Citizen of the Month

the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Category: Los Angeles (Page 8 of 16)

Where’s ICU?

April 4, 2007 / / 29 Comments

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Thank you for your emails and comments about Fanya, Sophia’s mother.  She is doing better, and was released from the hospital tonight.  

Fanya’s room was located in the Saperstein Critical Care Tower, which was opened last year after entrepreneur and philanthropist David Saperstein and his wife Suzanne made the largest donation to Cedars-Sinai in the Medical Center’s history.

“The Sapersteins have accepted a crucial role in the reinvention of our campus by providing us with the means to build a state-of-the-art critical care tower,” said [hospital President and CEO Thomas M. Priselac when he received the donation]. “The Suzanne and David Saperstein Critical Care Tower will combine the latest monitoring technology with staffing to provide the most fragile patients with the most sophisticated care available.”

The Saperstein Critical Care Tower is clearly important for Los Angeles.

Annual hospital admissions countywide are up 20 percent in the past 10 years and seven hospitals have closed since 2003, according to a new report funded by The California Endowment.  West L.A. hospitals have been hard pressed to keep pace with demand, particularly institutions like Cedars that draw patients from a wider area. Population growth, on top of an aging demographic more likely to become seriously ill, have only exacerbated the situation, said  Dr. Paul Silka, [medical chief of staff], noting that Cedars often has long waiting lists to schedule elective surgery.

While Cedars-Sinai Medical Center clearly has top-notch doctors and medical equipment, I was not impressed with the human aspect of the patient care.   For example, why did no one come out to tell us how the surgery went?  Why did no one tell us that Fanya was taken back to ICU half an hour earlier?  Why were nurses laughing loudly with each other all night, waking up the patients in INTENSIVE CARE?   Or why was Fanya not fed for fourteen hours?  Even though the doctor gave the order to give her food, the nurse forgot to inform the nutrition department.  It took Sophia three and a half hours of fighting with everyone to get Fanya some food after her angioplasty.  Is this the bad effect of “Grey’s Anatomy,” where the personal lives of the staff are more important than those of the sick people?  Like in many other big-city hospitals, the basic concerns of the patient and his family seem to be of secondary consideration.   

Nothing symbolizes this better than the Saperstein Critical Care Tower itself.  As you can see from the above photo, the $110 million dollar facility may be “state-of-the-art,” but someone forgot to put up a sign telling patients and their families which building it is and WHERE THE ENTRANCE IS LOCATED.

What’s Up, Cedars-Sinai?

April 4, 2007 / / 33 Comments

It’s been hectic.   My mother came to town.  We prepared for the first seder. I fought a cold.  My mother cooked a wonderful brisket, matzoh ball soup, kugel, etc.  We went over to the home of Fanya and Vartan, Sophia’s mother and step-father.   After the meal, Fanya had pains in her heart.   It was hurting her so much, that we called 911.   An ambulance came and she he was brought to the Cedars-Sinai Medical Center’s emergency room.  We sat in the waiting room for hours.  Tomorrow, Fanya is going to get an angioplasty on her heart and liver.   Wish her good luck!

Now for some bitching about the hospital:

Cedars-Sinai is a world-famous hospital.  Its proximity to Beverly Hills has made it famous as the “hospital for the stars.”  This is where Hollywood celebrities have their babies.   Frank Sinatra died at Cedars-Sinai.  Movie producers have their names on hospital wings.  So, why do Sophia’s parents always get poor service at Cedars-Sinai Hospital?  

Because of the language barrier.   

They are an older couple who can only speak Russian.  Now, I’m all for immigrants learning English, but after a certain age, it is just too difficult a task.  Sophia often works in court as an interpreter, where every defendant who needs it is guaranteed BY LAW to have a language interpreter, and from what I understand, it is the same with every hospital patient.   Cedars-Sinai says that they have interpreters on staff.  So, why are so rarely used?

I was sitting in Fanya’s ICU hospital room this morning.  Sophia left to get some paperwork for her mom.  I noticed that the reading on the EKG monitor was at zero.  I told this to the nurse, a grouchy woman who looked like she came from another country herself. 

“Don’t move your right arm!” she told Fanya.  “It makes the monitor shut off.”

“She doesn’t understand what you are saying,” I said.  “She doesn’t speak English.”

“NO ARM UP!” the nurse yelled at Fanya, lying there with tubes stuck inside her arms, as if that was going to solve the problem.

“Don’t you have a Russian interpreter on call or on the phone?” I asked.

“She’s not here now.  Don’t you know Russian?”

“No, and I don’t think it is my job to be translating for the hospital.  When will there be a interpreter?”

“Let me go see.”

She left and I never saw her again.

The entire day has been one mistake after another.   Fanya is a slight woman.  She had lost 25 pounds in the last 6 months.  She was put on a restricted calorie diet!  The staff didn’t bring Fanya any food until 3:30 PM because they “thought” there was an order not to give her food.  Then she never got dinner.  After Sophia spoke to 5 people, they eventually brought her, a diabetic, four juices and Melba toast with cheese, at 10 PM. They gave her pills for diabetes with orange juice!   This is just poor medicine, but had Fanya been able to communicate – she would have been able to point their mistakes out, before they made her drink sugary juice with a pill to lower her blood sugar!  It is scary enough to be in a hospital.  It must be terrifying for a patient to be there and not understand the language of the staff, and Sophia can’t be there 24 hours a day.    Sophia told the nurses they can call her anytime to help with the Russian, but no one ever called.  God help the person who has to go into the hospital without having a family or friends to speak up for her!

When Fanya first came to the hospital, a male nurse was trying to figure out what was wrong with another Russian patient, a disheveled elderly man who was sobbing.   The nurse was poking the man in different places on his shoulder trying to figure out what pained him.

“Baleet?  Baleet?” the male nurse asked, using the only Russian word he knew, meaning “pain.”

Eventually, Sophia asked if she could help.   She spoke to the guy in Russian and learned that he wasn’t in physical pain, but emotional pain.  His grandson had just died, so he drank himself into a stupor, and his family didn’t know what to do with him, so they drove him at the hospital.  With three Russian families in the emergency room, wouldn’t it make sense to have an interpreter readily available?

Cedars-Sinai built a a major new building last year.  It cost millions of dollars.  The medical center has the best equipment, which must cost a fortune.   But would it really cost that much more to have a few more interpreters?   The hospital doesn’t need to have an interpreter for every language on duty 24/7, but Cedars-Sinai is smack in the middle of the major Russian and Persian communities of West Hollywood and Beverly Hills.  Many of these are elderly people who don’t speak the English, and they end up getting less than mediocre medical care in a supposedly top-notch hospital.  There are Spanish interpreters in most city hospitals.  There are Korean-speaking interpreters in mid-city hospitals.   Why is Cedars-Sinai so stingy with their interpreters?  Have a donor put his name on the interpreters’ uniforms if it would help get more money!

I know Cedars-Sinai would rather be known as the “hospital of the stars” and promote all the A-list actors who go there after drug rehab.    I understand that UCLA Medical Center is stealing some of the “celebrity cache” from Cedars since it is located in the less immigrant friendly, more upscale Westside (oh no, Britney had her baby there!).  The truth is Cedars-Sinai is now more of a “city hospital,” which means catering to the immigrant community.  Sure, it must be an annoyance for the busy, overworked staff to deal with foreign-speaking patients (unless, of course, the patient is a member of some Royal family),  but shouldn’t effective communication be an essential part of medical care?

Update:  Fanya is doing better.  More complaining about Cedars.

A Merry Yarn of Whale-Watching

February 15, 2007 / / 30 Comments

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Aye matey, ye be wantin’ to hear this here tale, this merry yarn. Twas a year ago when I got my noggin a thinkin’ that since I’m a livin’ the life o’ California, I should get myself on the high seas o’ the Pacific with my feisty wench, Sophia, and see me some whale-watching, as is done around these parts around March.

So, off we join the other sea scumming tourists, land lubbers every one o’ them, on the vessel named “Rip-off” that took off from the Port o’ Redondo. The salty dog chugged its way to the deeper waters, the slowest schooner I’ve ever sighted, the journey as thrillin’ as tradin’ shots of warm grog or pissin’ off the poop deck. Well, me hearties, me tried to amuse himself by feeling the rockin’ of the scurvy, rat-infested ship, imagining a lovin’ moment with me buxom beauty down in the bilge.

“C’mere me beauty,” ye said to Sophia, me eyes gazin’ at her treasure chest, “Me hornpipe is itchin’ to play a tune.”

After she shot me down like a barnacle scraped off o’ rudder, me turned to the slimy captain o’ the vessel and said, ” Ahoy, mate. We’ve been on the seas for three hours and nary a whale. Arr. when will we finally see one?”

“Gar, don’t get your spyglass all filled with the doubloon, mate.” Me promise ye with the cold steel of my hook hand that we’ll see a member of the whale family. As Cap’n of this here good ship, me GUARANTEE that ye see a beauty of a whale, or ye get your coins returned.”

“Guaranteed? Our money returned? That offer is brave of ye. I’ll be expecting my booty if you don’t deliver, ye scallywag.”

“Return ye to the port bow, ye whoreson rat, and fix ye gaze upon the seas. I feel a whale due North.”

I returned to my pretty lass, who was lookin’ as bored as a salted herring.

“Avast, me proud beauty. No need to shiver ye timbers. The honest Cap’n GUARANTEES a whale sighting, or our precious coins are returned as fast as a pin in me britches!”

“Pin in his britches. Pin in his britches.” yelled the parrot on Sophia’s fetchin’ shoulder. “Brwaack, Neilochka’s not fast. Neilochka’s not fast. It takes him ten minutes to take off o’ wench’s brassiere.”

“F***in’ parrot,” me mumbled.

Another hour passed, and me lovely lass began to feel as sick as a scabbard full o’ lice sittin’ in Davy Jones Locker. Cap’n Wastin’ Time finally turned his pirate ship around and set sail back to Port o’ Redondo.

“All is good.” I told me Sophia.

My buxom beauty was in no mood for lovin’. “Ya scurvy cur who ortin’ t’ be keel hauled! This was the worst whale-watching trip ever!”

“At least we will get our booty returned,” ye replied.

Suddenly, the Cap’n lets out a loud roar. “Weight anchor! Hoist the mizzen!! Batten down yer hatches. Thar she blows! Thar she blows!”

Every scurvy rat on deck ran portside to see the spectacle. But it was nothin’ more than a dolphin jumpin’ out of the water and makin’ the sounds of a gin-drinkin’ mate three sheets to the wind.

“Skuttle me, Skipper,” I said, laughin’. “But that’s o’ dolphin, not o’ whale.”

“Sorry, mate. But if ye knew ye science, ye’d know that whales and dolphins are the same family!”

“What about ye GUARANTEE?”

“Read the small print on ye ticket, matey. It says “money back if ye don’t see a member of the whale “family.”

And then the Cap’n laughed a laugh so loud and hearty that it must have woken Blackbeard himself sleepin’ on the zenith of the moon.

“Sucker. Sucker.” said Sophia’s parrot. “Brwaack!”

Black-White Issues Jump the Shark

February 13, 2007 / / 50 Comments

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Recently, there was a lot of arguing going on at Los Angeles talk radio stations about a crime in Long Beach, CA that happened last October, where a gang of thirty youths severely beat three girls. One girl was so battered that she had multiple fractures and required surgery to reposition one of her eyes. The gang consisted of black boys and girls. The victims were all white. The victims were tormented about their “whiteness,” so when the perpetrators were caught, they were charged with an additional hate crime. This caused a big turmoil as some questioned whether blacks could ever be charged with a hate crime against whites. As one commenter in the Huffington Post recently said after an article on this subject:

The fact is that black people in the U.S. represent a distinct minority with a unique history of having been brought here as slaves, against their will. They cannot “pass” into the majority population because of skin color. And they continue to be the objects of constant and often violent racism directed at them by the majority. They are also, in large numbers, segregated into separate housing, schools, places of work, and jobs within any particular business.

Is it fair to say that a violent act against a black person, motivated by race, is equal to a violent act against a white person, motivated by race? No, actually, it’s not at all fair. There is a long history of majority white violence against black people in this country publicly represented by the Klan, but privately supported by millions of white citizens. The effect of that racism is to continue to brutally enforce patterns of racism and segregation.

These three women were beaten to a pulp because they were white. Hate crime laws are on the books. So, what gives? For some, ideological distinctions are more important than justice. Isn’t it time to move to a new level in racial relations where the aim is to protect anyone from being victimized? If we want to have “hate crime” laws, we should at least use them to help all victims. Of course, as in many of these racially-tinged trials, the biggest losers were the three victims. The defendants were given amazingly light sentences.

Four of nine black teenagers convicted in the racially charged beating of three white women on Halloween were sentenced to probation Friday.

Punishment could have ranged up to confinement in a California Youth Authority lockup until age 25. The teens were ordered to serve 250 hours of community service, 60 days house arrest, and take anger management and racial tolerance programs.

Some saw this as a victory for the African-American community. And why is that? The fact remains that these three girls were beaten up by a gang of young criminals, and scarred for life, both emotionally and physically. The criminals will just go back to their community and continue to terrorize innocent people in their own community.

Until college, I attended public school in Queens. I received a pretty good education, mostly because I was shoved into special advanced classes. Sadly, much of the school lived on in chaos. As in any large urban school, there were gangs of kids who would steal your lunch money or worse. In my school, these kids were mostly black. Now that I’m far away in suburban Redondo Beach, it’s easy to remember these poor youths as underprivileged, but at the time, when you heard the term “F**k you, whitey,” you just wondered if you could run as fast as the “Six Million Dollar Man.”

Still, even in the middle of these crime sprees, I never visualized it as a black vs. white issue. These bad kids were black mostly because the school had a large black population of students. There were plenty of smart black kids in our advanced class, and they were picked on as much as the white kids, if not more. In fact, after school, my Jewish friends and I walked one way home, to the “better” neighborhood, while my black friends walked in the same direction as the thugs, getting beaten up twice as badly.

To me, the issue at my junior high school was the same as it was in Long Beach — a criminal element acting against innocents. End of story. I’m sorry, but forty years after Martin Luther King, race issues are beginning to jump the shark for me. Can’t we move onto talking about race in a new way?

Today, I read an article asking another very important racial question — Is Barack Obama black enough?

There are degrees of black political cred in America. Those whose ancestors lived through the harrowing years of slavery, might well take the view that a guy like Obama with a Kenyan father and a white mother hasn’t “lived” the black American experience the hard way.

As far as his professional path is concerned, Obama hasn’t risen through the ranks by taking the route well traveled by many prominent African American leaders. No service as a pastor or as an activist in the NAACP. Some in the black community see him as too fresh, too fast and too slick. A graduate of Harvard who made his own running. A guy with a foot in the white camp.

Am I supposed to care? How black SHOULD he be? This is another example of race-related talk that just seems out-dated. Hey, I grew up in Queens (birthplace of Run DMC). I went to a public school with a large black population.  I’ve been to a rap concert AND, once upon a time, owned an album by the Commodores.  If you really want street cred — I’m more black than Barack Obama.  But that doesn’t make me a better candidate?

When are we going to grow up?

Money

February 12, 2007 / / 58 Comments

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Sophia and I went to a party in Malibu, where we met this woman who was telling us how her husband had just bought his seventh car. Sophia asked if he traded in his car every year, thinking that he was on his seventh car since moving to Los Angeles. No — this was his SEVENTH CAR.   I felt a little uncomfortable the rest of the night as they talked about real estate and their trip to Norway.  You didn’t have to be a psychic to know that the four of us probably wouldn’t be hanging out too much together, simply because of the differences in wealth.

We’re not poor, but we’re not rich, and for some reason, I’ve always noticed that it is difficult to hang out in social circles where others are very richer or poorer than you, just because your lifestyles tend to be different. This is something none of us dare talk about — that money can separate us more than color or religion or age.

Yesterday, I made fun of the categories that the blogosphere puts us in — mommybloggers, etc. But if all the mommybloggers met in a room together, they would less separate into groups of color or age than groups based on income, where the wealthy group would chat about the hippest new stroller and getting their child into the “right” pre-school while the middle-class group would complain about health care.

That’s just life.

I don’t begrudge the guy from Malibu for having his seven cars. It’s actually pretty cool, and I’m sure he worked hard to get where he is. Even though I felt a little insecure talking with him, I can’t say that he was “better” than me. After all, I run a successful blog and he doesn’t. Still, it made me sad to think that our friendship had barriers to it based on money. Growing up, I understood the importance of money in enjoying life, but I never quite realized how much of a role it has in determining your social interactions. Is this just a Los Angeles/New York thing?

As I read your blogs, I notice that some of you go on exotic vacations seemingly every week. Some of you are working two jobs, although I suspect most bloggers are doing well enough to waste their time… uh, blogging.. I find it all interesting. I love that ONLINE there is freedom to walk in different social circles. I’m hoping that race, religion, etc. is never a factor in online friendship.

But, let’s be honest, do you think differences in MONEY would hinder many of us from becoming friends in real life?

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: Blogger’s Fashion Emergency

The Kevin Federline Concert I Never Attended

February 7, 2007 / / 34 Comments

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This morning, I went to a local coffee shop to have some scrambled eggs and toast. Sophia and I used to go to this place all the time, but after they got a grouchy new manager, Sophia didn’t like it anymore. But I’m a creature of habit, so I sometimes still go there by myself.

When I sat down, Denise, the waitress, waved at me. She has spiky blond hair and has been working on her real estate certificate for seven years.

“Hey there!” she yelled “Haven’t seen you for a while!”

“Been busy.”

It was a lie. I just didn’t have the heart to tell her that Sophia was boycotting the coffee shop.

“You’re a celebrity around here.” she said, coming over to shake my hand. “We all saw you on TV last week.”

“You did?”

“In Long Beach. At that concert of Britney Spears ex-husband.”

I paused, giving myself enough time to scrunch my face in confusion.

“It was you AND your wife.” she continued. “They interviewed you. I recognized your accents. I called up Kathy and said, “Turn on Channel Five. Look who’s on TV!””

“Sorry. That wasn’t us.”

“Sure it was.”

“Maybe it was people who looked like us.”

Denise shook her head, confident in her opinion.

“No, no, no. It was Britney Spear’s ex-husband. What’s his name?”

“Kevin Federline?”

“That’s right. You were at the Kevin Federline concert in Long Beach.”

“I would have remembered that.”

“It was you AND your wife.”

“Maybe Sophia was out with another man.” I joked.

“If she was, it was with someone who looked and sounded just like you!”

Denise beckoned to another waitress.

“Kathy come here!” she screamed across the coffee shop. “Didn’t we see him and his wife on TV?”

“That’s right.” answered Kathy, as she came over, carrying two pots of coffee. “It was Britney Spear’s husband. I saw you being interviewed by the Asian woman on Channel Five.”

“Sorry. It wasn’t me.” I said, trying to make the statement as strong as possible.

“You’ve never been on Pine Avenue in Long Beach?” asked Denise

“I have.”

“So maybe you just don’t remember being at the concert.” she snapped back. “Men are like that. Were you drinking?”

“Men.” spoke Kathy. “Men don’t remember anything other than where to stick it in. Ask your wife. She’ll remember you going.”

“Nah.” I said, finally getting a little annoyed. “I’m pretty sure neither of us was there.”

“Ask her.” said Kathy rather sternly, as she poured me some more coffee. “It was you.”

Blog Flashback: When I was recognized as “Kirk” from the Gilmore Girls

Los Angeles Times to New York City: Drop Dead

February 5, 2007 / / 35 Comments

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In a calllous show of one-upmanship, the Los Angeles Times contrasts bundled-up New Yorkers freezing their asses off with nubile young Angelenos in Santa Monica enjoying a carefree afternoon having lesbian sex with popular LA-produced “Rabbit” brand strap-on.

Something Symbolic

January 3, 2007 / / 48 Comments

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photo by Sophia

After we attended the Tournament of Roses Parade in Pasadena, Sophia, my mother, and I went to a New Year’s Day get-together at the home of an acquaintance who lived in Rancho Palos Verdes.  This is a hilly and exclusive part of LA where people have houses that look over the Pacific Ocean.

I was standing on their patio, late afternoon, watching the sun begin to set over the water, when Jay, a friend of a friend, came onto the patio.

“It looks like it might be clear enough for a green flash.” he said.

He explained that as the sun set in the water, there was sometimes an optical light trick that looked like a green flash.

I was very excited to hear him talk about this. As I’ve mentioned previously on this blog, one of my favorite movies is the French director Erich Rohmer’s “Le Rayon Vert.”  In the film, the main character’s waiting for this green “ray” during a sunset is central to the story.  I thought this “green flash” was a fictional invention, not a real happening that I could experience myself!

Jay wasn’t patient enough to wait, but I stood there, eager for the flash to occur. To see this green flash would surely be something, especially on January 1st.  It would be symbolic of a New Year that holds something special in store, maybe even mystical. And what could be more mystical than a spark of light seen only for a second during sunset.  Even that crazy Kabbalah can’t promise THAT!

Being a sentimental type, I’m always searching for something symbolic to happen on New Year’s Eve.  Unfortunately, it never comes.  Maybe that’s why I’ve never been a big fan of New Year’s celebrations.  New Year’s parties are always a disappointment.  Everyone is always working so hard to be jovial.  And the next day, life is always the same as it was in the previous year, except now you have a hangover.  Even watching the “New Year’s ball” coming down in Times Square is a let-down.   I live in California.  Why am I cheering for an event that happened three hours earlier in another state?

So, you can imagine how excited I was to see this green flash.  This could be the New Year’s symbol I have been waiting for — something that will help push my 2007 in the right direction.

The Rose Parade was supposed to be the big event jump-starting my 2007, but it wasn’t.

I woke up on New Year’s Day at 5AM, full of energy.

As for the parade…

It was, well… interesting to attend, but it is one of those things you do once, and never do again.  What a pain in the ass!  It took us over two hours to drive from South Pasadena to our pre-paid parking in Pasadena.  A million people were crammed into Colorado Boulevard. We had great seats, right across from the Norton Simon Museum, but everyone was so tight-packed in the bleachers that you couldn’t even move your ams in order to take a photo.

A half hour into the parade, a stone-face couple, both around 65, forced their way into our row. Stone-Faced Husband demanded that I get up, because I was sitting in his seat. I told him that he might be mistaken, and I got up to check my ticket. As I stood, the Stone-Faced Husband grabbed his wife’s hand, and slid into my seat, almost pushing me over the edge.

“I paid 85 dollars for this seat and no one is taking it!” he yelled.

When I saw that Sophia was about to punch him in the nose, I stepped in. I looked at my ticket and told him that BOTH of us had seats side-by-side. They were just positioned impossibly tight together. I crammed my way in, purposely making the guy feel as uncomfortable as possible. I was pissed at the guy’s obnoxious attitude. He tried to explain away his rudeness.

“Parking was atrocious. They made me miss a half hour of the parade. And then I thought you took my seat –”

“Screw you, sir.” I said.

I don’t think I have ever said that to anyone in my life, certainly not someone of retirement age.

Some of the floats were fantastic, but once you’re at the parade, you realize the whole event is now catered to TV.  All the celebrities and singers perform in front of the camera, and then seem to take a coffee break for the rest of the route.  I half expected Grand Marshall George Lucas to wave for the cameras and then a few feet later, jump into a limo and head over to some sound-editing room in Burbank, letting the guy in the Darth Vader costume take over his duties for the rest of the parade.

Since we were sitting near the cameras, some “protesters” held a sign on the other side of Colorado Boulevard that read “IMPEACH.” I found this annoying, both because they were infringing on my enjoyment and because they were such lazy protesters. As they held their banner up for the cameras, they ate food and cheered for the floats. In today’s world, crazy Islamic radicals blow themselves up for Allah, but our protesters eat breakfast burritos while watching the Tournament of Roses Parade.

Anything to get on TV.

Another major distraction was a skywriter who started writing a mysterious message in the sky that became a major conversation in the stands. This was another infringement of my space. I would have paid good money to have the the Stealth bombers that started the parade, fly back and shoot him down.

The skywriter started his message with a “W.”

“What is he writing?” someone in the bleachers asked.

“It must be about the parade!” answered the girl behind me who kept on kicking my back.

The next letter looked like “I.”

“W — I –”

“It must be “Will you marry me?!” screamed some geeky guy in a Michigan sweater.

“Ooh! That is so romantic.” said the kicking girl.

“Can we all just focus on the parade?” I wanted to scream, but didn’t.

But the “I” was not an “I.” The skywriter continued until it became an “H.”

“W — H –??” asked the visitor from Michigan.

After two bands and two floats passed by, the mysterious message was revealed. It was “Who will she choose?”

“Who will she choose?”  What does that mean?” asked the Stone-Faced Senior who tried to steal my seat earlier. I decided to forgive and forget, and talk with him.

“I think this a promotion for “Desperate Housewives,” I said. “ABC’s booth is right next to us, and someone from Desperate Housewives is doing the announcing. I think it means WHICH GUY will the Teri Hatcher character pick?”

“I love that show!” said the kicking girl.

All in all, the Rose Parade is much, much better in your underwear, while sitting in bed.  At least there, you can Tivo past the commercials.

Clearly, the parade was not the symbolic moment I was looking for.  If something was going to prove to me that 2007 was going to be a special year, it was going to be the magical green flash over the Pacific Ocean.

I was alone on the patio as the sun set. Everyone else was in the house, listening to the host tell tales of his boating adventures.  He owned a small boat and loved to go fishing. He even owned several spear guns that he used to catch fish. When Sophia learned that he kept the spear guns in the house, she asked if she could see them. The host took out the spear guns and was showing it off to all the guests.

Sophia came out onto the patio.

“Neil, you need to come inside and see this. He has all this fancy fishing equipment.”

“In a minute,” I answered. The sun was getting lower and lower. I was trying to concentrate. Supposedly, this green flash only occurs for a brief moment.

My mother came onto the patio and said I should come inside with everyone else.

“I will. In a little bit.” I said.

Sophia came out again. She thought I might appear rude to the hosts by ignoring them.

“I’ll be there. I promise.”

I went back, focusing on the sunset. The sun sunk as low as it could, and then… there was a pause, as if time stood still, and then the sun… disappeared. There was no green ray or flash or anything.

So much for my symbolic New Year’s event.

I looked inside through patio window and saw everyone talking to the host about his boating and fishing, subjects that have little interest for me.  My mother was even taking a photo of Sophia holding a spear gun.

I never did see any green flash, but when I thought about it, I was glad I didn’t cave into the peer pressure of going inside. Sophia called for me. My mother called for me. The hosts were looking for me.  Normally, I would have stopped whatever I was doing, but this time I kept to my guns.  I waited for the green flash, like the character in a favorite movie, just because it was important to me.

And that was symbolic.

The Quest for the Toilet Seat (An Epic)

December 27, 2006 / / 48 Comments

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One of the oldest literary plots is that of the quest, whether it be that of Jason and the Argonauts, The Search for the Holy Grail or The Lord of the Rings. But never in the history of Literature has there ever been a story about a Quest for a Toilet Seat.

Until now.

Our story actually begins two weeks ago. Sophia’s mother, Fanya, noticed that the toilet seat in her bathroom was loose. She asked Vartan, her husband and Sophia’s step-father, to fix it. Vartan adjusted the plastic screw too tightly and the plastic holder that connects the seat to the toilet cracked in two. This made the entire toilet seat unstable because it slid off the rim.

Fanya and Vartan don’t drive, so they asked Sophia to buy them a new toilet seat. The instructions from Sophia’s mother were very specific:

1) Fanya only wanted a “soft” padded toilet seat.

2) She insisted that the toilet seat have metal screws and connectors, since metal makes the seat “sturdier” than the last seat, as well as giving the toilet a more sophisticated look.

Thus, the quest story would have began, if it didn’t get delayed by Sophia’s car accident and my mother arriving in Los Angeles for her holiday visit.

Days passed. Sophia began feeling better. With my mother in town, we decided to visit Fanya and Vartan on Christmas Day, then all go out for Chinese food.

“Have you gotten the toilet seat yet?” asked Sophia’s mother after we told her of our plans to visit. They had been using a broken seat for two weeks. Sophia promised that we would bring them a new one by the next day.

Now, the adventure begins.

The goal: A new toilet seat.

Obstacle One: It must be padded.

Obstacle Two: It must have metal, not plastic, screws and connectors.

Obstacle Three (the biggie): It is now the afternoon of December 24th — the day before Christmas!

Sophia, my mother, and I all headed for Bed, Bath, and Beyond, but the parking lot was so crowded with holiday shoppers that we decided to drive a few more blocks to a less frantic Bed, Bath, and Beyond wannabe called Linens and Things. We fought our way into the store and past the long lines at every register. We searched and searched until we found the toilet seats in the “bath” section. Sadly, there was only one padded toilet seat, an ugly green model, and it only had plastic screws. So, off we went — back to Bed, Bath, and Beyond.

Bed, Bath, and Beyond was a major disappointment. They also only had one soft seat, but it was sold out. The salesgirl said that “soft toilet seats” were out of fashion, and with her nose held high, recommended that we try Sears on the other side of the mall.

The mall was so jammed with annoying shoppers that it took us forever to walk from one side of the mall to the other. We even had to pass through the disgusting food court, filled with the rancid smell of “Cheesesteak ‘N Fries” and “Kong’s Mongolian BBQ.” Sears did not have ANY toilet seats at all, so we trudged back, so exhausted that we actually stopped for a heartburn-inducing snack at Kong’s Mongolian BBQ.

In case you actually care, the gimmick at Kong’s Mongolian BBQ is that you gather up your own meat and vegetables from some mini-buffet and then hand it into some “chef (more accurately, a Redondo Beach High School junior),” who grills it up for you. We quickly learned from these two girls in torn jeans standing in front of us that if you flatten the rolled up pieces of meat into your bowl, you can cheat the system and pile more food in before you hand it to the “chef.”

After being nourished by this fake Asian cuisine, we continued on our journey. We discussed buying it online, but Sophia was adamant about buying it today. Like Odyseuss, she would not give up. But the clock was ticking and some stores were closing early.

We drove to Target. The parking lot was a mess. Does everyone do their shopping at the very last minute? Our holiday spirit was getting so low that Sophia actually put up her middle finger to a Santa Claus who cut her off in his SUV.

Target was a bust. It ended up having NO padded toilet seats with metal screws. We went from store to store, all with the same result.

These stores had hard toilet seats with metal screws.

These stores had padded toilet seats with plastic screws.

But there were NO padded toilet seats WITH metal screws.

We drove to Kohl’s, mostly because none of us had actually ever been to a Kohl’s before. Just when we beginning to feel hopeful, our visit was quickly abandoned. Sophia saw some snotty actress she knew standing in front of the store, and Sophia, still with bruises around her eyes from the car accident, didn’t want the woman seeing her looking like this. So, off we went — back to the car.

“She’ll tell everyone that you beat me up.” Sophia told me.

“Yeah, like anyone would believe that.” I answered, trying to visualize a real fist-fight with Sophia where she doesn’t kick the shit out of me.

“Why don’t we try “The Home Store?” my mother asked, which Sophia and I understood to be my mother’s way of saying “The Home Depot.”

“They don’t have toilet seats.” I said with confidence. Later, I ate my words, because they DID have toilet seats.

Never underestimate the power of The Home Depot.

Imagine the look on our faces as entered The Home Depot and came face to face with the ONLY padded toilet seat with metal screws known to mankind.

The next day, we visited Fanya and Vartan. I gripped the padded toilet seat in my hands as if it was the most precious of cargos. As everyone chatted, I made a straight line for the bathroom and quickly installed the new toilet seat.

I stood there a moment and admired the seat. I have to admit — it was a really nice toilet seat — the “deluxe” model — soft, but sturdy. The screws and holder were shiny and silver, like something you would see in the bathroom of a fine hotel.

As in any “quest” story, the tale isn’t over until the hero wins the approval of the fair maiden.

“The toilet seat is ready,” I yelled triumphantly as I exited the bathroom.

Sophia translated this statement to her mother. Fanya looked at me with a distrustful expression, as if to say that SHE will be the one who decides if the toilet seat is ready.

Fanya grazed my shoulder, pushed her way into the bathroom, and closed the door behind her. We all turned to the the door, waiting. There was a silence, reminiscent of those old coffee commercials where the villagers waited for Juan Valdez to give his approval to the Columbian coffee.

The door opened. Fanya was smiling.

“Very nice,” she said in Russian.

We sighed. We went to a Chinese restaurant for Christmas.

Back in LA

December 15, 2006 / / 25 Comments

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I flew back to Los Angeles today (goodbye New York!), and when I arrived at LAX, there was an angry mob greeting me at the gate demanding that I retract my statement from my last post, which insinuated that eating too many “fish tacos” in California makes you stupid.   I’ve already been in enough trouble lately, as I’ve been receiving daily visitors to my site searching for “Kramer’s racist rants,” as if I was lucky enough to be the actor who played the nutty neighbor in “Seinfeld.”   

In a public relations move, I would like to publicly renounce my previous statement about fish tacos.  I actually do enjoy fish tacos, especially at Wahoo’s.  They are tasty, and heart-healthy!  However, if you are a visitor to the Los Angeles area, please avoid the La Salsa chain, as their fish tacos are extremely mediocre and overpriced.  Even their tortilla chips taste old.  And sometimes I don’t even see a “sneeze-guard” at their infamous “salsa bar.”  Just take my advice and avoid the place.  You’ll be happy you did.

I also apologize for using that old cliche that East Coast people are smart and West Coast people are dumb and shallow.   It simply isn’t true.  I’ve lived in California for many years, and I’ve met some of the most intelligent, creative, and innovative individuals I’ve ever met, especially those who work in the entertainment business.

Here is a photo of the talented and beautiful Jennifer Love Hewitt, having sex with her Michael’s shopping cart in an Encino parking lot.

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