Fall is here... for the moment

A brisk wind blows through Los Angeles on a Sunday afternoon. The first weekend of October. The first one in LA that actually feels like fall. It's my favorite season, and one that Southern California doesn't feel with the full bloom and force as in other parts of the country. So it's a momentary pleasure, as next weekend may be 85 degrees, or the following one may forget autumn entirely and settle into the blandness of 65 degrees. Not that one should really complain, because three months later it will still be... 65 degrees, while it's 20 degrees where I come from.

Speaking of where I come from, I was able to breathe in the coming fall back in Wisconsin with L. Empty country roads and Door County farmhouses while on a gorgeous, picturesque tour of my home state. We ate pure Wisconsin cheese, savored the joys of Leinie's Red, and sat beside beautiful Lake Mendota, appreciating life back in Madison, the most perfect place in the world when the weather matches its charms.

All of it makes me so appreciative of this time of year, which creeps up so slowly and disappears so fast. Even back in Wisconsin, they're probably now having the most stunning weekends of the year, replete with the smell of fallen leaves on the lawn, but in a month the Midwest will be concerned with weather-stripping and ballooning heating bills. Here in Los Angeles, Halloween will pass, and we'll ponder the holidays, which will erupt without the benefit of the further changing of seasons. Yeah, we'll put on our thin, Fall coats, but it's really not the same.

I guess that neither way is ideal, but the connecting thread between the two is unavoidable change. These are brief, momentary periods that need to be savored and cherished, because tomorrow they will be gone. At least as far as the weather goes.

But for me, I'm going to appreciate every minute of it, from the pumpkins on the kitchen table, to the football season unfolding in 16 weeks, to what promises to be a comically fun time at Knotts Scary Farm tonight, to that stiff wind that somehow both chills and warms, to the lovely, wonderful woman that I get to spend my time with, who only gets more beautiful with each passing day. Yes, Fall is a time to be cherished.

The carpool lane sucks anyway

It's no secret that traffic in Los Angeles is miserable. There are many other cities that can claim this painful distinction - Chicago, Atlanta, NY, Houston. Maybe it was the '80s, but Los Angeles may have a special place in the cultural consciousness when it comes to the hell that is freeways and traffic congestion. Hence, the carpool lane.

I've always been a big fan of the carpool lane. You need two people to drive it, and in some places on the edges of the city, even three. It's almost a statement - if you want to move forward, make progress... you better find yourself a friend. One of the greatest episodes of Curb Your Enthusiasm featured Larry David picking up a hooker just so he could use the carpool lane to get to Dodger stadium. Somehow beautifully, they come to respect and admire each other too. That's the big joke: the process of movement is so fraught with peril in this city, that you will reach for just about anyone if it means going just a little bit faster. 

I came to appreciate the carpool lane. Grow accustomed to it. Accepting it as my city-given right as a couple and as a father. I can't tell you how many times I drove Zach in the back seat, perversely wishing that I'd get pulled over by some dickhead cop who thought I was abusing the privledge by being alone, only to point out my bubbly little kid in the backseat and say, "I don't think so..."

But recently, I've found myself driving alone more often than not. A lot of those trips from Hollywood, or downtown, back to my place on the westside, cruising down the 110, headed for home. And I am, frankly, habituated to using the carpool lane. Which is not an easy habit to break. More than once I've found myself driving in the carpool lane, listening to tunes at high decibel, only to glance in the rear view mirror and realize that... hey, Zachy isn't in the backseat.

No. I'm alone - in the carpool lane built for two. And I didn't even realize it until it was too late, until you know it's just as big of a fine to cross those triple yellow lines as it is to have unjustifiabily entered that lane to begin with. You dont know what to do. Do you forge ahead, waiting for the next turn-out? Or do you whip across the lane right now, calling even more attention to yourself as that single guy all alone in the carpool lane. The one who wasn't supposed to be there.

But which is it? The one who wasn't supposed to be alone in the carpool lane? Or just the one who wasn't supposed to be alone in the carpool lane?

Which is it?

Broken Up in the Plastic Land

Dan Bern is a singer I fell in love with a number of years ago. A kind of folksy, smirking, ironic but earnest commentator on life, music, pop culture and relationships. He puts on one of the best live shows around, usually just him, a guitar and songs about Tiger Woods' great, big balls. But one song, in particular, provides the perfect commentary on life in the plasticized, shallow metropolis of Los Angeles, a city filled with thousands trying to scrape and claw their way to fame, success, notoriety, etc. For Bern, he even takes it a step further - chasing fame and fortune is a threadbare way to find love, to fill the hole we all feel, to feel like someone meaningful.

I was part of that, although I really don't believe that I did that out of some psychological or emotional need to fill. I just love movies. More than most things. Although in later years, I felt increasingly disconnected to Hollywood, the industry and the kinds of movies being made, which I think proves my point - I wasn't doing it out of an insatiable need to be part of things, to be validated, etc. I wanted to contribute and work in movies. Sure, I wanted to be successful too. I wanted that big break - who doesn't? But at a certain point, even any upside seemed outweighed by my gradual lack of affection for the industry itself.

But this song... wow, it's such a perfect encapsulation of that experience that defines so many twenty-somethings here in LA. I remember when I aloofly sneered at the line, "And I watched, as the best of my generation abandoned their dreams... and settled for making a little money". God, what pathetic people those were! 

Except that's now me. And, frankly, I don't regret it at all, though I'm trying to dip my toe back into writing, little by little. But even with maturity, and time, and transitions, this song just gets more and more true. Some is truth for me, lots of it is truth for others... it's a sad love/hate song indeed.

I saw the best of my generation playing pinball
Maked up and caked up and lookin' like some kind of china doll
With all of Adolf Hitler's moves down cold
As they stood up in front of a rock and roll band
And always moving upward and ever upward
To this gentle golden promised land
With the smartest of them all moonlighting as a word processor
And the strongest of them all checking ID's outside saloons
And the prettiest of them all taking off her clothes
In front of men whose eyes look like they were in some
Little hick town near Omaha watching the police chief
Run his car off the side of a bridge
I saw men with dreams like the ones I'd had
Beg quarters outside the 7-11
Till it got so they didn't affect me anymore
Then the mailboxes I'd passed 'cept that sometimes
I'd put something in the mailbox
I'd had the wind at my back
Now I felt it cold in my face
And for an awful long time now you were the only one who ever
Called me late at night and I really never noticed till after
You stopped calling and the emptiness, silence got so heavy

Broken up in the wasteland
Broken up in the promised land
Broken up in Disneyland
Broken up in the plastic land
Broken up in the wasteland

I saw dead Marilyn Monroe strung up on every street corner
In Hollywood like some two bit whore offering a discount rate
And I wondered how Joe Dimmagio felt
I saw dead James Dean's ghost wandering the sidewalk
Looking troubled and I wondered how his mama felt
I saw signs that said head shots done for cheap
Signs that said extras wanted top dollars paid
Signs for haircuts signs for manicures and
Signs for tanning salons and signs for wardrobe specialists
Signs for cosmetic surgery and signs for assertiveness training
And I stopped to read them all
And every single block looked like every single block
Looked like every single block looked like every single block
Looked like every single block but you kept driving
Cause everyone else kept driving and cause gridlock
Is evil and not knowing your way is evil
And those that had money looked good but weren't too happy
And those who didn't have money didn't look so good
And weren't too happy either and in a city of three million
two hundred and sixty nine thousand nine hundred eighty four
Everyone was lonely

Broken up in the wasteland
Broken up in the promised land
Broken up in Disneyland
Broken up in the plastic land
Broken up in the wasteland

And I watched as everyone I knew spent their lives
Trying to be watched on a stage or watched on a film
Or listened to on a record and they thought well maybe
That way I could get a little love out of this life
And I watched as the best of my generation abandoned their dreams
And settled for making a little money
And I watched TV and read the papers and listened to the radio
And made all the fancy scenes and said all the right words
And wore all the right clothes and knew the names of the hip people
But I still felt out of touch so I stopped watching TV
And reading the papers and listening to the radio
And making the fancy scenes and saying the right words
And wearing the right clothes and knowing the names of the hip people
And I felt more out of touch than ever but I didn't care anymore
And I felt you slipping away, and I felt myself slipping from you
And I wanted more than anything else for it to rain for one
Whole day like it used to but all there ever was was sun
Relentless sun hot beating sun and everyone wore their
Sunglasses and walked around like flies under a magnifying glass
With their eyes removed

Broken up in the wasteland
Broken up in the promised land
Broken up in Disneyland
Broken up in the plastic land
Broken up in the wasteland, broken up in the wasteland

Freeway Signs and the Weather

"A kiss may not be the truth, but it is what we wish were true" - Steve Martin, L.A. Story

When I was in college, the Steve Martin film L.A. Story held real, deep resonance for me. It was filled with offbeat, absurd humor, but every few minutes, Martin would slow everything down to a crawl and inject the story with an almost mystical sentiment. It comes across as completely unnatural - even in the context of such fourth-wall breaking film - but it's so intensely felt, earnest and, hell... honest, that it wins you over. It's a movie where a sooth-saying traffic sign can tell Martin that the weather will change his life twice, and when it does, it's utterly predictable, but so comfortable, a warm thought of the way the world should operate. The way that we all believe it should. On the best of days, we believe that it's the way the world could.

My appreciation of the film spanned my college years, before I even moved to Los Angeles. And I honestly don't think I've watched it in the entire 13 years I've lived in this particular, unique cement jungle. Sure, some jokes stood up to memory, such as Martin driving his car 20 feet to a next door neighbor's house, but there are so many throwaway LA moments that a Midwestern kid would never have appreciated prior to living here, like Martin's frustration at his girlfriend pretentiously stalling for 20 minutes of before a luncheon, just so they wouldn't be on time... and then still being the first ones there. Perfect. Or Richard Grant commenting that he lives in the Valley, and even the valets snicker mercilously at him.

After so many years, I introduced the film to a friend tonight (we had intended to watch "The Shining" on Blu-Ray, another nostalgia moment, but the disc he brought was bad). He's French, and has lived in Los Angeles for 5 years, and even though the movie is quite dated in many ways, the humor is still dead-on, and the observations about LA life hasn't really changed all that much. He loved it.

It's still the romantic yearning of the piece that resonates with me, and now makes me sad in many ways. "Why do we never notice the moment when love begins, but know exactly the moment that love ends?", Martin asks at the final turning point. It's a poignant line, and for Martin in his mid-40s, a happily married superstar, it was an easy pedastal to play artistic muse from. But shortly after L.A. Story, Martin divorced his co-star, and developed something of a reputation for liking women on the younger end of the spectrum. The SanDeE* types, perhaps. I even have a friend who was propositioned, of sorts, by Martin, who fled when she learned she was married. A very, very amusing anecdote for another time...

Martin's a true romantic. An erudite sensualist, and it's those elements that I try to hold onto every time I see him painfully cashing in another dreadful paycheck (he should play golf with DeNiro and Pacino, all laughing their asses off on how they've worked the system). Yet here he is, now in his 60s, with more money than I'm sure he could know what to do with, but he's still the picture of one of his most beautiful lines: "A kiss may not be the truth, but it's what we wish were true". That's so beautiful and sad, and I can't help but be a little pissed and wonder that if he can't get it right, is this the future staring at the rest of us? When you find yourself alone in your thirties, or forties, or fifties... in Los Angeles (a very, very important detail), is this the more likely fate than not?

Steve Martin had a magical freeway sign to point his way, and even the weather and the heavens turned to be on his side, and even then he just barely made it work. And in that great line, there's the cautious sadness in it - what if that kiss isn't true, like you want to believe? I'd like to presume that Martin wrote that film as a result of his love and adoration for the lovely co-star. It sure reads that way. And then they divorced. So if a kiss really can be truth, it suggests something even more ominous: truth is transitory and fleeting. So even if you find truth, you may not be able to understand it or hold onto it for long.

But Martin keeps trying (hell, anyone seen "Shopgirl"?). Best of luck, Mr. Martin... and maybe freeway signs and the weather will have pity on the rest of us.