They were let in in groups of five, a motley crew of men – and some women – from the toothless to the mentally ill, from the veteran to the almost clean and blond couple too young to be living on the street. All received a bag with turkey sandwiches, fruit, water, cookies and crackers. And a greeting with a smile. This being Los Angeles, vegetarian and vegan options were available.
I am mulling over the idea of participating in the women’s march scheduled to take place in Washington DC on January 21, one day after the Presidential inauguration. The march is meant, not so much to protest a President who, willingly or unwillingly, will be my President for the next four years, but to send a signal that a majority of women will not take any assault on women’s rights of any kind lying down.
I caught myself staring at a naked picture of Kim Kardashian. Ok, maybe hard to avoid but, even worse, I got tangled into reading celebrities’ and commoners’ tweets in response to the picture (that old fox of Bette Midler was the funniest: “Kim Kardashian tweeted a nude selfie today. If Kim wants us to see a part of her we’ve never seen, she’s gonna have to swallow the camera).
The thought occurred to me yesterday that I don’t spend enough time around young people, at least not that segment of youth between 20 and 30. Not that I can think of any reasons why I should: an effort to stay relevant? The thought occurred as I found myself catering the wedding of a young couple, at a beautiful house by the ocean in Malibu, in an unusual sweltering heat, the sort of heat that hits Southern California only a handful of days a year, when the breeze goes into hiding and, if you are trapped in a chef’s coat, standing under a palm tree, preparing appetizers, you risk going mad from dehydration and sunstroke.