or to play cards by on rainy days or in the quiet night. For the rest of the time, the outside world was our playground, our wonder, our constantly changing place of discovery and imagination. And appreciation. All vistas were of the gifts given to us by the world around us, never less important than any one thing in our lives.

I met John Olguin only once. And now he's gone. But the peacocks, and all those who love and protect the ocean, they live on.

Sticky Situations and A Girl Named Cake

The day began and ended in the strange land I'll call 'shoulda known better'. Mimi is reading Enid Blyton's Faraway Tree Stories about a group of siblings who discover a magic forest behind their country cottage. In this forest is a very tall tree (yes, the faraway tree) and if you are brave enough to climb this tree you will find, at its topmost branches, a revolving collection of worlds, which come and go at inopportune moments. Climbing the ladder into the unknown can, according to Blyton, be exciting, but with the leap comes many unexpected consequences. And yesterday it felt a little as if I'd landed in 'shoulda known better' land, and it ended with a girl named Cake.

But let's start at the beginning.

I was enjoying my croissant and latte at Starbucks (the yang to the yin of the gym), reading the L.A. Times someone had conveniently left behind, when I saw the headline article about the city of Bell. For those who do not live in the southland, Bell is a small city (about 40,000 souls) of mainly working-class Latinos, who discovered that their city leaders were making a boatload of money for running a place the size of Mayberry. Like many small cities that make up the patchwork generalized as 'Los Angeles' (which is actually a misnomer since Los Angeles is only one of dozens of such adjoining municipalities), Bell has it's own mayor, city council, fire chief, police chief, and city manager, among others.

Apparently the voters in Bell had no idea the salaries of these public service employees were so outrageously out of proportion to similar cities until the Times broke the story in July. It was truly unbelievable: The city manager was making over $800,000 a year, twice that of President Barak Obama, and the police chief was making almost $500,000 a year, twice the chief's salary in Los Angeles, a city hundreds of times the size of Bell. Within short order (and after angry protests in the streets), there were all sorts of investigations underway, civil, legal, criminal, and the chief administrative officer, city manager, and chief of police had all resigned.

I was clucking away at the indignity of it all when a name caught my attention: Bell Police Chief, Randy Adams. I couldn't quite believe it, and since I'm bad with names, I read on thinking perhaps I was mistaken. You see, Randy Adams was featured in an earlier piece of mine, which I've now attached below this one: The Police Chief and the Prostate Exam.

How had I come to know this man? Back in 2008 I spearheaded a fashion-show fundraiser for an interior design project I was hired for at the Glendale Adventist Medical Center. One of the silent auction items was billed as 'lunch with the Chief', and my husband, knowing how much I love to meet interesting people, bid a lot of money on this item and proudly won it for me. I was as excited at the prospect of meeting a real police chief as any human being can be who hasn't got a criminal record, and within a few days I'd roped a friend into joining me for what I thought would be a fascinating look into a world I'd probably (and hopefully) never glimpse. Plus I'm a big fan of "The Closer" "Law & Order", and every police procedural show ever made.

The day arrived, my friend and I were ushered into the newly built and very impressive Glendale Police Station, where we met the well-groomed, and very imposing Chief Adams. You can read all about it below, but suffice to say it was a fascinating few hours, and I came away from it feeling as though I'd met a man with great ambition, presence, and integrity.

Maybe not.

I guess I was wrong about Randy Adams. Or maybe the clue lay in the strange story he let slip during our lunch when he mentioned his son, whom he'd once had hopes would follow him into the force, had actually been in jail briefly for a minor drug offense. I did sense he was a man of great complexity, but perhaps his overwhelming size (6'6') and smooth delivery, lulled me into a false sense of security.

This was an intelligent person who, by his own admission during our lunch, had his sights set on the highest position in the 9,000 member Los Angeles Police Department, one of the most prestigious jobs in the country. To that end, he'd spent 15 years in Ventura, a small city to the north, working his way up from Detective, through the supervisor ranks, eventually ending up as Chief, and then moving up to the same position in a mid-size urban city right next to Los Angeles, perfectly poised for the next jump up. It had been two years since I'd seen Chief Adams, and I couldn't quite get my head around the colossal error in judgement made a year ago when he'd taken a job in a much smaller burg, and at a salary that was so out of proportion to his responsibilities that sooner or later, it would blow up in his face.

So odd in fact that it made me wonder what had prompted his move from Glendale. And someone, a better investigative journalist than I, should try to find out. Something stinks in Whooville.

I carefully folded up the section of the paper with this fascinating, and unanswered question contained within, and went on with my day. Mimi was in camp, and I had a great deal of work to catch up on after a month of vacation and family holidays.

That evening, our new Thai student came home from her first day of school. I should tell you first that in Thailand apparently, parents like to give their kids English nicknames. Our last Thai student, Honey, and her boyfriend, Fame, were delightful examples of this quirky tradition. However, English and Thai couldn't be more incompatible, and when you don't speak a word of a language in which you choose a delightful nickname for your child, perhaps an English/Thai dictionary might be a good idea. There are countless examples of names that, while sounding melodic in your native tongue, may be offensive, odd, or just plain silly, when heard by the native speakers. The name of a friend of mine, Marcio, for example, in Brazil is an ancient variant of the Italian, 'Mario', but in Portugal it means 'the spoiled part of a piece of meat'. Good thing he didn't tattoo it on his neck.

Getting back to our student, Sudarat, and her English nickname: Cake. We love cake. And Cake. It's a bit of a challenge to call someone the name of a dessert you have with coffee, what can you do? Cake is a sweet, shy, eighteen-year old university student who came to us via a short stint in Bangkok, but mostly from the 40 acre duck and chicken egg production farm she has lived on most of her life. Since she arrived we've had a dozen phone calls from her mother, father, aunt, and neighbors just to check up on how she's doing. Day two of five and a half months, and we sincerely hope they relax soon and trust that she will do great on this adventure.

We have had many students live with us, but Cake is less urbane and more authentically a stranger in a strange land than anyone we've hosted. Besides the usual struggles with broken English and our genuine (and surprisingly good-humored) attempts to delve into ideas and concepts in the no-man land between two languages, Cake has educated us about the insular world we Americans live in sometimes.

At the end of the day, after Bob had located her town and egg farm on the satellite map of Thailand, she knelt down next to me.

"Can I ask you something?" she inquired shyly. "What religion are you?"

We tried to explain Unitarianism, and how we respected all paths to God.

Then she pressed on. "May I inquire, why is Buddah in the bathroom?"

"Looks good...?" I replied, or rather lamely asked, because something told me that her question was leading up to something bigger.

Cake looked down, a little unsure how to proceed, both with her struggling vocabulary and what I saw as a bit of fear in her eyes.

"It is.....unsuitable....to have Buddha on the floor in the bathroom," she said, finally. And I suddenly had the visual of the two-foot stone Buddha I'd given to Bob as a wedding present, sitting inches from our toilet.

Oh, Gawd.

"Are you Buddhist?" I asked, and she nodded. There was a moment of pure embarrassment, on both our parts. Bob was snickering a little in the background.

"I don't mean to offend...." she said, tentatively.

I felt the flame of humiliation rightfully due from our ignorance. She'd been here two days most likely wincing with shame every time she had to use the facilities while Buddah sat below her, on the floor, looking up her panties.

"I....." I was stuttering, not sure how to proceed. We looked at each other for a moment.

"Where can we put it?" I asked, looking wildly around the room. Buddha had ended up in the bathroom because, frankly, it sat in a quiet spot and wasn't lost somewhere in the chaos of our Western furnishings.

After a search round the house, we settled on a bench in front of the window in the reading area of our living room. I promised not to let anyone sit next to it as one must always be lower than Buddha, and certainly not chumming up to it over a casual conversation. Then I went online and brought up pictures of stone Buddhas that were for sale all over the place, to be placed among the flowerbeds in gardens (never done in Thailand), as planters, candle holders and actual candles, and yes, on the floor in rooms with a bath (most likely inspired by many visits to the spa at Burke Williams). I explained to her that in the U.S. most of us (non-Buddhists) like Buddha in our spaces because of the peace and tranquility of Zen and meditation from his teachings. And that I had put Buddha in our bathroom because we had a soaker tub and his cross-legged presence added a palpable calm to the room.

This was all news to Cake, and during that conversation we both learned a great deal about each other's cultures. For a Buddhist, reverence of one's Deity is a way of life, for us it's a decorating accent. We've poached the cache and left the rest behind.

I'm going to enjoy Cake. And I hope she learns, with time, to forgive and embrace the mistakes of a world experimenting with cross-culturalism. We deserve another chance.

Read on about Randy Adams below

Thanksgiving with the Grump

Apparently, with Grandpa Grumpy, there is an expiration period for frank talks. Those of you who check in here from time to time may remember last holiday when I had it out with the old guy. Not in the screaming-in-your-face kind of way, which knowing him, would have resulted in immediate banishment from Sweetpea's beloved grandma, but in calm, direct debate (and a raised middle finger behind my back). I thought we'd worked out the main kinks, but apparently, like many old folks, his short-term memory is very short.

Grandpa Grumpy is kinda-sorta my father-in-law. Not really, but to have him hear it, he grafted onto my husband's family when the kids were all grown, and takes territorial possession due to marital imperative. And since he has no contact with his biological children from marriage number one, his step-children, their spouses, and grandchildren have become the psychological equivalent of crash-test dummies. He's constantly working out his angst about the fact that his own flesh and blood cut him off, clumsily poking and prodding in the only way he knows to connect to his current 'kids'. These kids being three step-sons, and relationships are problematical. One of the brothers has found a way to connect with him, and gives him his due, something I find difficult given the old man's penchant for thrashing me about at any opportunity.

One problem I have, among many when it comes to Grumps opinion of me (as a woman, a mother, a wife, and generally in pretty much every aspect of my life) , is a particularly toxic ball and chain around my neck. Nothing I do or say can ever release it. I've committed the most egregious sin of all:

I'm a Canadian.

Grandpa Grumpy is a dyed-in-the-wool, blue-blooded American Patriot. Current Tea Party Member, proud card-carrying member of the NRA, hell, he even keeps a squirrel rifle leaning up against the living room wall (antique and de-commissioned). And he despises anyone who has the temerity to live in this greatest country on earth and not be a citizen. To him it's as inconceivable that I would actually choose to remain here and not take the oath. In the past I toyed with the idea, given that Canadians are currently able to carry dual citizenship, but rumors that this might end have put the kybosh on this idea. I've been a legal resident of the U.S. for decades, and so far it's worked out fine. I mean, Dan Rather said it quite eloquently during the Vancouver Olympics earlier this year, the U.S. and Canada are political pals, and share the longest peaceful border in the world. Heck, we're practically married.

But in Grandpa Grumpy's view there is no namy-pamby UN in this messed up world, and he has taken jingoism to new heights when it comes to his belief that America is the only nation in the world worth living in, or for. And my reluctance to swear allegiance to it that has finally pushed Grumps to new heights of fury, for as all fanatical, true-believers of any radical ideology will concur when it comes to a line in the sand: yer either in or yer out.

And I am most definitely out.

It has escalated in the last few years, partly fueled by his advancing age and the fact that he is now fixated on the WWII years, especially the Pacific Theatre. To an interested listener, his weaving in and out of both sides of the Japanese-American conflict is a fascinating dance of blame on both sides, and is a chilling portrait of the hell of war. From his now-distant perch he obsessively relives the last gasp of a world conflict, cleaning up the rotting remains in Nagasaki, running security detail at the War Crimes Tribunal, seeing hunger and starvation from the streets of his adopted home of over two decades. He will freely hold both sides accountable for the atrocities committed in the name of freedom, with a generous mixture of compassion and sympathy for the plight of POWS tortured in Baatan along with the millions of civilian Japanese diaspora who returned home to starvation in a devestated land.

All this ceased to be fascinating years ago when he told it for the second, then third time, then on and on. And as the daughter of another elderly raconteur stuck in a loop, I'd be content to simply nod and listen, except that it just ends in the same place: I'm a Commie Pinko, and should be run out of town on a rail. On all matters regarding this issue, his logic gets very fuzzy when it comes to fighting for liberty. But to spare you the long version, it boils down to this: Fought for the U.S. Worthy. Fought for any other Allied country: Not worth mentioning. Apparently you can only defend liberty if you are an American. His idea of liberty, freedom, and all the other ideals that go with it are country-specific. Uncle Sam's got the copyright, apparently. Literally and figuratively.

Grandpa Grumpy is the Ugly American. And who would want to line up for citizenship when faced with this kind of welcome? To borrow (liberally) fromWoody Allen, I'm not interested in joining any club that would have him for a member.

Grumps is a tough old bird, and has gotten back his God-given mobility after knee surgery (over a year ago, sibs take note), and as much as I'd like to make peace with him, we have reached an impasse. It's an ironic one, as you might have guessed. I am as loyal to my birth nation as he is to his, and the only difference is that I keep my mouth shut. Which, for those of you who know me, isn't easy. Keeping quiet mostly entails a dumb, wide-eyed expression when he tries to bait me during what seems like an ordinary conversation (he is very good at approaching the subject from any manner of obtuse avenues). This puzzled look allows him to get to the punch line, which is usually a direct insult to me, Canada, or any number of Obama connections to our socialist policies, like health care for the disabled or sick children. Here's an example:

"Hey, I met a gal from Queebeck the other day at the cemetery when I was paying my respects last week."

Looks at me.

"You know why I was there, right?" Cocks his head, stares with a smile. I nod politely.

"Well, I dunno what you do, but that's what we do on Veteran's Day, pay our respects to the men and women who served our country to protect the freedoms you enjoy here in America." I nod, try to mention the poppies we wear as the Canadian symbol of respect for our armed forces. He cuts me off and moves on.

"Well, anyway, she was an interesting lady. I wish I'd taped our conversation."

Looks at me (I keep my expression neutral).

"Yeah, she said she loves it here, and that there ain't any place in the world like America. And if you don't want to be a citizen she says you should get the hell out and go back where you came from!"

Grins and stares at me, as if waiting for a retort. Which does not come.

Then he sits back and puts on his best Kansas drawl. "Yeaaah, man, that's what I'm talkin' about."

Looks around the room to see if anyone agrees with him, but surprisingly the others are all picking lint off their clothes or staring at the ceiling.

After a long period of these one-sided conversations, when he starts to relax and get chummier, we might exchange a few friendly shots across the bow. Only a few mind you, because this more direct approach inevitably ends in a tirade, or a shouting match with his wife (my mother-in-law) who recently has begun to object to his abuse. Then I go to bed, where I am now, writing this to you all.

On this trip I did learn something remarkable - we both share ancestry to the Mayflower. My father's family descended from John Howland, made memorable by his fall from the ship mid-Atlantic, and his frantic grasp of a trailing lanyard that got him hauled back on board. A true survivor, he married another Mayflower passenger and had many children, which led to half-million of us in future generations. GG has a similar chart, but I didn't stay long enough to figure out from whose loins he eventually sprang from. It was as annoying as hell for Grumps to find out my people had been here at the first Thanksgiving, a claim he has long reveled in, being the champion American that he is. Unfortunately, he sees this as further proof that we are elitist fops of the first order, snuff-sniffing, poppinjays who defended the evil King, and ran tail when the Revolution began. So now I'm a Commie and a turncoat.

Oh, Canada!

Life With Iron Giants: Where the Improbable Meets the Possible

No matter how many times I try to explain how special San Pedro is, I get a lot of blank stares in return. The nicer ones make a real effort to see this place through my eyes, and I give them credit. But part of me knows that when they go back to their comfortable suburbs, they'll get stared down if they try to defend the place, and soon, the bright feather of enthusiasm will drift away, untended. I've heard more than once about the secrets we keep within our sea-crashed borders, inured to the slings and arrows of outsiders, and in some ways it's a bit disingenuous to expect others to be able to draw away the curtain without spending some serious time here.

It's okay, I want to tell them, I do understand. Take my friend Ernie, for example, whom I see regularly at one of our local cafes. This is a man with a history that, at first blush, appears to be less reality than reality show. To begin with there is his implacable certainty that he is the illegitimate son of Howard Hughes and Katherine Hepburn, though no evidence can be found that this lovely but solitary woman ever gave birth during her extraordinary career, despite a fling with Hughes during her younger years. But should you be quick to dismiss the white-haired gentleman with a flowing beard and the piercing stare of a bluejay, you would miss the amazing story of his life. One that would lead you to believe that he very well could be the offspring of a genius aviator/engineer and a genius actress. If the proof is in the DNA, his seems to flow with potential from both parents.

Ernie, who will soon be the guest on my first podcast in the "Life With Iron Giants" series on this blog, is actually a very accomplished, and intuitively brilliant engineer, and designer of famous cars and speed boats, some of them fetch in the high six figures, they are so rare and coveted. As the owner of a cutting-edge design company, he led the high life for many decades, and when I see the photograph of him in his prime, suntanned, blonde and wickedly handsome zenith (and yes, a Hughes look-alike), I can understand why he married so many beautiful women in his ultra-modern, Newport Beach house. He has made and lost vast fortunes, and in his early years, he was a child of the kind of early 20th Century power and privilege few of us have ever experienced.

At birth, he was adopted into the Ford Dynasty in Detroit, by the brother-in-law of Edsel Ford (his mother was a Ford), and grew up during the WWII years when his father was often called to Washington to help with the war effort. Ernie lived amongst the technology and political giants of his time, and although he was a self-proclaimed non-conformist in many ways, never attending university, he had a natural talent for engineered design, doing much better than his blue-blooded parents might have envisioned. His innovative, cutting-edge creations can be found on enthusiasts' sites all over the net. And even though he hasn't produced one in many decades, his name is legend.

But Ernie's more complex nature won out in the end. When his business failed spectacularly in the 80's (all due to a steam engine he developed for cars then selling the patent to an automobile company that promptly mothballed it), Ernie lost his many homes, wives, boats, and other trappings of wealth. He took to the sea full time as the captain of his boat, then a became a spiritual seeker, diving into the mystical plane where he spent many years in various ashrams and retreats. It sounds eerily parallel to Carlos Castenada, who explored "the known, the unknown, and the unknowable" in his Don Juan series. Ernie may have crossed paths with him, so similar were their journeys into the nova of human consciousness.

And as you talk to Ernie, these two lives, engineer and yogi, intertwine in fascinating rhythm, only adding to the confounding mystery of this son of greats, and his possible biological legacy. As for his claim that he is Hughes' son, there is no denying that Ernie displays the same single-minded obsession with engineering challenges that the famous aviator did, even now he is constantly scribbling designs on napkins, and his innate understanding of natural principals a constant inspiration.

So what is the truth? Ernie typifies many of the challenges we face in San Pedro, a town as misconstrued, stereotyped, and unknown as he is. We are not available to all comers, especially those who lack curiosity, or the ability to breath into and travel into new territory the way Peter Mayle managed in A Year in Provence. Provence didn't need a PR campaign, so we're in a deeper hole, because the veil that separates the reality of life here and the perception of others is an intimidating divide.

And that itself is part of the mystery. And still news to a lot of people.

Life With Iron Giants: Squeaky Wheels and Small Victories

Our park - before construction began.....

Going up against the Port of Los Angeles is as mythically challenging as it gets. David and Golaith time, except in this case, David had his slingshot taken away in an earlier skirmish and is left on the battlefield with nothing but his courage and a lot of bravado. "How's it going, Golaith, old buddy? Hey, that's my head you're tearing off....."

Despite the documented carcinogenic fallout from industrial pollutants that for the better part of a century poured into San Pedro, Wilmington, and all cities north (including you folks up in the Westside), decades more went by before the Port took responsibility for its wrongdoing and started to clean up its act. Too many mega-interests in the financial, political, global manufacturing, and labor spheres, were caught up in a bob and weave dance of conflicting self-interests to worry much about the deaths and shortened lifespans that were a result of our free market system. But hey, we still had lots of landfill-bound junk from China coming in like there was no tomorrow. Talk about uber-denial.

In the past month, we reached a landmark of sorts. The journey started over 20 years ago when some of the local citizenry (mainly those with downtown business interests) thought it would be a good idea if the Port actually did something with the industrial wasteland tthat separated San Pedro's downtown from the water. Ports O'Call, a leasee of the Port, once a thriving dockside retail and restaurant tourist attraction, had fallen into dingy disrepair, the entire place was a sad mess.

Langston Hughes asks what happens to a dream deferred. Does it dry up, like a raisin in the sun? That raisin was as withered as it could get around here. But in the last decade, the blood, sweat and tears of many have begun to bring that raisin back to life. Perhaps the start of this change began when huge multi-national conglomerate, China Shipping, peititioned to build a larger berth in the Port, along with mega-storage for containers. Environmental groups got involved (thanks to those dismal pollution studies) and supported assorted squeaky wheels in the community, and during the contentious debate that followed, some of the most significant cracks appeared in the wall of resistance built by the Port.

A large sum of money (in the multiple millions) was set aside for what they call 'mitigations', kind of a trade-off system. This included new parks, money for waterfront improvements, etc. Some of the money went to form a new elected body (PCAC) made up of local citizens and Port staffers, with the purpose of transparency and input on all matters pertaining to POLA. The City of L.A. was making its own changes in local representation - Neighborhood Councils were created through a charter, with the purpose of adding more in-depth discussion and direct input from communities on issues affecting them.

All of this happened before I got here, but I jumped into the fray because the job of watchdogging an entity like the Port is never done. The Bridge to Breakwater project, an ambitious 1.5 billion dollar investment, was unveiled this fall and all of us squeaky wheels (past and present) jammed into a local gymnasium to find out just how much impact we'd had.

What The Port wanted:

• Bridge to Breakwater billion-dollar development of parkland and interconnecting boardwalks from Vincent Thomas Bridge to Cabrillo Beach
• lots of concrete parking structures
• disconnect between waterfront and downtown San Pedro
• new paint for ageing Ports O'Call
• mega liner ships parked in front of the town beach
• permanent street closures, parking nightmares during tourist surges

What we got:

• Bridge to Breakwater billion-dollar development of parkland and interconnecting boardwalks from Vincent Thomas Bridge to Cabrillo Beach
• Real development funds for Ports O'Call refurbishment
• underground parking structures covered with grass rooftops
• removal of acres of parking lots - converted into parkland and boardwalk
• mega liner berths postponed until further study
• construction of 7th Street people pier, connecting to downtown businesses
• electric powered transport for passengers travelling to outer harbor berths (if constructed)
• LEED-certified green building practices and energy efficiency in all new construction

And, one last thing. The big dirt pile at the end of our street, once a home to oil storage tanks, was in debate for 10 years. The Port wanted to build condos (block our view), research institute (better but not great), shopping mall (yikes!), but the scrappy folks in the Coastal San Pedro Neighborhood Council helped secure a new park for this acreage. The park, under construction since we moved in two years ago, will have it's grand opening in December. The trees are small, plantings, new, but it is a hell of a long way from the tank farm Bob used to play in when he was a kid.

Things are looking up.

The new park is pictured below...

22nd Street Park - California landscaping, drought tolerant

Even this gets criticized from some of the upper Pedro residents who can't imagine a park that isn't a lawn. Just as our front yard does every year, it will change with the seasons, with blooming lavendar, fennel, sage, lush in the rainy season and fallow in the dry. What you see in the upper end is a playing field.

Life With Iron Giants: Empowerment Zone

Last night, radio host Kevin James (Kevin James Show, KRLA 12-3a.m) attended our Coastal Neighborhood Council Meeting. He is touring many of the Neighborhood Councils in the Southland to get a better feel for the issues facing neighborhoods, and to support the local work they do. This is a contentious issue as the Councils have been struggling to keep funding going from the City of Los Angeles, and this is especially true in San Pedro (which has three councils for each of our distinct geographical areas). We have not had our just due from the City for over a century, and although the worm is finally turning in some respects, the Neighborhood Councils here remain the only place to truly intervene on local issues. With the lion's share of city revenue streaming in from our port, and a mere 1/4 of a City Council seat to show for it, we are the true victims of 'taxation without representation'.

When I came home from the meeting, there were a few things that had happened in the meeting that bothered me, so I wrote to him at the station.

Dear Kevin:

After leaving the meeting I realized that you may not return any time soon, and I wanted to point out a few things. San Pedro has a huge PR problem. Until a few weeks ago there wasn't even a Visitors & Convention Bureau for a town with millions of tourists passing through every year - this tourism revenue goes straight back to Los Angeles. Just one of of the many inequities we face as a city annexed by L.A. early last century to drain our resources for the city coffers with barely a nod when it comes to representation or financial compensation. You may not realize this but we are tethered to the city of L.A. by a thin 20 mile corridor running through other cities, created to attach us, but we might as well be a hundred miles away for the historical injustice we've suffered due to pollution, noise, and traffic from the giant port complex the city built on our doorstep. The Visitors and Convention Bureau for San Pedro, like many organizations here, began on a grassroots level by involved community members who, like me, are frustrated by the image that our town has to the rest of the Southland. An image that is simply wrong, mis-informed, and often fueled by vague racist fears.

In fact, San Pedro is a deeply rooted, multi-cultural town with the strongest sense of community I've experienced, and I've lived in every part of Los Angeles. Independent-minded, our 80,000 populace ranges from disadvantaged, middle class, to wealthy, and we all identify as San Pedrans, not Angelenos. Multiple generations of ethnically diverse families live here in relative harmony. No-one ever talks about that. And loyalty? You won't find it stronger anywhere than here. The reason our lead LAPD officer said "criminals live in San Pedro" is not because we house the region's criminals, but because Pedro lawbreakers, like everyone else here, stay in San Pedro, their hometown, and it makes it easy for authorities to track them. This remark may have been misunderstood by someone who doesn't see the context.

We do live in an urban area, and crime is a part of life. But I was annoyed by the use of 'carjacking' to describe an attempted theft, and a later stolen automobile in Redondo Beach. These were car thefts, not carjackings (which infers violent interaction with a driver), and there was an allusion to the fact that someone might have followed this lady from San Pedro all the way to Redondo Beach to steal her car. Unless Anna drives a one of a kind luxury vehicle, the idea seems ridiculous, but our Council members even made an offhanded follow up remark to watch our cars in the parking lot! Our family rides our bikes in this area all the time and down by the beach, it's as safe as any place in L.A. I've had my car stolen, and so have friends - from Los Feliz and Hancock Park respectively. Never here in San Pedro.

We do face some serious environmental issues here, and lately the Port has been responding, I believe due to timely pressure from government, interest groups, and a forward-thinking management team at the Port. Our north Pedro air quality is getting much better, but we still need to keep the pressure up to employ all necessary funds and legislative tools to make businesses comply with new directives. And tourist-friendly development on our waterfront is finally happening after 20 years of debate, 18 of them with a Port and City Council that refused to take us seriously. These things are changing, and as a relatively new resident here, I'm thankful to be part of these changes.

So please remember that many residents of San Pedro often don't care what 'outsiders' think, and after decades of misjudgment and stereotyping, they've just given up. Don't take that stoic, self-deprecating attitude as proof these opinions are accurate.

San Pedro is a complex and fascinating town on a striking sea-wrapped peninsula - truly unique. Give it the multi-dimensional look it deserves.

The Police Chief and The Prostate Exam

(originally published in May, 2008)

Those of you who know me are aware that I have what I like to think of as a Renaissance approach to my career. Just give me a challenge, from baking a wedding cake (6 tier chocolate with raspberry coulis, butter frosting, rosette trim), to interior design, writing a novel, you name it, I'll do it and it I can usually pull it off without falling on my face (some things are just beginner's luck and I never push it). Oh yes, and I loved making films too and hope to do that again some day.

Last year I had been hired to do an interior design project for a healthcare client in Glendale but after loving the plan they found out they were short on money so they asked me to help raise the necessary funds. I'm a good egg - not only will I work for you but I'll pay myself too. In this particular instance the fundraiser they decided upon was a fashion show featuring a wide (and I mean wide) assortment of lovely staffers from the hospital. Twasn't long before I was tapped to be the Creative Director which meant I had to come up with the concept (and the actual fashions).

Thanks to my pal Karen, costume designer extraordinaire, I was able to mine the vast wardrobe department at Universal Studios and pull together a couture collection of stunning gowns representing the decades of the 20th Century.

Everything went smoothly, the runway show a big success. One of the other fundraising efforts in the event was a silent auction which featured many spiffy items, including something I really, really wanted.

Why I coveted this item was a bit of a mystery to my husband, who was charged with bidding on it while I ran around backstage corralling my models and cramming them into their beaded dresses. I admit it was an impulse buy - perhaps it was because I didn't need another set of stylish earrings from Cookie Lee Jewelery, signed baseball cap or a spa facial. What I was drawn to was item number 604: Lunch with the Chief of Police and a tour of the Jail.

My husband did his duty and entered into a spirited bidding war with another lady who apparently had the same idea. He won and proudly gave me the certificate.

Chief Randy Adams of the Glendale Police Department is a very busy man. Every time I called his schedule was booked for weeks in advance and it took several tries before I finally was able to pin him down. Not wanting to do this by myself I rooked my pal Mari into joining me. I mean, what good is a juicy experience like this when you can't share it with someone to whom you can say at appropriate times, 'ohmygodthisisreallyweird!' or 'isthereseomthinginmyteeth?'

Earlier this month the appointed day arrived and before I went to the large modern building in downtown Glendale that housed the police department I stopped by my healthcare clients on business and happened to mention I was at last cashing in on my opportunity to have the Chief as a lunch companion.

"Fabulous!" cried my client, a very nice and well-meaning nurse with a passion for preventative healthcare. "Here are some brochures about our treatment center, a dozen of my business cards, our Annual Report, and oh, yes, information on our upcoming and VERY IMPORTANT Prostate Screening for Men.

I know a little something about the importance of early diagnosis for cancer because of my work as editor of the online publication, Patient Resource Center, so I took the pile of stuff and gamely carried it to my lunch date. Mari had joined me downstairs in the station and after we were vetted (and probably x-rayed without our permission) they let us upstairs to the inner sanctum.

You must understand I've never had any trouble with the Law. So the idea of being deep inside the inner workings of a real police station, getting up close and personal with a police chief and then touring a state-of-the-art lock-up was making me a bit giddy. Kind of like being at Disneyland on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride when you actually thought the cannons they were shooting at you were real. This was as close as I ever intended to get and I was going to enjoy every minute of it.

As Mari and I sat waiting in the outer reception area for the Chief to finish a very important phone call (probably with the Mayor), we perused the stack of magazines nearby. The title, Police Chief, blazed across the front covers. Inside were lots of articles about the latest technology for chasing, subduing, manacling, interviewing and breaking perps. This was one of those moments where being with someone else was much more fun. We saw a full page ad with a guy in a face and body leather restraint that looked eerily like the Silence of the Lambs model.

We started giggling.

Then without preamble the door to the Chief's office opened and out walked......the biggest man I'd ever seen. He looked ten feet tall, beefy without being fat, big gnarly hands, tree-trunk legs that went on forever, massive chest, and a very big head. He was wearing a somber dark suit which heightened the effect of this overpowering presence. He looked a little like a less-gaunt version of Abraham Lincoln, kindly eyes and all. I'm no wilting lily but I immediately felt like a gnat and when he looked down at me, shook my hand and introduced himself I felt something I hadn't felt in what seemed like forever: totally out of control.

Another giggling fit welled up in my chest. I looked helplessly over at Mari who was smirking.

I'd assumed we would be having rubber chicken in his office but he smiled at both of us questionly and asked, "So where would you like to go?"

I was totally unprepared for this. Out? We were going out? To a restaurant? In public?

I was rendered speechless but Mari bailed me out by suggesting Frankies, a local burger hangout. He looked slightly amused. I'm sure he'd been expecting to squire us to Glendale's version of a five-star eatery where no doubt he usually took his meals with his political equals. After all he was buying.

Nope, we were off to have a sloppy joe at Frankies and he took us down to the super secure police parking lot and we drove three blocks in his very large American sedan (black of course) with plush interior. Our boat arrived and he deftly squeezed into the crowded parking and in we went.

"We'll probably see some of my motor officers," he remarked as we entered the restaurant. I guess that's Chief speak for those guys who drive around and give you speeding tickets. Somehow I was afraid to call them any slang word in his presence although Mari wasn't so shy.

"Oh, yeah," she said, "the cops eat here all the time." Way to go Mari, brave soul that you are.

We were immediately seated next to the only two cops in the place and you could see them visibly squirm when we approached. It was a sure bet no Chief had ever eaten in this lowly hangout. They smiled wanly at us and their boss surprised us all by greeting them both by name, to which they brightened considerably.

Chief Adams leaned toward them conspiratorially and said, "Meet the only two ladies who were able to legally buy the Chief." We all laughed. At least four of us were laughing a little too brightly.

The lunch was pleasant. I fell into writer mode and asked him a lot of questions about his past, how he'd come to be in law enforcement, did he know he'd be Chief one day, and was he the tallest man on the force? He took the questions in stride and was talkative and relaxed. He even confided that his son had been on the wrong side of the law briefly and regretted not being able to join the force because of it. He talked about his first and second wives, his passion for remembering people's names and getting his officers to move out of their social ghettos.

"If they don't widen their circle of friends beyond other officers, how are they going to know that 99% of the public are actually very nice? All they ever see out there on the streets are the tiny minority of nasty individuals and after a while it colors your view of the world."

I was actually starting to like the man.

Then before we knew it the lunch was over and Chief Adams took us back to the station in his big car and we were treated to a selection of items emblazoned with Glendale Police Chief - pens, cups, even a tiny replica of his badge which he wore on his lapel.

It was then I realized I had this pile of promotional material from my hospital client and started in on it with a certain amount of enthusiasm until I got to the part about the prostate exam, when I realized what I was saying and started to sweat. At the mention of his unmentionable he flinched a bit but before I could say, "What the hell am I doing?" he kept me from flaming out by gallantly responding with a yes, such exams were important and he always advised his men to stay healthy.

Whew!

Then he stood up to say goodbye and for a second I saw a very big Magnum in a shoulder holster under his expensive suit - a grim reminder of the seriousness of his job. We snapped a couple of pictures (Mari is 6' so you can get an idea of his size) and I squirmed a little when he put his hand on the small of my back for the photo. I looked like a silly git and immediately deleted the offending shot from my camera. The photo with Mari (above) is my only proof we were ever there.

Then with a pleasant goodbye he was gone. A nice gray-haired lady gave us a tour of the station, the inner workings of which were fascinating to a human question mark like me. Then she took us to the jail downstairs, a modern marvel of foot-thick sliding steel doors, electronic eyes, and a woman who sat in a catbird perch with a bank of monitors with the controls to all the doors in her very competent hands. This ultra-sleek and very clean jail is the 'pay-to-stay' option for people who can afford to avoid other county lock-ups, like the notorious Parker Center in L.A. Keifer Sutherland actually trained to be a custodian while serving his time here, preparing meals for the other prisoners and doing clean-up duties. In exchange he got a room the executive wing which wasn't locked during the day.

Mari had to get back to the office. I stayed a while longer and watched the 911 operators take a few calls. I didn't want to leave because I knew I'd probably never have the chance to be this close to the real deal again. Finally they kicked me out.

When I got home I put my Chief of Police cup in the window where anyone contemplating a break-in would be sure to see it.

Take that, bad guys!

What it Takes to Be Famous

Fifty years ago, 19-year-old Wilbert Rideau robbed a bank and took three hostages to make good his escape. When they tried to flee from the moving car in the bayou he shot and wounded them, and hunted down one of the women, then stabbed her to death. He was caught, confessed, and was convicted in the robbery/murder and got the death sentence. But when Louisiana abolished the death penalty his sentence was commuted to life in prison.

Then he read a lot of books, grew up, became a writer, prison reformer, journalist, media celebrity, and eventually, a free man.

Now married, and living in a leafy suburban neighborhood, Rideau has an autobiography coming out this month, In the Place of Justice, and when he was interviewed on CBS' Sunday Morning, he admitted that he hoped this book would jump start his return to life as an important man, a status he enjoyed inside prison for many decades.

Life hasn't really been hard for Rideau: Except for the first few years when he was waiting on death row for the axe to fall, life for him became one of growth and purpose: without the distractions of being a breadwinning member of society, he spent hours reading and developed his writing skills, later championing the rights of prisoners and shining a light on abuses. A fourth trial six years ago redefined his crime as 'manslaughter' and he was released with time served (44 years). He believes his good works in prison have redeemed him, supported by the world he was absorbed into as a media darling, inspirational speaker, man in makeup and coifed hair. His post-prison wife adores him, and says he's the best human being she's ever known in this whole entire world. The man deserves to be happy.

In fact, Rideau is a modern day vampire. For 50 years he has been feeding off the dark star of a day gone wrong, a series of decisions that found him straddling a woman crawling for her life, driving a knife into her body, again and again until she died, alone, in terror, her last moment a bogeyman come calling: steel puncturing her organs, peeing and vomiting, taking her hopes, dreams, loves, a future all gone. In that moment the bright nebula of her life energy transferred to him, he fed from it and still continues to do so a half-century later.

Who was the woman who died that day? In Rideau's lengthy biography in Wikipedia, the name and the history of the bank teller he stabbed to death is never mentioned. She was absorbed unblinkingly into her murderer's story, disappearing into his image, a mere shadow figure, having served her purpose to deliver Rideau into his immortality. As the editor of The Angolite, a high profile prison newspaper, he won many journalistic awards, and then, as the memory of his crime receded beneath the accolades, the woman he murdered became no more.

The irony of being an author and knowing my novel will struggle for shelf space in the same bookstores as his, knowing that his will be displayed in the window, on the table by the door, and be talked about in interviews, reviewed by the New York Times, doesn't escape the intense scrutiny all competitors endure. Our lives have intersected, along with the lives of hundreds of other writers who will bring their work to market this year.

I cannot compete with Rideau in the bookstore. He is symptomatic of our diminished, fame-focused, peeping Tom obsessions, no different than the daily TMZ fodder, except that instead of a vapid iconic presence in the anxiety-ridden world of entertainment, we seem to have come to a place where we can forgive a human being pretty much anything if they become fascinating enough to garner our interest and the mantle of idolatry that comes with it. What is next? There seems to be no bottom.

Rideau is touted as "the most rehabilitated criminal in the prison system" and so we are to forgive him for snuffing out the life and timeless thread of humanity that was connected to the moaning woman who gave up the ghost in the dirt, husband, children, left keening into the night and reliving her terror, collecting the stones of fear and loss into their souls. The painful ripples of his act will go on infinitely in lives he will never take responsibility for; He is too absorbed in his own rising star: he walks the dog in a bucolic landscape, and makes love to a woman who admires him above all others.

While I am opposed to the death penalty due to false convictions, my opinion

on murder is this: Take a life, give a life. No parole. I listened with narrowing eyes to his guileless admission that he misses being a "big shot" in prison. I certainly will not buy his book so he can take his pound of redemption in cold hard cash. And if I do see his books in the bookstore, I will practice a random act of kindness, my own brand of justice, and hide them wherever I can.

I do it for you, Julia Ferguson. And the ones you left behind.

Down the Rabbit Hole with novel clutched in hand

The clock is ticking now, just shy of a month before the publication of House of Northern Lights.

Am I happy? Ok, yes. Am I scared witless? Definitely.

I'm learning quickly about all the online book clubs, and will begin posting my connections here as I establish myself as a serious reader on many of them, a pre-requisite to cultivating mutual admiration. The idea is to get my novel in front of large online book groups who now far outnumber the coffee shop version. Those I'm joining too: you'll see me at the We Love Long Beach Book Club at the Auld Dubliner Pub on the 27th and at the Sherman Oaks Book Club Lite meetup on the 24th at the International Printing Museum in Torrance (lunch afterwards at King's Hawaiian Bakery). I suppose it's time I met other bookwormy girls like me...

But, this whole new venture is making me queasy - as Woody Allen quoting Groucho Marx said, "I wouldn't join any club that would have me as a member." And it's an occupational hazard of a writer who spends a lot of time alone in front of a computer, but I'm pushing outside this particular box and doing what I can to eke out a place (and readers) for my small 10 year project.

So here goes. I begin by dutifully posting my recommended reads from the first of many book sites you'll be hearing about, Good Reads. Thank you humbly for taking the time to step into my world to help my novel blossom. And check out www.goodreads.com for some great input from other readers.

Next up: my "Canadian Women Authors" booklist for Flashlight Worthy, which connects to Amazon. Thank you to the moderator, Peter, for this opportunity.

Big bang.

Selected Poems: 1966-1984 by Margaret Atwood

As a Canadian, I grew up on Margaret Atwood's amazing poetry and early novels, Surfacing, and Edible Woman. I'm not as much a fan of her later, more unwieldy stories, but these two, and her poetry are startling in their simplicity and an intimate look at a woman struggling to find her place in the feminist years of the 60's and 70's. Even if you're not an Atwood fan, check out these two books, and her early poetry. View all my reviews >>

Strangers on a Train by Patricia Highsmith

Until "Talented Mr. Ripley" Ms. Highsmith was known to all mystery buffs as one of the top writers of the 20th Century. View all my reviews >>

An Instance of the Fingerpost: A Novel by Iain Pears

Everything about this author is worth reading. Sometimes a bit dense in prose, but you feel very satisfied with the consumption of his multi-layered stories. View all my reviews >>

Necessary as Blood by Deborah Crombie

Deborah Crombie is one of my favorite crime fiction writers. Her series with Detective Kincaid is always a fascinating look into British policing. View all my reviews >>

The Quiche of Death by M.C. Beaton

I picked up "Quiche of Death" at my library and had never before laughed as much in a 'mystery' novel as I did with M.C. Beaton's first offering in what has become a very long series featuring the stubborn, cigarette smoking, perennial bachelorette, bear-like Agatha Raisin. I keep a bunch of them in my guest room reading basket - I live by the beach and this is perfect summer time reading. Or reading when you just need an emotional or mental break. View all my reviews >>