Los Angeles: A Month In Review

Just in case there's any hoopla to be had, let me say it now: palm trees are for the strong.  Like any ordinary kid growing up in the North East, where pea coats run the show and children parade past bunkers and airline hangars repeating the etherial mantra, "Lilah Tov, K'Tanim", here, I have become a complainer.  Up in the cornfields of New York, bodies upon bodies would huddle into bunches to keep the cold from licking off their feet.  Those were hard years for shoe salesmen.  But now, in my own self-imposed internment camp, I try to make the best of the unbearable constant sunshine.  Shielded only by dirt particles in the air, I grow browner with each drive to the supermarket.  The only time when I can take refuge is in the exhaust of the evening.  At night, I like to look at the star.  I pretend it shines for me.  I thank it for showing me the way.  I close one eye and block its light with my thumb -- There.  Now the women are tolerable to look at.

This is what I get for never doing my homework.

My Kingdom

"My kingdom for a horse!"

"You don't have a kingdom."

"I don't?"

"No.  But that's okay.  We don't have any horses, either."

"A stalemate!"