Cakewalk

What am I missing here? What are we all missing?

At first glance, nothing. Last week marked the gentlest transition of LAPD police chiefs in my lifetime--Bill Bratton to Charlie Beck. That was partly because tensions between the cops and the black and brown neighborhoods they police (and sometimes terrorized) have eased notably during Bratton's tenure, partly because crime has dropped by many percentage points across the city.

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I don't know the man's name, like I don't know the name of so many other people at the El Segundo dog park. My icebreaker question a month ago was what was the name and breed of his dogs; I didn't get around to asking his (name, not breed). That isn't considered rude in the tiny social bubble of the dog park, where canines are the real news and objects of interest and humans aren't that important. Still, this man stood out for me. I'd know his mussed white hair, ruddy face and hearty, gravelly voice anywhere. I figure he's Irish; he lit up when I told him my first name, calling it a fit one for an Irish girl.,

Yes, I told him. My mother had a thing for Irish names. Lucky me.

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I haven't gone yet, but I plan to. Soon. For now I'm satisfied with catching a glimpse it as I drive past the Slauson exit in Culver City on the northbound side of the 405. Actually, I've been glimpsing it for a couple of years, as construction crews erased the mall's west parking and erected more anchor stores and shops that promised to take the old Fox Hills Mall upscale (I never liked the corporate chain name, Westfield) and a food court that promised the same.

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I was on the phone when I heard them, about five rapid-fire shots not a mile off. Or maybe, I thought hopefully, a string of firecrackers.

At 8 ' o 'clock, the darkness and habitual quiet of my street made it easy to believe the sound was benign, one of many mysterious but ultimately innocuous sounds particular to the night. Violence or some other hard reality wasn't possible; in my mind, all that had retired for the day.

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It was all too predictable. After months of local speculation about why the city of Inglewood wasn't releasing a report on the practices of its police department, a department that became infamous last year for fatally shooting four black and Latino men in four months, the city announced last week that we're all going to have to wait some more. A city spokesperson said that the report, which Inglewood hired an outside body to do well over a year ago, could violate attorney-client privilege and therefore had to stay under wraps for the time being. What sort of attorney-client privilege? No details. When would the report be released? "Eventually," said the city spokesperson.

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With all the political tumult of the recently completed summer, I'd almost forgotten about a loss in the middle of the season that hit me as hard and unexpectedly as the loss of a relative who hadn't been sick. Tired, maybe, but not sick. Not to my eyes.

I remembered the loss yesterday, driving through town, though I actually remember it every week, sometimes more; the regret comes in spasms that I expect will decrease over time. Although since I'm almost sure nothing will replace what was lost, that expectation might be wishful thinking. I might hurt a while.

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Call me un-American, but I've feared the word 'choice' for a long time. It's the preferred euphemism for not addressing inequality or monopolies or greed or social reform, or general indifference to all of the above. What better word to make it sound as though you're putting everyone on a level playing field, or more precisely, a level harvesting field where all anybody has to do is reach up and pick fruit that's roughly the same distance above their head as anybody else's?

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The post-vacation bubble didn't last long. L.A. and Maui are separated by five hours in a plane, two hours of time zone, ocean dynamics (trade winds versus coastal fog), and so much, much more than that.

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When is a health care reform debate just a debate? Just about all the time, though the likelihood of something actually happening in this post-millennial moment are high enough to drive people to town-hall meetings where they passionately defend their American right to once again do nothing.

I know much of this passion is straight political theater--unconvincing theater, at that--scripted by business interests and the right wing. But just below all the antics is a genuine though unfortunate uneasiness on the part of Joe the Plumber about the prospect of everybody--black, white, brown, working, nonworking, whatever--having access to something we've all come to equate with a nice McMansion and two cars in the garage. Politicians can insist all they want that health care is a right and a necessity; we all know that it's something you buy, like a good education, right? Which means that only certain people are supposed to have it. Deserving people, people who work full-time, people in neighborhood associations whose elected officials actually listen to them on a regular basis; everybody else can go hang. That's the real American way, this divvying up of privileges and status that almost always fall along lines of color, class and credit history. Democracy and equal outcomes and all that jazz run a distant second.

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