The General Situation

Tumbleweeds

The house we've been renting went on the market this week (for $10.9 million, so, no, we will not be buying it). The brokers took photos a couple of weeks ago, and I was tickled to see that my tumbleweed made the cut. I found it on the driveway as we were moving in, and I thought it was important to have some bit of decor that was ours—otherwise, the house is too generic. Also, I happen to love tumbleweeds. When Adam and I were at JFK airport recently, we were sitting by the gate when a small tumbleweed blew in from the jetway and across the terminal floor. Then another came, and another, and so on. It was very mysterious—this was New York City!—until we boarded the plane and saw more tumbleweeds jammed into the luggage rack that they use to gate-check bags. The plane must have been coming from somewhere much more arid, and when the gate door was opened, they got sucked inside the airport.

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When I left Travel + Leisure magazine a million years ago, the lovely copy editor in the cubicle next to mine gave me a terrific gift: a mock synopsis of a sitcom based on my life, or at least the work part (and/or whatever he heard me yapping about on the phone). He meant it fondly, I'm positive. I'll need to look for it next time I'm in New York City.... Anyway, every now and then I meet someone so quirky that I think I really am in a sitcom. (Not "Frasier," thank you very much.) Take the guy who cuts my hair, Pete. I think he's always stoned—actually, that's probably true of most people around here. I think he's superstoned, or possibly just very, very mellow. Adam went to him first and recommended him, and when I went, I had to hear over and over how hysterical Adam is. "Adam is so funny!" Pete would say. "He cracks me up!"

When I told Pete about my parking ticket, he shared strategies of his that had worked in the past, including putting a bag over the "no parking" sign then taking a photo of it as proof that he shouldn't have been ticketed, and showing up in person at the police department and asking them to just let it go.

At my last visit, probably apropos of lunchtime, Pete told me how he had been watching online videos of ways prisoners hack their food into more ambitious dishes. Inspired, he went to the liquor store and bought the ingredients for a prison "burrito": instant ramen, Doritos ("but some people prefer Cheetos"), and a Slim Jim. Through some alchemy, hot water makes the ramen congeal into a sort of tortilla, which you essentially steam in the Doritos bag—or at least that's what I understood of the process. He mentioned that his girlfriend's birthday is coming up, and I suggested that he make her a prison cake.

"With Twinkies!" he said. "I could write, 'Happy birthday to my prisoner' on it."

"Or 'to my ball and chain,'" I said.

"Yes!" he said. "My ball and chain!" (I recommended a backup cake, just in case.)

He lost favor when I told him I'd be turning 50 in a few weeks and he didn't object; I expect everyone to think that such a thing is impossible. But then just when I'm sure he's not paying attention, which is not great in a hairdresser, I remember that I only had to tell him once how much I hate being shown the back of my head, and he never bothers to hand me the mirror anymore.

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I'm cracking myself up on Instagram. Not sure the Four Seasons thinks it's funny, though.

Spice Up Your Life

The Halloween party was—well, not fun so much as amusing. We got off to a bumpy start when Adam, trying to enter the car without tearing his jumpsuit (which tended to ride up), got a cramp in a stomach muscle. He stretched out across the two front seats—I was already in one of them—for a few minutes, while I sweated profusely because the jumpsuits are basically plastic and our garage is perpetually 92 degrees.

Adam: I'm surprised you didn't laugh.

Me: It wasn't funny.

Adam: It wasn't funny in the moment, but now it is.

Me: Your pain is never funny.

The things you learn after being in a relationship for 15 years.... Anyway, several people recognized our costumes! And one woman even insisted on taking our photo! The crowd skewed young, and the music was very loud, so we hung out on the periphery (i.e., outside the tent) and admired other guests' efforts. The Saints & Sinners theme inspired a lot of devil horns and angel wings, but some folks got more creative. (My favorite was the guy dressed as Pee-wee Herman.) Mostly, we spoke with people Adam knew from the host organization. I did, however, try to spark up a conversation with a possibly non-binary guest who had approached our cocktail table.

Me: Where did you get that weapon? It's really impressive.

Guest: Amazon.

Me: What did you search for?

Guest: Demon hatchet.

And then we stood there for a few minutes until they left.

P.S. LEDs were also quite popular.

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There have only been a few small fires in the greater Santa Barbara area, but one further south sent smoke up this way—we couldn't smell it, but it made for spectacular sunsets. Our cameras couldn't capture the effect; the sun was as red as a stoplight.

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I can't eat spicy food anymore—it feels as if my tongue is literally burning—but I still like the flavor of chili peppers. So I was delighted to see that bean company extraordinaire Rancho Gordo sells a "mild sauce for hot people" called La Paloma. It's delicious and exactly what I've been craving.

Ordinary People

Last night, we noodled around on Amazon Prime, looking for a movie to watch. I suggested To Catch a Thief. Adam countered with A Simple Plan. Stalemate.

"What about Ordinary People?"

I had never seen the film, being too young when it came out (1980) to be interested in the story of a suicidal young man coping with the death of his brother. And as I grew older, I also grew weary of people telling me I looked like Timothy Hutton. It happened a lot in my early 20s. Eventually, I came across a clip from the film, and I could see what people saw—not an exact resemblance, to be sure, but a similarity in coloring and youthfulness.

That faded over time, for better and for worse, and it's been many years since anyone has mentioned a resemblance—which suits me fine, because I wouldn't argue that Hutton has grown more attractive. (A footnote: Older people would first bring up Timothy Hutton, and then invariably follow it with, "Actually, you look more like his father, Jim Hutton." He's the one in the suit in this clip from 1960's The Honeymoon Machine.)

As with so many movies we watch at home, I pulled the ripcord halfway through. Ordinary People was so wooden and dated, a TV movie of the week centered on the non-issue of whether therapy might be good for a mentally troubled person and blaming the ice queen of a mother. Plus, Hutton's character was supposed to be a swimmer, and he was terrible at it! He raised his head straight up out of the water to breathe! While Adam kept watching, I cleaned up in the kitchen and prepared for bed. His perseverance was rewarded.

"It's her!" he yelled. "I know it is! I'd recognize that smile anywhere! She's so beautiful!" I wasn't sure, so I checked. He was right: The role of Jeannine is played by Elizabeth McGovern, whom Adam adores from "Downton Abbey."

That's the pattern of almost everything we watch: I get bored and bail, and Adam offers running commentary. The announcements were particularly good during "Elite," a soapy Spanish show about a murder among fancy high-school students:

"Allison Parker is a slut!"

"The tennis player and Omar are making out! And much more!"

"Allison Parker has HIV!"

"Rio is in a three-way! With Polo and that mean girl!"

"OH MY GOD ALLISON PARKER IS PREGNANT!"

It was far more entertaining than the show itself, especially because Allison Parker and Rio weren't even the characters's names; they were characters the actors played in "Money Heist," which we were watching simultaneously.

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Speaking of "Money Heist," for the Halloween party this weekend, we're dressing up as thieves from the show. It sort of works with the Saints & Sinners theme, because they might be good and they might be bad. And if no one knows what we're supposed to be, that's fine, too: The costumes are spooky enough on their own, and it'll give us something to talk about.

Carolina on My Mind

After New York City, Adam and I went to Nags Head, on the Outer Banks of North Carolina, to see his dad and stepmother. David and Cathie's house is a short walk to the beach, which is gorgeous.

Our big outing was to the Wright Brothers National Memorial in nearby Kill Devil Hills. It was my idea, even though I'm not usually one for memorials; this one just needed to be seen. Inside the midcentury building, which looks like it belongs at an airport, is an exhibit that tells the story of the Wrights' achievement. It's nice and concise, although I could do without the prompts for schoolchildren. ("What's your passion?" "Make a drawing of something you've achieved.") The highlight of that exhibit is definitely the replica of the brothers' aircraft, which was larger than I expected.

Outside are markers showing the lengths of the first four flights: Three are only around 120 feet; the fourth was much longer, 852 feet. (That expanse of lawn, meanwhile, is dangerous, full of sand spurs and prickly pears.) There's also a hilltop memorial that's less impressive than the photo below might lead you to believe, because it tops out just beyond the photo's border.

David had told us that the National Monument includes an airstrip on the other side of the trees, and sure enough, a plane took off while we were there. That airstrip seems like a concession opportunity for the National Park Service: Why not let pilots fly sightseeing flights from there? As neat as it is to stand right where history happened, nothing makes the Wrights' efforts real like seeing planes—or being in one—take off and land right next door.

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Then we drove to Durham for the joint birthday party of friends Tracty and Evan. On the way, we saw something we'd never seen before: cotton fields.

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I loved Andrew Miller's novel Now We Shall Be Entirely Free so much that for two days I was guaranteed to mention it to anyone I came across, including several guests at the birthday party. I was drawn to it because a New York Times reviewer compared Miller's writing to Hilary Mantel's, which I can see if I squint. But it's its own thing, most marvelously. As I read, I kept seeing the novel as a film. Here's hoping someone makes it.

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I have a thing against wheelie bags, and of course I prefer not to check a bag, so I have to pack extremely efficiently if I'm going to carry a week's worth of crap over my shoulder. I'm not afraid to cram stuff—in this case, a Ziploc bag of fregola sarda (like Israeli couscous, but better because it's toasted)—into shoes that would otherwise sit empty. When the TSA stopped my bag for extra screening, I told the agent that I always seem to get in trouble for using my shoes as storage, and that I guess they make it hard to see what's inside. He pointed out the real problem was that Richard Reid used his shoe to hide a bomb. Doh!

Walk on the West Side

Just about done with a few days in New York City, and I came ill-prepared. I thought I'd enjoy just walking around whenever I wasn't meeting up with friends, but that was generally unsatisfying—nowhere more so than in our neighborhood of Tribeca. There's nothing new here for me—I've wrung it dry—and, to a lesser degree, that goes for the city, too. I know what's around every corner, which is boring.

So while everyone else thinks Hudson Yards, the new corporate "neighborhood" being built above the Hudson Rail Yards is sterile, soulless, and depressing, I found it sort of interesting. I wouldn't want to live there, or work there, or even go back there, but for an hour, it offered novelty in a city whose wrinkles are being ironed out.

I took the A train to 14th Street, then walked up the High Line till 30th Street. The architecture that has gone up—and continues to go up—around the High Line is a mixed bag, and I'm a firm believer that the weirder a building is, the more it wants to be set off against something that's not weird. That's not remotely the case at the High Line, an architect's alley of showcase design, each trying to one-up the other. The building that most caught my eye was Heatherwick Studio's 515 W. 18th St.

At W. 30th Street, I went into Mercado Little Spain, the food hall from José Andrés and the Adrià brothers. Some of the food looked good, but unless you opt for sit-down dining, you have to fight for a seat. Does anyone like that?

Next stop: La Boîte, a spice shop in Hell's Kitchen that I had read about in the Wall Street Journal. It was great, and I picked up a few gifts, but I didn't take any photos—the place is as much an office as a shop, and it didn't feel right. I haven't spent much time on the west side of Hell's Kitchen, so the walk back down Eleventh Avenue was refreshing in its way. Two highlights: a street address cleverly mimicking gold foil stickers (makes sense that a graphic design firm is the tenant), and a glimpse of how the shiny new buildings of Hudson Yards are on a platform over the train tracks.

Then I met up with Adam at Vessel, the massive interactive sculpture at the heart of Hudson Yards. Like the condo I admired along the High Line, it's by Heatherwick Studio, which is also designing the funky Pier 55 on the Hudson River. (Many years ago I made him track down a drawbridge in London, by Heatherwick, that rolls up instead of raising in the usual way.) Anyway, back to Vessel. At first, I thought it should be called Corporate Ladder, given the office-park setting, but then it would have to narrow at the top instead of widen. There are various striking moments as you ascend and descend, and we enjoyed seeing the elevator slowly make its way. The walls on the perimeter are really low, however, and suicides would seem to be inevitable. (P.S. The bronze color is awfully 80s....)

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The New York Times ran an amusing article on pug lovers in Germany, with a quote that I should get needlepointed on a pillow: "A life without pugs is possible, but meaningless." All that reading about pugs must have conjured up something, because I saw four today, ending a long pugspotting drought. The last one is just sagging, not pooping.

 

Scorpio Rising

Rattlesnakes, tarantulas, wind scorpions, rats.... Just when you think you've seen it all, this happens.

Our housekeeper discovered it under the bathmat in our master bathroom (and killed it). Scorpions aren't generally a threat to humans, but I'm still glad I missed wasn't here. I was interested, however, to learn this from a local pest-control company's website): "Scorpions typically will eat other insects to stay nourished but if food is scarce they have the ability to slow down their metabolism to as little as one-third the typical rate so that they can stay alive for longer. Even with their metabolism lowered they can still sting when needed. Researchers have frozen scorpions overnight to test their survival skills. When those frozen scorpions are put in the sun the next day they thaw out and they simply walk away like nothing happened."

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Don't tell anyone, but Edward Snowden is in the house.

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I'm not sure I can explain why, but Diet Dr. Dynamite makes me laugh every time I look at it.

Something Old, Something New

One of my main goals while hosting houseguests is to come up with an activity that none of us have done before. A joint adventure disrupts the dynamic: instead of Adam and me yapping away pedantically, we all get the feeling of exploration.

During the recent visit from our friends Barry and John, we decided to try Cold Spring Tavern, an old stagecoach stop about 30 minutes away. The food wasn't more than fine, but the setting was fantastic.

On the way home, we walk around Santa Barbara for a bit. Another first for me: Coastal, one of the two new pot dispensaries shops to have opened in the past few weeks. To enter, you have to show ID (which they scan) and pass through a metal detector; the latter is undoubtedly because these businesses primarily deal in cash, because banks won't touch them until federal laws change. While Coastal was stylish and well-run, the place gave me a headache, and I don't know how anyone can work there. Next time I might pick up a few of the pre-rolled joints, as little houseguest favors. (I understand why these businesses want to appear upscale, but wouldn't it be great if someone named one Pothead or Stoner or something?)

New for Adam, meanwhile, was 1000 Steps Beach. I had gone down the stairs before, but I didn't get far on the sand. This time, we walked for a long while—and on the way back, a pod of dolphins swam parallel to us, just offshore, for 15 minutes.

We also went for a drink and dinner at the new-ish Rosewood Miramar resort. The bar was near perfect, and I regret not taking every previous guest there. I'm not sure about the shuffleboard court, though—it seems like a hazard for staff and patrons alike.

Last and possibly least, we played Cards Against Humanity, which Adam and I have owned for many years but never even opened. What happens during a Cards Against Humanity game stays there, so that's all I'll say about that.

Of course, there were also old favorites: Bettina restaurant, the farmer's market, and a hike on the trails above the house. Look closely at this photo and you'll see two people who don't think it's considerate to stay with the slower members of the group.

And even during old favorites, something new can happen....

Back to School

The daughter of a former work colleague of Adam's is attending the Cate School in nearby Carpinteria. We've met her a few times over the years, so naturally we offered to take her out to dinner sometime. A month into the school year, we got the text: She'd love to show us the campus. We had to go for lunch, not dinner, because the curfew is 6 p.m., and the meal was fine; the girl is truly lovely. But the campus is extraordinary! It had a rock-climbing wall, a gym, a recording studio, a break room where you can make toast, and so much more. It made me want to go back to high school (there and only there). I left convinced that every Cate student should have to spend a month in a public high school, so they know exactly what they were spared.

A few photos.... The third one is dorm rooms; the fourth is of the former chapel, now a non-denominational spiritual space.

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The last time Adam and I went to a Halloween party, we fretted over our costumes, ultimately taking the cheap way out by going as garden gnomes. Awkwardly, everyone thought of Travelocity, and I was working with Orbitz; no one thought it was amusing or cute. I vowed—not unlike Scarlett O'Hara arisen in the carrot field—that I would never go to a Halloween party again without throwing serious money at the costume conundrum.

Well, here we are. The charity that Adam is helping out has a Halloween benefit coming up, and by all accounts it's a wild party—a local rich guy hosts it, just for shits and giggles. The theme is Saints & Sinners, which I think we could safely ignore. The question is, what shall we go as? The problem is, Adam only wants to dress up as a duo of some kind, while I'd like to be Prince, obviously. The other problem is that he doesn't mind a pun costume, like a man in a bra stuffed with spice jars—a spice rack!—while I think the thrill of Halloween is in dressing up as someone else; being someone else, someone more whatever, for a few hours. I briefly considered Bruce and Caitlyn Jenner, but the charity is about LGBT+ issues, so that would be in dangerous taste. Also, drag is hard. 

We spent hours online, slowly going insane. I really didn't want to buy some Made in China schlock destined for landfill, but what else could we do? There's probably somewhere in L.A. or New York we could rent a costume; the last thing I need to deal with, however, is someone's cosplay stains. 

We ended up ordering cheap costumes online, and I have every intention of getting mine altered so it fits perfectly. No, I'm not telling what they are just yet. There's still time to come up with something better. Suggestions are welcome.

P.S. This is called asking for trouble.