Good-bye to All That
is the often-borrowed title of Robert Graves' [1895-1985] anti-war memoir of WWI, published in 1929.*
Waving to the Queen of Saugatuck on the Kalamazoo River. If we had the chance to do it all again...
People wonder why I don't get out much. In my defense I would argue that this city is a convergence of so many conflicting energies and lifestyles and enjoys such an abundance of incompatible belief systems and colorful perspectives that navigating through it all, even if you are not a delicate flower, can be overwhelming at times.
Just last evening on Bevely Blvd., as the Orthodox Girl's School let out and a Weight Watchers meeting ended, a group of us gathered for an early repast at LuLu's, next door to the revival theater showing Polanski's Repulsion. You can get kosher fat free yogurt across the street, cheap margaritas and atmosphere further west at El Coyote, a Honeybaked Ham on the next corner going east. We sit at a sidewalk table and boys with sidecurls and enormous black hats try not to stare at us as they pass. The WeightWatchers in our group announce the points of each menu item. WeightWatchers is not a diet, they explain, but the portion sizes do not seem sufficient to support life. "That," says an informed member, pointing at a salad, "would feed a family of six."
C. is back from Washington and about to head off for Oregon, E. is back from Paris, M. is soon to depart for Spain. Our conversation is littered with Cuban Spanish, Greek and historical references to 18th century court society, which necessarily involves some French. Two of us have seen The Duchess and two of us, as they say, have read the book. Weight loss is discussed. How similar is giving up a child as opposed to a pet? The question is debated. C. tells us of a woman he knew who moved in with her lover who objected to her cat, so she drove out to the desert and left it there to fend for itself. We are all completely appalled. We split a red velvet cupcake.
Conversation turns to health clubs and spas, some of them of a low variety, and one in particular where a member of our community was found recently, dead from an overdose. A clutch of school-girls in modest blouses and somber cardigans and skirts and dark stockings scurry past us, heads down, arm in arm. We agree we would prefer not to be found in a twenty-four hour bath-house. Surely that was not his plan. We recount other undesirable situations where friends and acquaintances have been discovered at the end, some clearly without intending to be. We all agree that being found in our beds with a good book is the preferable outcome.
We wonder if there will be a debate. We muse about the impending financial disaster. Is this the end? Someone mentions Bonfire of the Vanities. We disperse to a wide variety of rolling stock, from vintage BMWs to affordable Nissan pick-ups. We are heading in all directions, east and west, Hancock Park and West Hollywood. The WeightWatchers say we will see less of them next time. This is a play on words. The city is a play on words and ideas. We wave good-bye.
*Robert Graves made friends during WWI with Siegfried Sassoon, whose early poems, written while at Marlborough School, about the joys of cricket, were published in the Cricket Magazine in 1904. [Source]
Waving to the Queen of Saugatuck on the Kalamazoo River. If we had the chance to do it all again...
People wonder why I don't get out much. In my defense I would argue that this city is a convergence of so many conflicting energies and lifestyles and enjoys such an abundance of incompatible belief systems and colorful perspectives that navigating through it all, even if you are not a delicate flower, can be overwhelming at times.
Just last evening on Bevely Blvd., as the Orthodox Girl's School let out and a Weight Watchers meeting ended, a group of us gathered for an early repast at LuLu's, next door to the revival theater showing Polanski's Repulsion. You can get kosher fat free yogurt across the street, cheap margaritas and atmosphere further west at El Coyote, a Honeybaked Ham on the next corner going east. We sit at a sidewalk table and boys with sidecurls and enormous black hats try not to stare at us as they pass. The WeightWatchers in our group announce the points of each menu item. WeightWatchers is not a diet, they explain, but the portion sizes do not seem sufficient to support life. "That," says an informed member, pointing at a salad, "would feed a family of six."
C. is back from Washington and about to head off for Oregon, E. is back from Paris, M. is soon to depart for Spain. Our conversation is littered with Cuban Spanish, Greek and historical references to 18th century court society, which necessarily involves some French. Two of us have seen The Duchess and two of us, as they say, have read the book. Weight loss is discussed. How similar is giving up a child as opposed to a pet? The question is debated. C. tells us of a woman he knew who moved in with her lover who objected to her cat, so she drove out to the desert and left it there to fend for itself. We are all completely appalled. We split a red velvet cupcake.
Conversation turns to health clubs and spas, some of them of a low variety, and one in particular where a member of our community was found recently, dead from an overdose. A clutch of school-girls in modest blouses and somber cardigans and skirts and dark stockings scurry past us, heads down, arm in arm. We agree we would prefer not to be found in a twenty-four hour bath-house. Surely that was not his plan. We recount other undesirable situations where friends and acquaintances have been discovered at the end, some clearly without intending to be. We all agree that being found in our beds with a good book is the preferable outcome.
We wonder if there will be a debate. We muse about the impending financial disaster. Is this the end? Someone mentions Bonfire of the Vanities. We disperse to a wide variety of rolling stock, from vintage BMWs to affordable Nissan pick-ups. We are heading in all directions, east and west, Hancock Park and West Hollywood. The WeightWatchers say we will see less of them next time. This is a play on words. The city is a play on words and ideas. We wave good-bye.
*Robert Graves made friends during WWI with Siegfried Sassoon, whose early poems, written while at Marlborough School, about the joys of cricket, were published in the Cricket Magazine in 1904. [Source]
> [S]he drove [her cat] out to the desert
>and left it there to fend for itself.
On the plus side, at least it wouldn't have to run to the laundry room every time it wanted to take a pee.
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