Pennermag.com

One of things I love most about L.A., or any city for that matter, are the restaurants. There are the little, cheap places that you go back to time and time again, trendy places to people watch and those unfortunate disappointments where you wish you d stayed home and entertained instead.

On Saturday night, we visited Cinch. It s the new, trendy, L.A. hot spot. The best part of Cinch, the desserts. The bread pudding may be even better than my grandmothers. It s smooth, delicious and reminded me of a wonderful cr me brulee. We also shared an apple pie a la mode that was more like a delightful apple tart. Crisp pastry, hot, not-to-sweet filling, cool vanilla bean ice-cream.

For a Franco-Japanese fusion restaurant the French style desserts were the best. The entrees were good, but just good, not great. I had soba noodles with twice cooked pork. It was a comfort food type meal no real zing, though. Adam had venison which he also dubbed good. Kyle the short ribs. It was just okay food.

Before dinner, in the packed (yes, even at 6:30) bar we each had a martini, Kyle Apple, Me Creamsicle, Adam Banana Split. Why, oh why, do I continue to get caught up in the martini menus? Ten dollars and I m usually disappointed. This is the last time. I ll be sure to get a nice Syrah next time.

The best Cinch food the sashimi roll. If the Atkins diet tasted like that . . . man oh man, we d all me skinny minnies!

The worst about Cinch. The service. Try getting a reservation almost impossible. We get there, and lo and behold the restaurant is EMPTY. Also, we had to close out our bar tab before dinner just annoying. Lastly, the rush to get us up from our table. Just plain rude.

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After living in Los Angeles for almost three years, I m not above repurposing. Repurposing is the multi-syllable word television executives use to mean, Americans are dumb enough to watch the same shows over and over again if we put it on affiliated cable channels or call them encore performances.

But as always, I digress. February 2004 is Black History Month. When I was in high school and still outspoken it was celebrated as Black History week. In February 1989, the editors of the school newspaper contacted me to write an article about it I turned in, what I thought at the time, was a scathing editorial. It was not published in the school newspaper. Instead a rival school newspaper (the Conard Pow Wow) and the town newspaper (the West Hartford News) published the article.

Originally published February 2, 1989.

Criticizes Black Studies at Hall High as Inadequate

Black History Week as it has been celebrated at Hall High School is a farce. This might seem like a very strong statement, but it happens to be true. This so-called celebration often results in just another example of Hall yet again patting itself on the back when it may not deserve the praise.
When I was contacted to write this article, I wondered if I was expected to write another flowery piece, praising Hall for its grand gesture of allowing blacks to celebrate, for on week, their existence and history.

Every year we are forced to withstand the abuse of the English Department and its idea of a Black History celebration. We listen to perhaps well-meaning students stumble through works by highly acclaimed black writers, using unconvincing Southern accents. They fail miserably and the historical point of their oratory efforts are not articulated. Obviously this celebration is simply a gesture by the school administration aimed to pacify us. Can anyone honestly think regaling us with the now-famous I Have a Dream speech is a true celebration of the African-American experience?

Every year we go to an assembly, a school official gets on stage, speaks a lot of platitudes, shakes hands with a black person and smiles. Then we go back to our classrooms where too many blacks are still being called names. What, exactly is the point?

Much more has to be done. First of all, there has to be more serious ethnic education going on in the classroom. It isn t enough to read a book written by an black person and say, Well that s nice, but that doesn t apply today, and feel blacks have so much more opportunity than they used to. Yet can t they see that there is only on black teacher in Hall High, there can be no real role model for students. Second, in addition to American history, black history needs to be taught. We need to study slavery and civil rights, just as we study Christopher Columbus and the holocaust.

Every year we get a small sampling of black culture. We have a food fair. We put posters on the wall that are not read. They balk at the food and laugh at the people in the pictures and learn nothing. Students wrinkle their noses and laugh in their ignorance. How can students learn anything if they never open up their minds to the experience? Yet they still say there is no racism at Hall.

Every year it is a struggle with the administration to even schedule Black History Month in February. There is no national Black History week celebration, and it is not an extension of Martin Luther King s Birthday. Regarding this point, our school is even more oppressive than this country. Is this the administration s subtle way of saying that black history is not important? Yes, they always have an excuse, but we cannot accept that anymore.

Hall needs to have more than a Black History Week or a Black History Month. Blacks needs to be studied in class, as well as out. We need to study more than Dr. Martin Luther King. After all, blacks don t exist just one week out of 52.

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Vagina Monologues, Puppetry of the Penis, Orgasms, Pieces of Ass.

What to these four titles have in common?

They’re plays that have hit L.A. since I’ve been here. And these titles really do catch your attention. When I’m driving down Wilshire or Hollywood Boulevards — theater marquis jump right out at you. The radio is just background music until your hear something like Pieces of Ass broadcast loudly.

Now the Vagina Monologues are famous. Everyone’s heard of Eve Ensler’s play — it had a long run with various celebrity guests in New York and Los Angeles.

But the rest? Sex sells — at least if Janet Jackson’s bare breast is any indication.

I was shocked to watch a ‘news’ clip of some Hollywood folk’s reaction to the Janet Jackson — Justin Timberlake bodice ripping moment. On one hand they produce and mount plays with seductive titles and implied nudity — and on the other hand they’re appalled that their children may have seen a flash of bare breast on television?

In my best John Stossel fashion — “Gimme a break!” All the talk I hear is about networks censoring more and more and they wonder why folks flock to cable? Life is full of swear words and breasts. As the popularity of these plays and shows like Sex in the City truly show that people are interested in television that’s more interesting than sterile, sickly sweet family comedies and dramas.

One of the indications of the TV ratings system was to ostensibly allow more adult and mature programming — and a V-Chip for parents to filter it ou. TV-M — we rarely see, however. Instead cable/satellite has a huge saturation in people’s homes — no one monitors this medium — yet they’re all over the CBS switchboards with one little nipple showing.

Perhaps, one day TV will enter the real world where making a puppet with your penis is the mode of the day.

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I’m pretty invisible. I can walk through life — most days — unnoticed by most. In all the predominantly white cities, towns, and schools that I’ve been people don’t see me.

The advantages: I don’t have to rotate my wardrobe as often. I can observe people without them feeling watched.

This has been somewhat less true in Los Angeles, the majority ‘minority’ city. The places where I eat, shop, and exercise, though, are still majority white.

Last Tuesday, I was at my regular, twice weekly, yoga class. Even though I’ve been a regular in the class for almost two years, the only people who talk to me are the teacher and a black guy who usually sets his mat behind mine.

So imagine my surprise when a young white woman sits down next to me and starts talking. We made the usual small talk, what do you do — she’s a screenwriting Master’s student at USC. Where do you live — she’s at 3rd and La Cienega.

Admittedly, I was intrigued. This was unusual and I was sure with some careful probing, I could figure out why she was talking to me so easily. We finally got to one of those L.A. questions — if you’re not from here — where are you from. Her answer — Tornoto, Canada.

Ah, there it was. Among African-Americans — there’s been talk that they’re much more liberal folks up there in Canada. It may be damn cold, but black people are living and thriving — and the Canadians are not trying to put every last one of us in jail.

So Canada it was. I knew things hadn’t changed in the U.S.

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Once a long time ago, I saw some PBS special which showed Pompeii, the Titanic, or Atlantis or some buried place on earth. Next to the skeletal remains of people were their dogs. You’d see human skull then dog skull — human spine, dog spine.

At the time, I couldn’t imagine how — seeing the end coming — your dog would be right there next to you. I would certainly think your cat wouldn’t be that close.

But, now I think I’m getting it. A queen size bed isn’t big enough. Often I wake up in the middle of the night sandwiched between two dogs. Right now one’s under my feet — the other behind my chair.

My dog (Foley, that is) even has a trick for laying at our feet when we aren’t home. She carries our socks around — yes socks, clean or dirty — it doesn’t matter — chooses a spot to lay down — places the sock under her chin and rests.

If you’re walking around — she needs her socks. There’s a lot of agitation on her part when she can’t open the closet door and get socks out of the hamper. Alternatively, you see her digging around the laundry basket — looking.

Do we need them? I don’t know. I know they need us, our smells, our habits, our routines. And if the end comes, I suspect they’ll be right here.

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