I was going to leave this post at that, just because the sheer absurdity of that single phrase speaks volumes, but there's too much else to talk about right now, and I'm still digesting that we just gave a pig a buttermilk bath. If I dare to comment much further, my head will explode. Suffice to say, Orville is now fresh as a daisy, free to resume wallowing in his own filth.
As I stated a while back, now that I'm a Hollywoodian, I feel it my civic duty to keep tabs on the various award shows and such. And Sunday was Oscar night. Probably less than 2 miles from here, the film royalty descended on my 'hood for its latest love fest. I'm trying to get with the program, but not so much so that I was conscious enough to realize we now live on the west coast, and that it starts at 5 o'clcok here, not 8. So we missed the first hour or so I guess.
I'm not gonna give a blow by blow, but just a few observations. I thought Ellen did a pretty solid job. I find her pleasantly entertaining. Not gut-bustingly funny, but she definitely elicits chuckles from me. I thought the bit with Clint Eastwood and Steven Spielberg was particularly funny. That said, the Godfather himself, Spielberg, had the throwaway line of the night in my estimation. When he was on the mic with Coppola and Lucas, the three of them representing, I don't know, 3 billion dollars of movie wealth, he said to them, "spread out," like he was Moe to their Curly and Larry.
When Celine Dionne came on, I took that as an opportunity to skip out to grab us some dinner. I know it was Sunday night and all, but the streets were remarkably empty. Like there literally has been a local mandate for all of Hollywood to be home watching. I felt like a vigilante, stealthily evading the Oscar police as I made my way through the streets. As I came out of the 7-11, I saw a stretch limo race by. I imagined a disgruntled loser from one of the earlier awards, maybe Eddie Murphy or someone, getting a jump start on drowning his sorrows at either one of the post-Oscar parties, or at one of the local strip clubs.
Over the years, Bubba and I, as I would venture to say, 100% of all artists and 99% of all non-artists have done, have imagined our own victory speech we'd give. We always chide each other that we each damn well never pull a Hillary Swank, and fail to mention our better half. The one proviso is, God would get mentioned first. So it's like, God gets top billing and I or she would be 1A. As such, we can't help but notice who mentions God in their speeches. And remarkably, EVERY black aritst mentions God, and EVERY white artist does not. Amazingly consistent. Sure enough, at least out of what I saw, Jennifer Holiday (twice) and Forrest Whitaker were the only ones who mentioned God. I'm not here to make any socio/theological judgements. It's merely an observation. Do with it what you will. I just think it's interesting.
I don't know what's next on the awards docket 'round here. I've GOT to think there's at least a bit of a lull. Or at least a switch of medium, from film to music or something. Surely at SOME point the glad-handing has to stop long enough for people to actually produce new product, to subsequently glad-hand. Let's hope.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Friday, February 23, 2007
Let's Play Two!
Figured I'd make up for my recent silence with an Ernie Banks worthy double-header today. I'm not trying to get all Seinfeld on you, obsessing about nonesense, but I have to revisit the pizza phenomenon out here.
Back in Joisy, multiple family pizzaria's used to use the same pizza box. On it was a drawing of this Chef Boy-Ar-Dee looking paisan, with a big ol' grin on his face and two fingers touching right in front of his face like he'd just had a phat slice that was so good, it compelled him to kiss his fingers and say, "Bellisimo!" Coming out of his mouth in a cartoon bubble was the expression, "You've tried the rest, now try the best!" Three months in to my Cali stay, I think the opposite is true for the 'za here. I know I've opined on this already, but I feel much clearer in my assesment now.
California, you don't....you just don't get it. Pizza I mean. After my first comments, several of my readers pointed out that it's because of the different water that New York pizza and bagels are so much better. While I'm sure that's a contributing factor, in no way is that the whole of the equation. 2 parts hydrogen, 1 part oxygen is a pretty universal recipe, with little room for individual creativity. No, it's the mindset that's off.
In my desperation, I've probably sampled, I don't know, 12 different slices since I've been here. They're not BAD, per se, but they just miss the mark. I don't know what all is going into their individual recipes and processes, but a quick look at the "slice practices" says it all to me. The whole concept of a slice of pizza is, "Hey, I'm a mover and a shaker. I'm a man on the go and I don't have too much time. Certainly not enough for a sit-down meal with all these deals to close. I know! I'll grab a slice, and be on my way in no time!" You go to the pizzaria, size up the various slice pies available, pick something, they re-heat it for 45 seconds, and you're out of there. Here, I swear to God, they MAKE YOUR SLICE FROM SCRATCH. It takes fifteen minutes to get a slice, the same way it would take 15 minutes for a fresh pie. I'm just trying to catch them behind the pizza oven, flipping a tiny piece of dough, like a referee flipping a quarter at kick-off.
Mind you, I am not ordering, a tuna-fish, m&m's, beef jerky and apricot slice that has to be special ordered for me. I'm talkin' 'bout, "Yo, Sal, lemme git two slices, and some more brothas on the wall!" Two cheese slices (used to be pepperoni until a pig entered my world) at 1 in the afternoon, the height of the lunch hour, and they're starting from scratch. That's all I need to know. That says to me, "You have missed the essence of the task at hand." You LISTENED to Hendrix, but you didn't HEAR it (see: Snipes, Wesley).
Back in Joisy, multiple family pizzaria's used to use the same pizza box. On it was a drawing of this Chef Boy-Ar-Dee looking paisan, with a big ol' grin on his face and two fingers touching right in front of his face like he'd just had a phat slice that was so good, it compelled him to kiss his fingers and say, "Bellisimo!" Coming out of his mouth in a cartoon bubble was the expression, "You've tried the rest, now try the best!" Three months in to my Cali stay, I think the opposite is true for the 'za here. I know I've opined on this already, but I feel much clearer in my assesment now.
California, you don't....you just don't get it. Pizza I mean. After my first comments, several of my readers pointed out that it's because of the different water that New York pizza and bagels are so much better. While I'm sure that's a contributing factor, in no way is that the whole of the equation. 2 parts hydrogen, 1 part oxygen is a pretty universal recipe, with little room for individual creativity. No, it's the mindset that's off.
In my desperation, I've probably sampled, I don't know, 12 different slices since I've been here. They're not BAD, per se, but they just miss the mark. I don't know what all is going into their individual recipes and processes, but a quick look at the "slice practices" says it all to me. The whole concept of a slice of pizza is, "Hey, I'm a mover and a shaker. I'm a man on the go and I don't have too much time. Certainly not enough for a sit-down meal with all these deals to close. I know! I'll grab a slice, and be on my way in no time!" You go to the pizzaria, size up the various slice pies available, pick something, they re-heat it for 45 seconds, and you're out of there. Here, I swear to God, they MAKE YOUR SLICE FROM SCRATCH. It takes fifteen minutes to get a slice, the same way it would take 15 minutes for a fresh pie. I'm just trying to catch them behind the pizza oven, flipping a tiny piece of dough, like a referee flipping a quarter at kick-off.
Mind you, I am not ordering, a tuna-fish, m&m's, beef jerky and apricot slice that has to be special ordered for me. I'm talkin' 'bout, "Yo, Sal, lemme git two slices, and some more brothas on the wall!" Two cheese slices (used to be pepperoni until a pig entered my world) at 1 in the afternoon, the height of the lunch hour, and they're starting from scratch. That's all I need to know. That says to me, "You have missed the essence of the task at hand." You LISTENED to Hendrix, but you didn't HEAR it (see: Snipes, Wesley).
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Who Knew?
So, the fates were kind to Bubba and me this past weekend. We had to pick up a few things, so we headed out to the Hollywood and Highland Mall. Located at the corners of Hollywood and Highland (duh) Avenues, it's in tourist Hollywood Central. I've been here all of 3 months, and even I know already, "Eh, we 'locals' wouldn't really want to hang out there. Too touristy." This is where you've got your Walk of Fame, your Kodak Theater (setting up for the Oscars a WEEK in advance, like it's a UN Global summit), and your gift shops hawking t-shirts, faux Oscars for things like, "Best Nephew," and fake drivers license mock-ups of your favorite trashy celebrity.
Then of course, you have Grauman's Chinese Theater. I'd sort of been there a couple of times, already. I mean hey, you gotta look at the cement hand and foot prints if you're there. I think Bubba and I went once, then once again when her sister was in town. Both times, what cracked me up is how absolutely MINISCULE the vast majority of the starlets' shoes/feet were. It's particular funny to me, because I have ill-formed clown feet, and I can only imagine what my cement mold would look like. I also cracked up at some of the cement pairings. Like the old Sesame Street (if it was Electric Co. or a different kids show, cut me some slack) song, "Which of these things just doesn't belong here?" You'd see, I don't know, Clint Eastwood, Marlon Brando, Liz Taylor, and then like, Jim Carrey. Not to sweat him, but you're going from like, Dirty Harry, to Don Corleone, to Cleopatra, to Ace Ventura.
So, I'd seen the foot and hoof (Trigger) prints and all, but hadn't seen a film there. Didn't even think about it. Assumed it was like the multi-plex annex next door which we'd already seen, complete with stadium seating, perfect site lines, and a Big Gulp cup-holder. Upon finishing up our shopping, Bubba said, "what's playing at the theater (the multi-plex)?" Turns out "Hannibal" was playing, which we'd wanted to see, starting like right that minute. We give the usher our tickets and he's like, "No, you have to go next door. Down the escalator and outside." Annoyed, because we're already 8 minutes into trailers, we shuffle down the escalator, into the bus loads of tourists outside Grauman's, all taking the EXACT same pictures, that have been taken exactly the same way every day for exactly the last 60 years.
We finally get inside the actual theater and much to my surprise, it is phe-NOMENAL. Just fantastic. Huge lobby. Huge theater. Huge screen. Huge sound. Huge popcorn too. A perfect blend of old-time Hollywood movie showmanship and presentation, but with all of the modern conveniences. Even the bathrooms were great. I don't notice bathrooms in movie theaters, but I have to give this one props. My only regret is that we weren't watching some dope sci-fi movie or battle epic, to really get to appreciate the sense stimulating capabilities of this place.
Early on in my L.A. tenure, I'd noted how for as vast and significant a city this is, it's significantly lacking in concrete historical landmarks and such. Hell, I heard on the radio that in Venice Beach, a battle is builiding because they want to tear down the legendary Zephyr skate shop or something in favor of some condos. Because there's so few places people seem to genuinely care about, this is getting attention akin to the way New Yorkers petitioned for The Plaza recently, or the way so many people go nuts when they talk about renovating Yankee Stadium. So maybe that's why I was so floored by Grauman's? I mean, I think it has been the first and only MAN-MADE place to really live up to the hype for me. (I qualify it with "man-made" because I think the natural splendor actually MORE than lives up to the hype).
When you get down to it, I shouldn't be so fixated on this concept of "legitimate landmarks." I lived either in, or within 45 minutes of NYC for probably 26 out of my 36 years, with this motherlode of great architecture and whatnot. In that time, I went to the Empire State Building once, NEVER went to the WTC, the Statue of Liberty once on a school field trip, and so on. Maybe by virtue of NOT having so many things around, I WON'T now take them for granted, and I'll be able to appreciate things better?? Ahh, I'm over thinking this. The Grauman's Chinese Theater is an excellent place to see a movie. If you ever come to Los Angeles, I highly recommend it. Done and done.
Then of course, you have Grauman's Chinese Theater. I'd sort of been there a couple of times, already. I mean hey, you gotta look at the cement hand and foot prints if you're there. I think Bubba and I went once, then once again when her sister was in town. Both times, what cracked me up is how absolutely MINISCULE the vast majority of the starlets' shoes/feet were. It's particular funny to me, because I have ill-formed clown feet, and I can only imagine what my cement mold would look like. I also cracked up at some of the cement pairings. Like the old Sesame Street (if it was Electric Co. or a different kids show, cut me some slack) song, "Which of these things just doesn't belong here?" You'd see, I don't know, Clint Eastwood, Marlon Brando, Liz Taylor, and then like, Jim Carrey. Not to sweat him, but you're going from like, Dirty Harry, to Don Corleone, to Cleopatra, to Ace Ventura.
So, I'd seen the foot and hoof (Trigger) prints and all, but hadn't seen a film there. Didn't even think about it. Assumed it was like the multi-plex annex next door which we'd already seen, complete with stadium seating, perfect site lines, and a Big Gulp cup-holder. Upon finishing up our shopping, Bubba said, "what's playing at the theater (the multi-plex)?" Turns out "Hannibal" was playing, which we'd wanted to see, starting like right that minute. We give the usher our tickets and he's like, "No, you have to go next door. Down the escalator and outside." Annoyed, because we're already 8 minutes into trailers, we shuffle down the escalator, into the bus loads of tourists outside Grauman's, all taking the EXACT same pictures, that have been taken exactly the same way every day for exactly the last 60 years.
We finally get inside the actual theater and much to my surprise, it is phe-NOMENAL. Just fantastic. Huge lobby. Huge theater. Huge screen. Huge sound. Huge popcorn too. A perfect blend of old-time Hollywood movie showmanship and presentation, but with all of the modern conveniences. Even the bathrooms were great. I don't notice bathrooms in movie theaters, but I have to give this one props. My only regret is that we weren't watching some dope sci-fi movie or battle epic, to really get to appreciate the sense stimulating capabilities of this place.
Early on in my L.A. tenure, I'd noted how for as vast and significant a city this is, it's significantly lacking in concrete historical landmarks and such. Hell, I heard on the radio that in Venice Beach, a battle is builiding because they want to tear down the legendary Zephyr skate shop or something in favor of some condos. Because there's so few places people seem to genuinely care about, this is getting attention akin to the way New Yorkers petitioned for The Plaza recently, or the way so many people go nuts when they talk about renovating Yankee Stadium. So maybe that's why I was so floored by Grauman's? I mean, I think it has been the first and only MAN-MADE place to really live up to the hype for me. (I qualify it with "man-made" because I think the natural splendor actually MORE than lives up to the hype).
When you get down to it, I shouldn't be so fixated on this concept of "legitimate landmarks." I lived either in, or within 45 minutes of NYC for probably 26 out of my 36 years, with this motherlode of great architecture and whatnot. In that time, I went to the Empire State Building once, NEVER went to the WTC, the Statue of Liberty once on a school field trip, and so on. Maybe by virtue of NOT having so many things around, I WON'T now take them for granted, and I'll be able to appreciate things better?? Ahh, I'm over thinking this. The Grauman's Chinese Theater is an excellent place to see a movie. If you ever come to Los Angeles, I highly recommend it. Done and done.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Green Acres
So, as many of you know, Bubba surprised me with an early Valentine's Day gift for the household a couple of weeks ago, in the form of Orville, our new pot-bellied pig. Now that I've got almost 2 weeks with him under my belt, and since it's Valentine's Day and all, I can finally commence with my "review," of said pig.
The first few days, it was hard to get beyond the at least hourly realization I would say to myself, "there's a pig in my kitchen." Not angrily. Not excitedly. Not euphorically. Just perplexedly matter of factly, "there's a pig in my kitchen." At 2 months old, fresh from being taken from his mother and thrust onto an airplane into the kitchen of perfect strangers, Orville was not surprisingly, a tad skittish at first. He was reluctant to even come out of his carrier, but then we learned the key to all things pigs: Food. Food is the magic elixir. The fix-all. For you see, food is Orville's raison d'etre. And he who controls the food, controls the pig. It's that simple.
We've all heard about someone or another "eating like a pig." I've come to decide that that is a misnomer. I have to tell you, watching an actual pig eat is actually fascinating, not disgusting. Bubba and I have had many a discussion over the years about the essence and nature of greatness. In athletes, artists, or any other readily observable arena, I think most everyone likes to see greatness in action. Unbridled passion and true mastery of a subject. My boy Z, the biggest Knicks fan around, he could even appreciate the greatness of watching Michael Jordan in motion, even as he was ending yet another Knicks' season. I make this comparison because we now have a true artist in our midst.
Orville, is a virtuoso eater. He will eat ANYTHING, and eat it all with a fiery passion. And the best part is, he doesn't seem to take a breath. He's like the horn player Rahsaan Roland Kirk (SECOND reference in a month). Kirk used to play three horns at a time, and could hold a note literally, for as long as he wanted via a technique called circular breathing http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Circular_breathing (Kenny G does it too, but that phrase was the first and last time I'll mention him in this blog ever). Once a "session" begins, his mouth fires like a Pac-Man until the food is gone and he goes like 3 straight, extra minutes of chewing air without any results that he'll finally stop. Like a Hoover vaccum cleaner, he won't stop until the dish/floor/carpet is spotless. I guess, at his size, he's more of a Dustbuster than a full-on vaccum, but you get the idea.
Naively, I thought when I started typing this that I'd casually some up having a pig in my house, and move on to the next topic. Clearly, this is going to be an extended work in progress like my friend Elise's journal on the wonders of motherhood http://byeliseabramsmiller.blogspot.com/. But I would be remiss if I failed to mention in my initial bovine recount, the phone call I had with my man Boston Jay on the topic last Friday. Jay's one of my boys from back in the day, and my unofficial "Partner in Swine." He and I both have, shall we say, a "penchant" for bacon, sausage, and all of the other wonderful products that come from this remarkable animal. So when he unassumingly called me last Friday to shoot the breeze, I told him to check his e-mail, so he could take in this latest development in my life. He opened the picture I sent him, and set off on an "Orville-esque," 5 minute uninterrupted laughing jag. The comedic ramifications of this scenario exploded out of his head, one after the other. The irony of this newly formed odd couple was/is truly "delicious" as it were. That this culinary delight was now my "kin folk" as he put it.
By Saturday, he'd caught his breath. That is, until I called him from the cell to tell him I was out taking the pig for a walk. On Sunday, his abs aching like he'd done 1000 sit-ups over the weekend, I decided to bust his "chops" one last time for good measure. I called him to tell him that lil' Orville was literally, camped out by the fire we had going in the fireplace, just BEGGING for me to go over there and honey-glaze him. Boston Jay is slated to come out here some time this spring. We told him he's welcome to stay with us provided he's not holding a fork and knife when we pick him up at the airport.
Truth be told, Orville's presence has had an impact on my pork psyche. To expect me to drop cold turkey is fool-hardy. BUT, I have kind of stopped eating it in the house. This is a problem as my sister had gotten me this like, 4 pack sampler of gourmet bacon for Christmas. And when I've gotten my breakfast fare the last 2 weeks, I do at least stop to consider what's happening (before I inevitably eat it), making me think that it's conceivable at least, that a gradual phase-out could happen. We'll see if that comes to pass, but Orville is certainly safe.
Thursday, February 8, 2007
Takin' Care of Business
So, for reasons I've yet to fully grasp, I'm getting requests from the masses to hear about my actual work life here. I've gone out of my way NOT to, simply because I thought that I'd be crossing the line of indifference. In other words, it'd be too boring for even my most die-hard reader. But apparently I'm wrong, and remarkably people care. I'm an entertainer at the end of the day, and harkening back to my class in Showmanship 101, the lesson was, "Give the People What They Want."
Here's what I'm going to do. I REFUSE to believe that people have the slightest interest in the actual particulars of my job. Like all jobs that aren't in a coal mine, or an assembly line, my job has semi-interesting aspects, and horribly mundane aspects. Yes, I work in the "high-flying" world of cosmetics, my staggeringly THIRD traditionally femine industry that I've just happened upon (after fashion and upscale woman's bras and underwear), but as with anything, the day to day reality tends to not be nearly as exciting as one might guess. So I'll spare you descriptions of retail sales spreadsheets, product launches, and mass sample mailings.
For the uninitiated, I work for Prescriptives cosmetics, one of the smaller brands within the Estee Lauder umbrella. I worked in New York for them for three years. Upon deciding to make the move out here, I was fortunate enough to have established a good working and personal relationship with our west coast regional, Holly. She made an enthusiastic effort to keep me in the fold when I got out here, and I now work for her, directly out of her house. So, the net result is that I now am commuting to Redondo Beach every day, helping Holly keep the west coast thriving.
The stylistic contrast between my current and previous enviornments is staggering. (I feel like I'm about to embark on starting another east coast/west coast feud like the rap world unfortunately saw). And this point was driven home this past week, when the top brass from the east had their annual sales meeting out here. A sort of corporate pep rally if you will. I got to reconnect to maybe 10 people I used to work with back east to varying degrees. I heard tale of woe after tale of woe. Work days stretching into the a.m. Weekends. Constant stress. All I could do was nod and smile politely. Most of all I had to keep my trap shut, rather than regale them with my new tales of sockless days and actual peace at work. Oh yeah. They were also fresh from single-digit weather, while I've been "forced" to deal with a "nippy" 65 degrees every day.
When I was in New York, I'd consider myself one of the more laid back people in that office (this isn't just the Estee Lauder office really, but any corporate office I've worked in). I tried to always keep things in perspective. But even I, had trouble with little things. Like, taking an hour lunch felt like a crime to me. How could I, when everyone else was chained to their desk? Hell, I felt guilty just going out to GET lunch to bring back to my desk! Now, I go to lunch down by the beach. There's like 4 cars in the street. It almost feels like a siesta in town. Maybe I stay out. Maybe I come back and come back on my e-mails while I nosh. The point is, it's civil.
Here's the thing though. It's not like they're ineffective out here. The job gets done and done well. Holly for example, is a pit bull. But she's a pit bull able to maintain her sanity, and live a balanced life. She works hard, and plays hard. And her people LOVE her. And THAT seems to be the key to success. Balance. In no way am I dissing the folks back east. I was in that cauldron for 3 years myself. I have nothing but respect for the effort and energy they all expend. But I also wish they could figure out a way to strike the balance I speak of. 3000 miles removed from the daily spectre of the TOP brass, demanding results every day, I understand that it's a little bit easier to loose the chains out here. Still, something is wrong in the equation.
Ironically, the best way I can illuminate the California way, is via a life lesson I experienced in New York, but am only really starting to LEARN 10 years removed out here. A friend of mine had two young British blokes (Chris and John I think) staying with her while they had a summer internship at an architecture firm. I'd hung with them a few times before their jobs started. Their firm was located in the same part of mid-town as I was working, right off of Times Square. By chance, on their FIRST Monday, I happened to be running late (getting to work around 9:30), and who do I run into on the street, but them, strolling up Broadway. I'm literally running up the street when I see them. I say, "Fellas, aren't you supposed to be at work already???" Chris looks to me and says, "What's the rush, then?" "Well, weren't supposed to be there by like, 9?" "Well, we had to 'ave a lit'le breakfast, 'ave some tea, smoke a few fags. The woooork'll get done then, won't it?" At the time, I thought they were nuts. Now, I see that they got it.
Here's what I'm going to do. I REFUSE to believe that people have the slightest interest in the actual particulars of my job. Like all jobs that aren't in a coal mine, or an assembly line, my job has semi-interesting aspects, and horribly mundane aspects. Yes, I work in the "high-flying" world of cosmetics, my staggeringly THIRD traditionally femine industry that I've just happened upon (after fashion and upscale woman's bras and underwear), but as with anything, the day to day reality tends to not be nearly as exciting as one might guess. So I'll spare you descriptions of retail sales spreadsheets, product launches, and mass sample mailings.
For the uninitiated, I work for Prescriptives cosmetics, one of the smaller brands within the Estee Lauder umbrella. I worked in New York for them for three years. Upon deciding to make the move out here, I was fortunate enough to have established a good working and personal relationship with our west coast regional, Holly. She made an enthusiastic effort to keep me in the fold when I got out here, and I now work for her, directly out of her house. So, the net result is that I now am commuting to Redondo Beach every day, helping Holly keep the west coast thriving.
The stylistic contrast between my current and previous enviornments is staggering. (I feel like I'm about to embark on starting another east coast/west coast feud like the rap world unfortunately saw). And this point was driven home this past week, when the top brass from the east had their annual sales meeting out here. A sort of corporate pep rally if you will. I got to reconnect to maybe 10 people I used to work with back east to varying degrees. I heard tale of woe after tale of woe. Work days stretching into the a.m. Weekends. Constant stress. All I could do was nod and smile politely. Most of all I had to keep my trap shut, rather than regale them with my new tales of sockless days and actual peace at work. Oh yeah. They were also fresh from single-digit weather, while I've been "forced" to deal with a "nippy" 65 degrees every day.
When I was in New York, I'd consider myself one of the more laid back people in that office (this isn't just the Estee Lauder office really, but any corporate office I've worked in). I tried to always keep things in perspective. But even I, had trouble with little things. Like, taking an hour lunch felt like a crime to me. How could I, when everyone else was chained to their desk? Hell, I felt guilty just going out to GET lunch to bring back to my desk! Now, I go to lunch down by the beach. There's like 4 cars in the street. It almost feels like a siesta in town. Maybe I stay out. Maybe I come back and come back on my e-mails while I nosh. The point is, it's civil.
Here's the thing though. It's not like they're ineffective out here. The job gets done and done well. Holly for example, is a pit bull. But she's a pit bull able to maintain her sanity, and live a balanced life. She works hard, and plays hard. And her people LOVE her. And THAT seems to be the key to success. Balance. In no way am I dissing the folks back east. I was in that cauldron for 3 years myself. I have nothing but respect for the effort and energy they all expend. But I also wish they could figure out a way to strike the balance I speak of. 3000 miles removed from the daily spectre of the TOP brass, demanding results every day, I understand that it's a little bit easier to loose the chains out here. Still, something is wrong in the equation.
Ironically, the best way I can illuminate the California way, is via a life lesson I experienced in New York, but am only really starting to LEARN 10 years removed out here. A friend of mine had two young British blokes (Chris and John I think) staying with her while they had a summer internship at an architecture firm. I'd hung with them a few times before their jobs started. Their firm was located in the same part of mid-town as I was working, right off of Times Square. By chance, on their FIRST Monday, I happened to be running late (getting to work around 9:30), and who do I run into on the street, but them, strolling up Broadway. I'm literally running up the street when I see them. I say, "Fellas, aren't you supposed to be at work already???" Chris looks to me and says, "What's the rush, then?" "Well, weren't supposed to be there by like, 9?" "Well, we had to 'ave a lit'le breakfast, 'ave some tea, smoke a few fags. The woooork'll get done then, won't it?" At the time, I thought they were nuts. Now, I see that they got it.
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