There were a lot of fires in California recently.

So, as you can see, I've dispensed with my usual bad pun blog entry title this week. The California wildfires didn't seem like appropriate comedic fare. Still, I would be remiss if I did not acknowledge what happened recently in some type of blog form or other. First and foremost, my clan and I are more than safe. I don't think we were closer than15 miles from any of the fires, but thanks for asking, as many of you did.
Formalities out of the way, I've found it interesting, my reaction to the whole thing. That is to say, my STAGGERING indifference. I'm not proud of that fact. I'm not ashamed of that fact. It's how I've felt. I've been checking myself out the last few days to try and figure out why that is.
What I've learned is it's a Scuba medley mix of thoughts/emotions/opinions.
For starters, I think being physically removed from it inherently numbs one. Neither in my home neighborhood, nor where I work, was I ever close. The closest I came was my field trip to the O.C. last week. I could smell the residual smoke, but again, I was still miles away. So essentially, my direct exposure was not much different than my people's back home, watching it on the news, save for the bitchin' orange moon that resulted one night.
Most interestingly I suppose, was what I observed from the locals. There was a pride, reminiscent of that of the New Yorkers, post 9/11. It was based on their gumption, wherewithal, and unity in addressing the situation. To their credit, they absolutely did, band together, keep good order, and rally to get eveyone out of harms way in an expedient matter. That said, comparisons inevitably arose to the most recent prior calamity, Hurricane Katrina. I was struck by an offensive smugness and condescenion in some folks attitude.
Obviously, I can't declare this a universal opinion, but I have to say, I was disgusted by certain parties' take on the two tragedies. Unlike Katrina, wildfires are a fairly well precendeted phenomena out here. Hell, there've been roughly 7 bouts of wildfires just in the year I've been here. Conversely, a hurricane submerging an entire metropolis is unprecedented in my lifetime. Secondly, by and large, a fire moves relatively slowly. Slowly enough anyway, such that one could look at the mountain backdrop behind one's house enough to say, "that fire is moving away. I think it'd be best if we got out of here." Lastly, and most significantly, there was a prevailing mindset of all of these people being forced to evacate, like there were now going to be a million refugees, driving aimlessly and destinationless in their SUV's. However many were temporarily displaced, almost all of them had a place to go back to ultimately. Some homes were lost, but most were not. Those that were, I'm gonna venture to say the homeowners have some type of insurance, and life will go on. Meanwhile, two years removed, I can only imagine how many Katrina victims still have nothing.
I don't know what I want from this little rant. At a time when I could've potentially been given the impetus to feel more of a kinship with my fellow Californians, somehow they managed to alienate me.

Chow Bella

So, yesterday was my FIFTH wedding anniversary with my beautiful wife Bubba. It being a special occasion and all, we decided to splurge, and hit her favorite restaurant, Mr. Chow's. Chow's - New York is where I took her on the night I proposed, so it seemed appropos to mark the occasion with a return visit, Beverly Hills style.

Chow's is located in the heart of the high rent district in Beverly Hills. A block or two from the swanky shops on Rodeo Drive and Wilshire Blvd., it's a MAGNET for celebs and paparazzi alike, much like the Ivy I "reviewed" a few weeks back. (And if anyone's wondering, this figures to be my last high-end restaurant review for the foreseeable future. A Fatburger, Astro Burger comparison is far more likely). Sure enough, we pull up to the valet, and the photogs are right outside. Not a Britney level frenzy, but a definite presence. "No pictures, please! It's my anniversary!" I exclaimed, before humbly realizing they were not there for us.

We get inside, and in a bit of real estate irony, it's actually more compact than its New York counterpart. Go figure. Prime time on a Saturday night, inevitably our table was going to be "just a few minutes." No problem. We're in no rush. It gave us a chance to survey the crowd. It was a textbook L.A., chi-chi establishment medley mix of folks. You had the tourist crowd, splurging for the big feast on the vacation, hoping for a celeb sighting to tell the folks back home. You had the Hollywood players and the wannabee players. I can't tell you how I knew the difference, but I knew the difference. There was a gaggle of women, out for girls night out.

And then there were the celebs. Two in fact. See if you can guess which one the paparazzi were staked out to get a picture of. Both are versatile male actors. Both have had careers probably spanning 40 years or more. One is a titan of celluloid, the other of the idiot box. All right, I've kept you in suspense long enough. We saw American icons Clint Eastwood and Tom Bosley ladies and gentlemen! That's right, Dirty Harry and Mr. C. Does it get any better than that? I fought my urges to tell Clint that I am in fact, feeling lucky, and to give Tom the Fonzie two thumbs up, and leave well enough alone.

Anyway, the night was about my wife and myself, not two people I've never met before. The food was exactly as it was back east, which is a good thing. Despite the pretensions of the place, the staff was actually very friendly, surprisingly short on airs. And most importantly, Bubba and I had a beautiful night, as we commenced with the beginning of the first six years of infinity.

Jim Mutha*uckin Brown

So, last week, as previously mentioned, I had a bottom of the barrel celeb sighting, seeing an E-list celebrity, Phoebe Price. She was TROLLING for press at the Ivy, desperate to be seen by anyone who'd look. After checking out her "resume" on IMBD, I couldn't believe what I'd seen. She literally, was an extra on a show like 13 years ago.

How ironic, that four days later, I'd have a REAL celebrity sighting, in complete contrast. Innocently dispatched to the Rite Aid at midnight on a Monday for cat litter, I roll in and hit the ATM. At the first register over, I see an older, strapping man, winding up his transaction. I say to myself, "Hmm, that kind of looks like Jim Brown, minus his now trademark kufi." Unsure, and semi-hesitant even if I WERE sure, I wait until I see him turn more towards me. The iron jaw, brick house physique, and always serious scowl convinced me it was indeed, Mr. Brown. That and the fact that his shirt had a big Cleveland Browns logo on it anyway.

I politely inquired as to his person, and extended my hand, saluting him as a big fan. I made SURE to extend a FIRM handshake. The last guy I'd want to give a wet fish handshake to is Jim mutha*uckin Brown. (71 years old and STILL ready to whip some ass). He graciously shook my hand, and I made a feeble attempt at a connection, via my late Grandfather from Cleveland.

For those that don't know, (and I've been STUNNED at how many don't), Jim Brown is a genuine American icon. Arguably the greatest football player EVER. Arguably the greatest American athlete EVER. Arguably the first black action hero in the movies. Social activist. Blood-Crip peacemaker. The list goes on (and yes, I'm QUITE aware that it's not all good). The juxtaposition between Mr. Brown and Phoebe Price could not present a starker contrast. A dingbat wannabee who's star shines as bright as a firefly, vs. the man Muhammed Ali sought approval from. And the final irony is that this nobody was doing everything decency laws would allow to get any precious frames of camera time she could on the "mighty" TMZ, while Jim Brown, the only man I've encountered in this town WORTHY of actual exposure, humbly and matter of factly going about his business without a hint of fanfare or pretension. In a town based on illusion, somehow I came across a genuine star. And unlike the celluloid variety, he's a TRUE icon, who's forever been completely exposed, warts and all.